by Inge Löhnig
‘But you didn’t go to Münsing on Wednesday . . .’
Yeah, and that was her fault too. If she hadn’t come to the practice that evening, he’d have driven out there. Wouldn’t he?
‘When I picked you up at the practice on Wednesday evening, you didn’t mention anything about having other plans. On the contrary – you were happy to come with me to the cinema.’
He couldn’t tell her he’d had stomach cramps all that afternoon. Because of the fear. Dad would be pleased at first, yes, but what would he do once he’d recovered? Report his own son to the police? But Albert wasn’t his own son, of course; he wasn’t the son of the man whom he’d loved more than anyone else, for whom he’d given up everything of any meaning. And yet . . . his only chance was honesty. If she understood him she’d protect him – he could get rid of the goddamn watch and she’d say nothing. ‘Sorry. That wasn’t fair of me. I was glad when you suggested seeing a film – it was a convenient excuse. Dad was healthy and robust. Anyway, I spent nearly fifty-four hours in the basement, and he hadn’t even been in there for forty-eight.’
‘So you postponed it until Thursday. But even then you didn’t . . .’ Her hand flew to her mouth in surprise. ‘Mr Cernovsky . . .’
‘I was going to . . . I went early to the practice. You remember?’ Babs nodded. ‘I fetched a drip for Dad and was about to set off when Mrs Cernovsky came running down the stairs. By the time I handed him over to the paramedics and went back downstairs, my first patients were already in the waiting room.’
‘So you kept going, business as usual, while your father . . . why didn’t you go?’
He didn’t even know himself!
‘You did nothing for a week. Why?’
‘I don’t know. It was as if . . .’ How could he describe it? It was as if somebody had flicked a switch that disconnected him from fear, but also from recognising what was happening in Münsing. ‘I simply forgot him. I didn’t think any more about it. It was like a blind spot.’
‘A blind spot.’
She was still parroting him! ‘Yes, for fuck’s sake.’ He struck the table with the flat of his hand. ‘Like it was erased. Gone, never there. I just forgot it!’ he screamed.
‘It!’ Now she realised she’d gone too far. Her hand flew to her mouth in horror.
‘Him. My beloved father. The master puppeteer. I forgot about him. And when I remembered on Monday night, I knew it was too late. I’m a doctor, after all, as you so rightly pointed out. So when Mrs Kiendel asked about him, I realised I had to act.’
‘That’s why I wasn’t allowed to come.’
‘Very perceptive. I had to remove the evidence that I was there, didn’t I? Or do you think I’d go to jail over this? Never! I’ve already served my time. Thirty years. That’s more than you get for murder.’
‘Who knew, apart from you, that Wolfram wasn’t your father?’
‘Nobody.’
‘So you assumed nobody would suspect you, because you had no motive. You think people will keep blaming Bertram.’
Albert shrugged. ‘So what? He’s dead. At least this way he can do me a favour for once.’ He noticed a nervous twitch next to her eyelid, saw her shoulders tense and her fingers curl.
‘You haven’t heard. I didn’t want to tell you on the phone. Caroline called me the day before yesterday . . . but then I saw you with Margret Hecht . . . I simply didn’t get round to it.’
A weight settled on his chest like lead, every pore in his body contracting, until his whole skin hurt like he’d run through nettles. ‘What are you talking about?’
A tremor shook Babs, and the probing expression dropped from her face. She sat up straight. ‘Bertram was killed. So he can’t do you a favour any more . . . You’ve got to tell Dühnfort—’
‘You stupid cow!’ He yanked her off the chair, fear and rage burning inside him like acid. He struck her in the face. Winded, she gasped for air and twisted out of his grip. They stood opposite each other like enemies – and enemies they were. Never again would she be on his side. He saw it in her eyes.
*
What Dühnfort saw alarmed him. The situation was getting out of hand. Albert had turned aggressive, dragging his wife off the chair, hitting her and shoving her away from him. She stumbled. Lowering the binoculars, Dühnfort decided to intervene before it escalated. He passed them back to Christine Meingast. ‘Their conversation’s spiralling out of control. You stay here – when the officers arrive tell them to behave calmly for the time being.’
‘Shouldn’t both of us—’
Dühnfort shook his head. Every word counted now, every gesture, and Meingast struck him as too impulsive. ‘Going in too heavy-handed won’t help.’
Reaching under his coat, he opened the holster of his service weapon. He’d be best off feigning ignorance, acting as though he’d dropped by to check some detail of the crime scene and was surprised to find Albert and his wife. In which case he had to take the car. He got in, drove the short distance to the cabin, parked nearby and climbed out.
Albert peered out into the garden as Dühnfort approached. He raised his hand in greeting and Albert nodded, then disappeared from the window. When Dühnfort reached the front door, it opened. Babs Heckeroth stood in the door opening, Albert behind her. With his left arm he held her pinned to him, while his free hand pressed the edge of a carving knife to her throat, precisely at the soft spot underneath her ear where the carotid ran just below the skin. One twitch and there’d be a bloodbath. Fear was etched on Albert’s wife’s face. And into his.
Dühnfort would have preferred a killer with a cool head. You could negotiate with someone like that. They were more stable, more reliable. Albert, however, was a bundle of nerves. Dühnfort raised his hands soothingly. ‘Mr Heckeroth. This isn’t a solution. You’re only making things worse.’ Albert stared at him. ‘Give me the knife.’ Dühnfort stretched out his hand, but Albert pressed his wife even closer to him, his fingers cramping around the knife until the knuckles bulged white. ‘I’m not going to prison. Never.’
‘We can talk about all this. Calmly. But first, let your wife go.’ Dühnfort didn’t pull his hand back.
‘Don’t mess me around!’ Albert dragged his wife back inside the house and slammed the door. A moment later the key turned in the lock. Shit. Dühnfort retreated. Once under cover of the pines, he took his phone out of his pocket and let Berentz know about the situation, requesting a SWAT team. ‘But please don’t make a song and dance of it. The hostage-taker is psychologically unstable. He might go nuts or kill himself.’
Dühnfort went back down the forest track, where he found Christine Meingast’s patrol car abandoned by the edge of the path. She had vanished. ‘Shit,’ swore Dühnfort under his breath, picking up the binoculars from the passenger seat.
*
Babs felt the warmth of Albert’s body against hers, and the chill of the blade at her throat. She heard his breath, feeling her body tremble uncontrollably as Albert dragged her back into the kitchen. Yet still her mind refused to accept it as reality. ‘You’re hurting me. Please, let me go.’ She tried to keep her voice calm, but the words came croaking out. He didn’t relax his grip, hauling her over to the window and staring into the garden. ‘What are you going to do? Dühnfort will be calling for back-up. In a few minutes the place will be surrounded. You’ve got to give yourself up.’ She felt his grip loosen. He let the knife sink to waist-level. ‘They won’t try you for murder. You didn’t want to kill your dad. I’m sure they’ll take that into consideration—’
He jerked her abruptly back against him, squashing the air from her lungs. ‘Shut your mouth!’
Albert had no plan, but he was determined not to pay for what he’d done. How could he possibly see that working out? Surely he must realise it was too late, that he couldn’t pretend Bertram . . . Bertram . . . his own brother. Had he . . . but it was impossible. When Bertram was shot, she’d been lying tipsily in bed with Albert.
Her ribs ached
beneath the pressure from Albert’s arm. She shifted her weight onto her other leg, turning her body a fraction and seeing the bedroom door slowly open. Albert was still staring fixedly into the garden. Feeling her move, he raised the knife again to her throat.
Babs knew the bedroom door squeaked just before it opened fully. Albert mustn’t hear it. ‘What will your demands be once the police have surrounded the house? To be allowed to leave? What then? Where will you go?’ Her voice sounded too frantic and too loud. In the half-open bedroom doorway, the small, plump policewoman from the motorway services appeared. Not Dühnfort. Babs gasped with surprise. Albert spun round. He yanked Babs in front of him like a shield. The knife at her throat scratched her skin, a rivulet of something warm running down her neck.
‘Let your wife go and drop the knife on the floor!’ The policewoman, gun in hand, gradually made her way towards Babs and Albert. Babs noticed the uncertainty of her step and the subtle trembling of her hand.
‘Other way round.’ The pressure of the knife increased on Babs’s throat. ‘You’re going to drop the gun.’ Albert’s voice sounded firm and a little mocking. ‘Or are you going to shoot an innocent woman?’
For a moment the policewoman hesitated. She was only a metre and a half away. Albert’s body tensed. Releasing Babs, he shoved her as hard as he could. She stumbled into the policewoman, fell and saw Albert fling himself at the officer, hurling both of them to the floor. The knife skittered across the tiles and under the table. Albert lunged for the hand with the gun.
*
As Dühnfort found the open bedroom window, a shot cracked inside the house. He jumped. That stupid girl! Immediately he drew his gun out of its holster, took the safety off, tucked it into his waistband and crept round the house onto the terrace. A cautious glance into the kitchen helped him assess the situation. Christine Meingast lay on her back in a rapidly expanding pool of blood. Babs was bending over her, feeling for a pulse. Albert stood next to them, Meingast’s gun in his hand, determination in his eyes. When the time came, he’d shoot himself. But first there’d be a bloodbath.
‘You’ve got to do something. Do something!’ shrieked Albert’s wife.
Where was SWAT? Where was the back-up Gina had called? It was only three minutes since Dühnfort’s call to Berentz, and barely ten since his conversation with Gina. He couldn’t wait. If he didn’t act now, the young officer would bleed to death. Where the hell had she got the idea in her head to go in alone? Dühnfort withdrew into the shadow of the terrace, took off his holster, slipped back into his coat and jacket and took a deep breath before stepping up to the window, his hands raised. ‘Mr Heckeroth.’
Albert whirled round, gun in hand. ‘Get out of here!’
Dühnfort could barely hear him through the closed window. ‘I’m offering you a deal,’ he bellowed. ‘Call an ambulance and take me as a hostage in exchange for the women.’
‘You can go to hell!’
‘You’re a doctor. You swore an oath to protect life. Help my officer.’
Albert seemed to hesitate, glancing at the injured woman, then back at Dühnfort.
‘She needs medical help.’
‘If you’re trying to trick me . . .’ Albert peered searchingly into the garden.
‘I’m not. I’m alone and unarmed.’ Dühnfort opened his coat and corduroy jacket, hoping Albert wouldn’t ask him to take them both off, and turned round. ‘I’m coming in now. You bring your wife to the front door, all right? Then we’ll call an ambulance and go back to your car. I’ll drive you wherever you want. But we don’t have much time. A SWAT team will be here any minute.’ Dühnfort looked Albert straight in the eye. Albert nodded almost imperceptibly. It’ll be all right, thought Dühnfort, heading round to the front door. The key turned in the lock, the door opened. Albert stood behind his wife, the gun pointed at the back of her head. Dühnfort raised both hands again. Babs’s eyes were wide with fear. Blood ran over her neck, seeping into her white blouse. Albert gave her a shove that sent her stumbling past Dühnfort into the open air.
Albert grabbed him, dragging him inside, then followed Dühnfort into the kitchen. Christine Meingast was whimpering softly. Her eyes were open, but rolled back so that only the whites were visible. Her uniform jacket and shirt were soaked with blood. Dühnfort couldn’t see where she was hit. ‘I’ll call an ambulance.’ He took his phone out of his pocket and dialled with flying fingers, requesting a helicopter and giving the operator an exact description of the house. ‘The garden’s big enough. Yes. A helicopter could land there. Sure.’ It would simply have to be big enough. Dühnfort hung up.
Albert brandished the pistol. ‘Finished? Then let’s go.’
‘You can’t leave her like that.’
Albert shrugged. ‘That was the agreement.’
‘I didn’t realise the state she was in. Can’t you do anything to stop the bleeding?’
‘We’re leaving now.’
Dühnfort exploded. ‘Basic first aid. You could at least have done that for her.’
Albert flinched barely perceptibly. ‘You learned that too. It’s your job now, then we’re going.’ Nervously he glanced into the garden.
Dühnfort turned away from Albert and kneeled down in the pool of blood. Damp warmth seeped through the material of his trousers. First he felt her mouth for vomit and blood. It was empty, thank God. ‘It’ll all be fine,’ he said, although he knew she couldn’t hear him. ‘The doctor’ll be here soon.’
Then he stood up and turned round. ‘You’ve got to help her. She can scarcely breathe.’
Albert didn’t budge.
‘Quickly. Or she’ll suffocate. Please.’
Albert lowered the gun, but still didn’t move. ‘Just do something, godammit!’
Hesitantly, Albert crouched to his haunches, laying the gun within easy reach beside him. ‘Didn’t you learn how to clear someone’s airway?’ he barked at Dühnfort.
An approaching helicopter could be heard. Dühnfort took a step back and drew his service weapon out of his waistband, while Albert bent over Christine Meingast.
Suddenly he kicked her gun underneath a chair, and Albert wheeled round. The noise of the helicopter’s rotary blades rattled the window panes.
Dühnfort pointed his gun at Albert. ‘Get up. I don’t want to shoot you. But I will.’
Albert stared after Meingast’s pistol.
‘Forget it.’ Dühnfort was shouting above the intensifying noise, wondering what piece of luck he had to thank for the helicopter’s rapid appearance, and yelled at Albert: ‘Up against the wall, legs apart.’ Steering him over to the kitchen wall, he pinned him against it, took his handcuffs out of his trouser pocket and secured Albert’s hands behind his back. The helicopter was hovering above the lawn, swirling up the dry leaves and depressing the grass as it landed. The windows jangled as if they might burst at any moment.
*
Just before seven, Dühnfort and Gina left the interrogation room. Dühnfort was exhausted, his shoulders tense, his voice husky. As ever after a successful investigation, he felt two contradictory emotions: on the one hand, he was proud of the work they’d done, but on the other, he still wasn’t used to the horror he felt at the cold-bloodedness, cruelty and capriciousness of human nature, even after all these years. He was still shocked by the arrogance and smugness with which people played judge and jury over the lives of others. In this case it had been two lives – the father and the brother – and the motive was at once plausible yet difficult to comprehend. He found no inner voice saying: this is understandable, perhaps you’d have done the same in his shoes.
‘We’re doing the final report tomorrow, right?’ Gina stood next to him, running a hand through her hair.
‘Definitely.’ In any case, they still had to wait for the results of the search at Albert’s apartment and practice, which Alois was currently supervising. At least Albert had abandoned his initial lies only an hour into the interrogation, giving a full confession in front of his le
ss-than-enthusiastic lawyer. It had already been typed up and signed. Dühnfort stretched. ‘First thing I need’s a coffee.’
‘I’ll get you one.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
She smiled. ‘I know.’
He watched her leave for a moment, then headed for his office.
The murder of his father had put too much strain on Albert. Without working to any sort of plan, he’d laid false trails and removed incriminating evidence. He’d conferred more significance to the bike than was due. His fingerprints on it would have been just as easy to explain as the traces of earth in the boot. The fact that he’d taken the wrong bike – Bertram’s – he hadn’t noticed, only briefly pausing to wonder why it was leaning against the woodpile when he thought it had been stored in the shed the week before. Bertram had corrected his mistake when he’d shown him the photos of Albert pulling on latex gloves, going into the bathroom, coming out with a tray that carried an empty wine glass and plate of dried salami sandwiches, searching his father’s jacket for the bank cards and pocketing the watch that lay next to the sink in the kitchen.
Outside his office Dühnfort bumped into Albert’s wife. Sitting on a wooden bench, she leaped up when she saw him. The wound on her neck was covered by a bandage. Beneath her open coat she still wore the bloodstained blouse. Dühnfort gazed down at himself. He hadn’t had time to change either. Christine Meingast’s blood had dried into a stiff patch on his trousers.
‘How is your colleague? She’s not going to . . . she’ll pull through?’ Babs Heckeroth looked exhausted and tense. Her hair was dishevelled, her face wan.
Dühnfort had spoken to the doctor treating Meingast. ‘She was lucky. The air ambulance happened to be on its way back from a call-out where it wasn’t needed . . . she’ll make it.’
