by Inge Löhnig
He was driving through Münsing. A black cat ran across the road, leaped over a picket fence and disappeared into a patch of dahlias in bloom.
When Dühnfort reached the house, Sylvia Ullmann and Schorsch, whose last name he still didn’t know, were already there. Her small car was almost completely hidden behind a bulky SUV with a trailer coupling.
Dühnfort got out, greeted Sylvia Ullmann and shook Schorsch’s hand. ‘So you’re the one she belongs to now, Sissi.’ He was a sturdy man about fifty years of age. Despite the icy wind, he wore shorts, mountain boots with thick socks and a windproof Goretex jacket. A thicket of greying hair sprang from his head. It looked like the long grass around his calves.
‘Then we’ll get going.’ Schorsch drove the SUV onto the property and parked it in front of the trailer carrying the boat. Dühnfort guided him into position. A few minutes later, the trailer was attached to the vehicle. Sylvia Ullmann gave him her hand in farewell. ‘Have fun.’ She gazed somewhat wistfully at Sissi. ‘Got a name yet?’
‘I’m going to call it Icarus.’
‘Icarus? But he drowned.’
Perhaps she was right; perhaps it wasn’t a very good name. ‘But first he won his freedom.’
She frowned. ‘The price of freedom was death. I reckon you should have another think.’
As he followed Schorsch’s car to the sailing school, her words ran through his head. He wasn’t superstitious, but maybe Icarus wasn’t the right name after all.
They reached an expansive area with a number of sheds, between which lay covered boats on lawns and trailers. Behind them, four jetties stuck out into the lake. Bobbing up and down, moored and covered with tarpaulins, were around two dozen jolly boats, keel boats and even a catamaran. The soft clink of halyards against aluminium masts drifted over. Grey clouds raced across the sky, and a frosty wind whistled over the water. Ideal sailing weather. Although it could be a little warmer, thought Dühnfort, putting on his down jacket.
Schorsch gazed at him in surprise when Dühnfort asked him to put Sissi in the water. But then he grinned. ‘It’d make me itch too. Bit of an effort for one trip out on the lake, but we’ll do it.’
By midday the boat was moored. Dühnfort sprang aboard, and the sailing teacher followed suit without having to be asked. As they pulled the halyard through the mast and raised it, Schorsch struck up a conversation. Evidently he wanted to find out how much Dühnfort knew about sailing. What he learned seemed to reassure him, and he explained the area to Dühnfort.
When they were finished, Schorsch glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go. My wife’s got lunch waiting.’ He stepped on land, pausing for a moment on the jetty. ‘Nice boat, this is. Take care of it. The lake’s treacherous. Over those hills’ – he pointed westwards – ‘the wind comes in gusts, irregular. Last summer somebody capsized in the dead calm when a gust caught him unexpectedly. Idiot had just hoisted the spinnaker. And when you get to Berg, remember the cross that pokes out of the water isn’t for mooring. That’s where King Ludwig drowned. Take care.’ Schorsch raised his hand in farewell.
Dühnfort untied the mooring, switched on the outboard motor and chugged past the motor yachts and boats out onto the water. Only once he’d left the maze of jetties and boats behind him did he switch off the motor and hoist the sail. In a flash the wind had distended it, and Sissi picked up speed.
The mainland grew smaller, the grey surface of the water broadened, clouds raced overhead, spray flicked up, and he heard the cries of seagulls. Something fell away from him; he felt light and free. Happier than he’d been in a long time. Dühnfort crossed the lake to Possenhofen, then sailed on to the southern tip, adjusted the jib and mainsail in the approaching calm, then closed the circle a few hours later, following the downwind. It was already getting dark. Two hundred yards from the harbour it was time to start the motor and lower the sail. He clamped the tiller between his legs and watched a flock of birds soar south across the lake.
The gust of wind caught him off-guard, and a split second later the boom swung round and smacked into his arm. A creak, a stabbing pain. Before he knew what was happening, he was overboard. Schoolboy error, he thought, as he crashed into the water. Chilly wetness was the first thing he felt, followed by a force tugging him into the depths. His jacket became fully soaked with breathtaking speed. His right hand didn’t belong to him. With his left he tugged at the zip, but couldn’t move it. The cold stiffening his fingers, his heart racing, going under, water closing over him. Grey-green. Bubbles rose before his eyes. Whirling spray. He flailed, ignoring the pulsing ache in his right arm, and fought his way to the surface. Again he tore at the zip. This time he got it open, stripping off the ballast. Gasping for air, he looked around. Sissi was only a few yards away. All the ropes were on board – there was nothing he could use to haul himself up. The weight of his drenched clothing was tugging him back down. He struggled against it. The bank. Two hundred yards. Unreachable. The cold ate at his body, numbing him. Swim! he ordered himself. But his arms and legs refused to obey, hanging off him like the limbs of a corpse. With the last of his strength he resisted, hearing the roar of an outboard motor in the distance, then the water closed over him. He was seized by a peculiar calm. So this was how he ended. He still had a lungful of air; one, two minutes left. If he exhaled now, it would be quicker. But he didn’t. He wanted to think of something beautiful. Of his childhood, of Julius, of his mother and father. Of Agnes. As he sank, as the pressure in his lungs increased in tandem with the urge to gasp for air, he tried to picture Agnes’s face, but it didn’t work.
What he saw were Gina’s eyes, deep black, the pupils dilated with adrenalin. Bubbles rose in front of her face. She grabbed him roughly, winding her arms around his chest as he clung to her. Together they fought against the power drawing him into the deep. The craving for air grew unbearable; something was tearing at his lungs. He clenched his jaw. Grey-blue twilight blurred with Gina’s eyes, which were like chocolate. Dark, bitter, and sweet at the same time.
Acknowledgements
Special thanks are due to Chief Inspector Siegfried Wenzl, who once again proved invaluable in answering questions about police procedure and was happy to explain how homicide detectives operate. In terms of forensic medicine, I would have fallen into all sorts of traps without a competent informant. For his detailed explanations about determining time of death and investigating cause of death, I’m deeply grateful to Professor Dr Wolfgang Keil, head of the Institute of Forensic Medicine in Munich. Thomas Sossong checked my research into log files and keylogging. Thanks are due to him, to my two test-readers, Ruth Löbner and Charlotte Lyne from the Montsegur authors’ forum, and to Melanie Mezenthin, who allowed me to draw on her psychiatric expertise. For the accuracy of Dühnfort’s experience of drowning I’m indebted to my sister, a passionate sailor: thanks, Bille!
Nor do I want to forget my husband and my children: thank you for your patience and your understanding, and also for keeping the door to my study shut while I write.
About the Author
Inge Löhnig studied graphic design at the renowned Munich Academy U5. After a career as an art director in various advertising agencies, she set up her own independent design studio and started winning critical and popular acclaim with her crime-fiction series of books featuring Detective Dühnfort.
Today, Inge Löhnig lives with her family and an elderly cat near Munich.
Read on for the gripping opening pages of the first Detective Dühnfort novel, The Wages of Sin, hailed ‘a masterpiece of storytelling’ by the influential Süddeutsche Zeitung newspaper. Available now as a Manilla e-book.
Thursday, 8th May
He quietly pushed the panel aside and peered into the vault through the narrow slit. An oil lamp filled the space with dim light. The flame flickered in the draught, making the shadows dance, creating movement where there was none. But he pulled his ski mask down over his face anyway. Better to be safe. The door creaked softly as he opened it. He pic
ked up the tray and went into the cell. Its damp, cool air had a musty smell.
He paused for a moment to make sure that the boy on the camp bed was actually asleep. Once he was sure, he dragged the box over with his foot and then set down the plate, which had a slice of bread and butter and a banana on it. He loosened the lid of the thermos, so that the boy could open it easily when he woke up hungry and thirsty. The boy’s left wrist was handcuffed to a chain and the tender skin around it was already chafed. He stared at it, mesmerised. The inflamed edges of the wound made him shudder. Without looking away, he pulled the bunch of keys out of his trouser pocket and tightened the cuff. The sight of the sleeping child awoke memories that began to hazily emerge out of the fog. Images that tortured him, that he wanted to forget, that now engulfed him, made his heart stop and drove foul sweat from his pores. Not now! He had to shake them off.
He closed his eyes for a moment, reflected on his task and felt a power flowing through him like an inexhaustible current. The spectres vanished, released him. And he knew that he would prosper in everything he did. They would understand the sign. And if not . . . He unconsciously touched his throat. Then shall thy will be done. Ultimately, it was out of his hands. He sighed. Unable to resist, he ran the tip of his finger through the boy’s blond hair, across his red cheek and over the scrapes on his chin. The scratches had already scabbed over, but some pus had oozed out of one bit and he now felt it on his fingers. The man recoiled. He started to gag. He quickly wiped his hands with a tissue.
The boy’s eyeballs began to twitch restlessly behind his lids. He sighed and turned onto his side. He would soon wake up. The sleeping pills were bitter in the hot chocolate, but he would still drink it if he was thirsty. He had to sleep. It wasn’t to keep him from crying. That was unavoidable, but no one would hear him anyway. He had to sleep so that he didn’t realise what was happening to him. So that the agonising images wouldn’t stay with him for the rest of his life.
He stroked the blond hair again, hardly touching it. He hoped that it would be a long life. But that was not within his power to decide.
*
Agnes stood on the front steps and hugged her brother, Michael. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Whatever you dream about on the first night in a new home comes true. So dream about something good. OK?’ He winked at her and tried to mask his concern with a smile. ‘I’ll come and see you when I’m back from London.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m fine.’ She wished him a good flight and good luck with the workshop he was going to be leading and then she gently nudged him down the steps.
‘You sure you’ll be all right on your own?’
She nodded. ‘Michael, I’m thirty-five. I’m not afraid of the dark any more.’
‘Well, all right. Then I’ll leave you with these old ruins.’ He looked sceptically at the house, as if he thought it might be haunted.
If I am going to be haunted, Agnes thought, it’ll be by the ghosts that I’ve brought with me.
He gave her one last squeeze, then got into the removal van and waved at her as he drove off. Agnes went inside when she heard the van honking as it disappeared round a bend. The door snapped shut. ‘So,’ she said out loud and listened to her echoing voice. ‘What now?’ There was nothing else to do. Every piece of furniture was in its place. The last of the boxes had been unpacked and her few belongings stored away.
She went into the newly fitted kitchen and was once again pleased with the colour combination of spring-green walls and vanilla-yellow cabinets. It gave the room a springtime feel, a sense of optimism. She filled the kettle and got a sachet of Spiritual Harmony tea out of the cupboard. She’d bought it at the shop next to the church; the name had been too tempting. A smile spread across her face. She wasn’t so naive as to believe that a change of scenery and a cup of tea could give her life meaning again. But she had to start somewhere. And with the move, she had finally made her long overdue clean break.
She felt relieved and liberated but also a bit embarrassed. Her parents had meant well. But she couldn’t endure another day of her mother’s solicitude, and her father’s quiet concern had made her increasingly angry. He treated her like she was sick. She knew he couldn’t help it and she’d tried her best not to take it out on him, but his behaviour had pushed her one step closer to her final decision to regain control of her own life.
The water boiled. She made the tea, then took the teapot and cup into the living room. After setting them down on the coffee table, she went over to the window and stared out across the overgrown garden and down to the lake. The light blue of the sky had become a shimmering pale grey. Its reflection made the surface of the water look silver. For a moment, she felt calm. It was as if the storm that had been violently raging inside her on and off for the past year had finally subsided forever. Yes, she thought, it was a good idea to buy this house.
She hadn’t really wanted to touch the money. Profiting from Rainer’s death had seemed equally as bad as continuing to live with her parents. She was caught in this dilemma when she found the house. A small art-nouveau villa with three gables, right on Church Lake. If a new beginning were going to be possible, then it would be there, in that hundred-year-old house with its creaky floorboards, well-worn steps and high ceilings. Her mother had berated her. She told Agnes she was being silly, using up nearly all her savings on the purchase. ‘Child, you will have to start working again,’ she said, as if she thought that was a terrible idea. Just like Rainer.
Agnes felt a bit uneasy. As if the storm was returning. She quickly went back to the sofa and poured herself a cup of tea. As she drank it, her eyes wandered round the room. Her furniture was a combination of old and new. Some of it newly purchased and some donated by Michael and her parents. But there were still no curtains or rugs. There were just a few CDs and a couple of books on the shelves. All of a sudden, she could physically feel the emptiness of the space around her. Maybe she didn’t belong there. She tried to suppress the memory that was creeping in: two tiny empty rooms, an opened lattice window looking out onto a barren back yard, a pocket-sized kitchen, a dented gas stove. With a swift gesture, Agnes gathered up her long hair, tied it into a loose knot and stuffed it inside the neckline of her jumper. She had chosen a life in the country.
Her eyes landed on the Biedermeier writing desk that her parents had given her as a housewarming gift. There was a glass of leftover paint sitting on it that she’d used for fixing a chip in the window frame but still hadn’t cleared away. The photo would look nice on the desk. She went upstairs and got the silver frame from the bedroom. It was one of her most prized possessions. The picture had been taken two years ago on the Atlantic coast. For a moment, Agnes could taste the salty air. She could hear Yvonne’s laughter and the seagulls squawking in the background. She could see Rainer as he helped her steer the bright red stunt kite in the wind. She tried to hold onto the image, but trying just made it disappear faster.
During the past year, when she’d lain awake at night in her childhood bedroom and her thoughts had taken on a ghostly life of their own, there were times when she was tormented, wondering if it had all been a dream. Maybe she had never left her parents’ house, never married, never become a mother. Then she would turn on the light and look at the picture to make sure it had all been true.
Agnes took a deep breath and tried to release some of the pressure in her chest. She put the picture in its new location. Then she looked at the clock. It was already after six – high time she went for a run. She went upstairs and slipped into her jogging gear. As she was putting on her trainers, the doorbell rang. She looked up. Who could that be? She didn’t really want to answer it. She didn’t want to have to shake hands and be nice to intrusive neighbours. Then again, this village wasn’t going to start feeling like home if she just hid alone in her house. But she didn’t have to start today. The doorbell rang again. On the other hand, you shouldn’t just leave your neighbours standing on the doorstep either. Damn that good
upbringing, she thought as she went down into the hallway. Her attempts at casting aside her upbringing like a coat she’d outgrown usually failed. She quickly glanced in the mirror. She had lost weight in the past year. Now she inhabited a lean, toned body that was strangely foreign to her. The only thing about her that still resembled her former self was her long blond hair, which Rainer had adored. The bell rang again. Agnes went to the door and opened it. A young woman was standing on her front step, breathless. Her short blond hair stuck out of her bony skull in all directions.
‘Hello, I’m your neighbour, Melanie Berger.’ She had lashless aquamarine eyes and a crooked, beak-like nose. She excitedly emphasised every word by flapping her arms around. She reminded Agnes of a headless chicken, although her voice was mellow and pleasant and didn’t match her lean, childlike figure.
‘We need your help. A boy is missing. Jakob. It’s as if he’s fallen off the face of the earth. Everyone’s been looking for him.’
‘And you want me to help with that?’ The question echoed through Agnes’s skull as if it were a lift shaft.
‘Everyone is searching their houses and their land. We’ve already done that. My boyfriend is down by the lake with the fire brigade now and I’ll be joining him to help. There’s quite a lot of land to cover down there,’ Melanie Berger said, spreading out her arms.
