by Inge Löhnig
She had moved to this village to get some rest and forget about what had happened. Now this. On the very first day. ‘I was just about to go for a jog,’ Agnes replied.
Melanie Berger stared at her. ‘Jakob is only five. He could be hiding in your house. The doors were open all afternoon.’ She sounded like she was actively trying to stay calm.
‘You don’t think I’d have noticed if a little boy had been hanging around here? His parents should call the police.’ Agnes took a step back into the house, as if that could keep the approaching storm away.
The young woman exhaled audibly. ‘They already have. But it’ll be a while until the police get here. Jakob’s parents are half mad with fear. If everyone helps, we’ll find him faster.’
What’s wrong with me? She’s right, Agnes thought, appalled at her own behaviour. She stepped aside.
‘Come in.’
The search took barely five minutes. The boy was obviously not in the house. Agnes pulled on her jogging gilet and went outside with Melanie Berger. The garden was large and towards the far end it was like a forest, which was probably what had originally covered the property.
‘I didn’t mean to snarl at you just then. But my nerves are a bit raw,’ Melanie Berger said apologetically. ‘Jakob is in my kindergarten group. I’m his teacher.’
‘Then we’re even,’ Agnes replied sheepishly. The way she had behaved was just plain unacceptable. ‘I don’t know what got into me just now either.’
They searched the garden, calling out for Jakob, and pushed through branches and twigs, but they didn’t find the boy. While her neighbour took on the shed, Agnes walked over to the former carriage house, which had been transformed into a studio by the previous owner, the painter and sculptor Charlotte Niedermeyer.
The air smelled musty. The room was empty. Cobwebs stretched from the ridge beam to the glazing in the pitched roof. Agnes sat on the windowsill and stared into the garden at the remains of a fallen tree that must have lain there for decades. The bark was gone; the dead wood had taken on a silvery shimmer. Maybe this boy is dead, too. Agnes was taken aback. Why would she think such a thing?
Melanie Berger came in. ‘Anything?’ she asked.
‘Nothing.’ Agnes could see Melanie’s arms shivering all the way up to her narrow shoulders. Some hot tea would do her good. ‘There’s a fresh pot of tea in the house. It’s almost full. Shall we have a cup?’
Her neighbour nodded. ‘Yes, that would be nice,’ she said and followed Agnes inside.
Agnes got a cup from the kitchen and went into the living room, where Melanie Berger was standing at the window and looking out across the lake. Agnes poured her some tea and offered her a seat on the new red sofa.
Melanie Berger sat down. ‘My name’s Melanie, but everyone calls me Melli.’ She put out her hand.
Agnes hesitated a moment, then took the hand and shook it. ‘Agnes. Agnes Gaudera.’
‘I’m sorry I was so snippy with you before.’ Melanie apologised again. ‘But I’m terribly worried about Jakob. I just have too much imagination.’ She stirred her tea even though she hadn’t added any sugar. ‘He might even be back home by now.’
‘Hopefully,’ Agnes said and suddenly saw Yvonne in front of her with her bulging backpack, ready to travel the world like little Hans from her favourite nursery rhyme. Anxiety spread through her. She needed to go for a jog. Physical exercise was the only way she could relax and not think about things. But she couldn’t do that right now. After all, she couldn’t just push Melanie out of the door right after offering her a cup of tea. Agnes sank lower in her chair and crossed her legs. ‘You said that Jakob’s parents have already notified the police. Hopefully the criminal investigation department. Or are the village police organising the search for him?’
‘No, of course not.’ Melanie shook her head. ‘Franz said Munich CID are in charge. Hopefully they’ll bring a search party and dogs.’ She took a sip of tea. ‘We saw your removal van this afternoon and actually wanted to come over earlier and say hello. Franz and me. Franz is my fiancé,’ Melanie said. All of a sudden, her pale eyes lit up and brought an unexpected beauty to her oddly proportioned features. ‘The wedding is in two weeks,’ she continued, as she looked over at the photo in the silver frame on the desk.
Agnes felt her scalp tighten and a shiver ran down her back. She did not want to be asked; she did not want to talk about it. ‘Sorry, but it’s really time for my jog,’ she heard herself say. ‘Come by again tomorrow for a cup of tea.’
*
The sun disappeared behind the roofs of the city. Grey twilight descended like a silk scarf over Marienplatz as Detective Chief Inspector Konstantin Dühnfort looked up at the Cathedral of Our Blessed Lady. It was just past six and he wanted to call it a day. His colleague Gina Angelucci had already left and the new guy, Alois Fünfanger, had phoned to say he was going home after the meeting at the forensics department.
Dühnfort was still not sure what to make of Fünfanger. He had been transferred from Regensburg to Munich on the first of May and had been part of his team ever since. At thirty-eight years old, he was not only three years younger than Dühnfort but also clearly in much better shape. His finely sculpted muscles were apparent under the three-piece suits he wore, which suggested that he played sport regularly. When they’d climbed the stairs to the third floor that afternoon, Fünfanger had floated up two steps at a time, while Dühnfort, increasingly out of breath, had huffed and puffed behind him. Yet again, he resolved to get more exercise. But resolutions alone were useless. He simply lacked the discipline for it.
As he cleared his desk, he had the uncomfortable feeling that he’d forgotten something. And then very quickly he knew what it was. He still had no idea what to give his father for his seventieth birthday or if he even wanted to go to the extravagant party in Hamburg that his brother Julius had organised. Julius, the favourite son. The one who lived up to his father’s expectations.
The telephone rang. Dühnfort was startled out of his reverie and picked up the receiver. He listened for a while. ‘How long has the boy been missing?’ He glanced at the cathedral clock. Nearly three hours. And it would be dark soon. ‘Where is that? Mariaseeon. On Church Lake.’ The village was on the district border and only just within their jurisdiction. He thought about it: the boy was only five and had been missing for three hours – time was of the essence. ‘I’ll need a search party and a dozen officers to question the neighbours. And the divers should head over immediately.’ He scribbled down the Sonnberger family’s address in Mariaseeon. He would decide whether or not to deploy helicopters on site. He dialled Gina’s number as he slipped on his jacket.
*
At ten to seven, he reached the motorway exit and turned off down the country road towards Mariaseeon. Grey-blue dusk blanketed the countryside, dappling the forest with dark green shadows and painting the alpine peaks a deep blackberry colour against the saffron of the evening sky. An expressionist painting, he thought and changed up into fifth gear.
There was a lot about his job that had become routine, as with all jobs, but children going missing was something he could never get used to. Whenever it happened, he was seized by a restlessness that drove him on as if he was being hunted. Usually, the children turned up within a short space of time and had got lost or were hiding or had defiantly run away while their parents went mad with worry. Dühnfort hoped that this case would be the same and that the parents would soon have their child in their arms again. But more time than usual had already passed.
Why was the boy’s disappearance reported so late? It was uncommon for a small child. What kind of parents am I dealing with? he wondered. Were they indifferent or overwhelmed or maybe even involved somehow?
After a short drive, he reached the village, which was situated on a hill between the large Seeoner Forest and Church Lake. The onion-domed tower of the old monastery church protruded above a group of red-tiled roofs in the twilight.
Dühnfort drove
along Dorfstrasse and sensed an unrest that seemed to slosh between the buildings like groundswell. There was a shadowy sort of movement along with muffled cries and slamming doors. He followed the satnav into the centre of the village, passing the square with its maypole and fountain. Just beyond it, he turned off onto Cudheri-von-Isen-Strasse, where the Sonnberger family lived. Dühnfort drove another hundred metres and then stopped in front of a farm. There was a tractor under the barn roof. The smell of manure hung in the air and he could hear cows mooing from the stalls. He went up to the house. A man in a suit opened the door before Dühnfort had even rung the bell. The very neat haircut and guarded smile reminded Dühnfort of his neighbour, an insurance agent. ‘Are you from the police?’
Dühnfort nodded. ‘Mr Sonnberger?’
‘Gernot Mittermeyer. I’m a neighbour. Come in.’ Dühnfort followed him through the hall. ‘Mr Sonnberger isn’t in. He’s out with the search party,’ Mittermeyer said and opened the door to the kitchen. Two women were sitting at a round wooden table that was laid with three place settings and an afternoon snack. As the men entered, one of the women looked up. She had chestnut-brown curls and a face full of freckles. The sleeves of her blouse were rolled up and some floury bits of dough were stuck to her right wrist. She had her left arm round the shoulders of the slender woman sitting beside her. Dark hair emphasised the pallor of the second woman’s face. Worry and strain were visible in the lines around her mouth and eyes. She stared at her folded hands like an oracle ready to prophesy at any moment.
‘Gabi, the police,’ Mittermeyer said. Her head shot up. Intense blue eyes stared up at Dühnfort. They were full of fear but also hope. Hope that he would now have to fulfil.
A boy of around five years old crawled out from under the table. He was holding a toy car.
Dühnfort introduced himself. ‘Mrs Sonnberger,’ he said and extended his hand. ‘We will find your son. A search is already under way?’
‘The neighbours are all looking for him,’ she said. The tendons in her neck stuck out like steep ridges. ‘It’s like a flood.’ Dühnfort sat down and wondered whether she was referring to her fear or the search. Possibly both. The boy looked up at him.
‘That’s Dennis, our son,’ Mittermeyer said. ‘And my wife, Irene.’ He pointed to the woman sitting next to Gabi Sonnberger and she nodded at Dühnfort. ‘I’d better take Dennis home now.’ Mittermeyer took his son by the hand and said goodbye.
‘So, your neighbours and your husband are already searching for Jakob,’ Dühnfort said.
Gabi Sonnberger nodded. ‘Of course, the first thing I did when Jakob didn’t come home for tea was ring everyone in the village.’ She rested her hands on the table.
‘After that, the news spread like wildfire. And now everyone is searching,’ Irene Mittermeyer said. ‘But there’s still no trace of Jakob. It’s like he’s vanished into thin air.’ She shrugged.
‘Can I have a photo of Jakob and a description of his clothes?’ Dühnfort asked.
Gabi Sonnberger nodded. She pushed back her chair, stood up and went over to the kitchen sideboard. She picked up a colourful envelope, the sort that photo labs use to send prints, selected a photo and placed it on the table in front of Dühnfort.
So this is Jakob, he thought. The boy was holding up a plastic dinosaur and baring his teeth. The first of his baby teeth had fallen out, leaving a big gap in the upper row. Dühnfort knew how proud children were when that happened. Jakob’s eyes were blue like his mother’s.
He jotted down what Jakob was wearing: jeans, trainers with Velcro fastenings, and a red jumper. ‘Might Jakob have gone to the lake . . .?’
‘No. Certainly not.’ Gabi Sonnberger tried to make her voice sound firm, but Dühnfort could hear the fear in it. ‘He still can’t swim. We’ve forbidden him from going to the water by himself. And he obeys our rules.’ It sounded like a question.
Two cars drove up to the farm, one after the other. The engines went quiet, the doors slammed. The doorbell rang. Irene Mittermeyer went to answer it and came back with Gina Angelucci and Alois Fünfanger. Gina was wearing her usual cargo trousers, which she had in every colour. This evening they were bottle green. She greeted everyone and sat down at the table. Alois Fünfanger’s suit looked freshly pressed, even though he’d been wearing it all day. How does he do it? Dühnfort wondered and looked down at his own wrinkled chinos and crumpled shirt.
‘Jakob was last seen at half past three,’ he said, after he’d introduced his colleagues.
Gabi Sonnberger nodded. ‘He was with Dennis.’
‘But you only reported him missing just after six. Why so late?’
‘I thought he was still with Dennis.’ Gabi Sonnberger pressed her hand over her mouth.
‘Jakob was supposed to stay with us until half past five. But I let him go home at three thirty,’ Irene Mittermeyer said. ‘The boys had a row and then Jakob wanted to go home.’
‘Was it a serious fight, something that could have made Jakob want to run away or hide?’
Dennis’s mother shook her head. ‘You know how kids are. They both accused each other of being stupid and said they didn’t want to be friends any more. It happens all the time and then they make up again after.’
‘You didn’t accompany Jakob?’
‘It’s not far. He’s done it by himself many times before.’
‘Jakob is allowed to go that way on his own,’ Gabi Sonnberger said. ‘Since he started at kindergarten,’ she added.
It was easy to see how it had happened. It wasn’t carelessness or neglect that had led to the boy having gone missing for more than two hours without anyone noticing, but rather a lack of communication.
Alois cleared his throat.
Dühnfort looked up. ‘Yes?’
‘Sunset is around half past eight. We still have time to deploy the helicopters in daylight. I’ve already requested two and they’re in position, just waiting for us to give them the go-ahead.’
This pushiness surprised Dühnfort. Given that he was the team leader, it would have been better if Alois had consulted him. He looked over and saw Gina chewing on her fingernail and Alois watching with his eyebrows raised. Anyway, all that mattered at present was that they find the boy quickly. ‘Good. They should get moving immediately. You take over coordinating them.’
He asked Gina to take charge of questioning the villagers while he led the search party. ‘They have thermal-imaging cameras and night-vision goggles on board,’ Dühnfort said to Gabi Sonnberger, as Alois left the kitchen. ‘We can also find your boy in the dark.’
‘We once found a little squirt sleeping under a clothes rack in a department store while two hundred police officers were searching for him in the pedestrianised area outside,’ Gina added.
Gabi Sonnberger looked up but couldn’t muster a smile.
Dühnfort wondered if he should stay and wait for Jakob’s father. But organising the search for the boy had to take priority. ‘Whatever it is you’re afraid of, it’s almost certainly not what’s happened,’ he said and hoped that he was not mistaken.
To read on, tap the cover below to buy your copy of The Wages of Sin online.
First published in Germany in 2010 by Ullstein Buchverlage GmbH, Berlin
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Manilla Publishing,
80–81 Wimpole St, London, W1G 9RE
www.manillabooks.com
Copyright © Inge Löhnig, 2010
English translation copyright © Caroline Waight, 2018
Cover design copyright © Stefan Hilden, HildenDesign, 2010
Cover image copyright © HildenDesign/Shutterstock
Extract from The Wages of Sin copyright © Inge Löhnig, 2008
English translation copyright © Sharmila Cohen for Parkbench Publishing Services, 2016
The moral right of Inge Löhnig to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
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ghts reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
E-book ISBN: 978-1-4998-6168-6
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