A table stood in the middle of the room, eight chairs placed casually around it, with newspapers, pens, and various items of general clutter at one end of it. Apart from that, it was scattered with a number of dirty dishes, water glasses, wine glasses, two coffee cups, a wooden chopping board with remnants of cheese and cold meats, and a half-finished loaf.
Between the sideboard and the table, the floor was scattered with broken glass. Recently filled jelly jars were now violently smashed, glass shards mingling with the fresh jelly and embedded in the partially congealed mass. There were dark red splashes on the white kitchen surfaces.
Franza’s eyes finally came to rest on the woman. Slowly. Carefully. She was lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood. Long brown hair, early to midforties, mouth slightly open as if she still had something to say, but death had gotten there quicker. Light summer clothing, shorts and a T-shirt, tanned skin. In the middle of the blood, touching the woman’s arm, lay an onion, as if it had not wanted to leave her on her own, as if it had wanted to be with her to the end, seeing as there was no one else.
“So it isn’t her, after all,” said Felix quietly. He let out a sigh of relief while wondering why he was relieved—after all, he didn’t know this woman or Hanna Umlauf.
“Isn’t who?” asked Franza.
“Nothing,” said Herz. “Later.”
Borger, the coroner, was already there, as were the other members of the forensics team. They nodded to each other.
Franza bent over the woman on the floor and felt the stillness that radiated from her, and as if everyone around her also noticed it, their voices became quieter.
Franza closed her eyes. Let me feel you, she thought. Let me into your heart, only for a moment, and show me what moved you so much it killed you.
I can’t yet, the woman said in Franza’s mind, give me a little time.
All the time in the world, Franza whispered back into the silence. I’d give you all the time you need—to eternity, even—but I don’t have time . . .
She rose, smiled a little sadly at Borger, whose features had grown still, and listened for the sound like faint background white noise in the distance. Franza brought the thought to its conclusion: But I . . . I don’t have time . . . so help me . . .
It was like it always was. A sense of hovering between the heights and the depths, reaching out, feeling, sinking into a stranger’s life, a stranger’s death.
What was it like? What was it like when you felt the blade of the knife on your skin? When it cut into you? When it slipped smoothly between your ribs and into your heart? As smoothly as a voice whispering into an ear: It’s OK. It’ll soon be over. Be calm. It’s OK.
Then there was a high-pitched tone reaching up to the sky, penetrating the blackness of the night. Then she died. Then she was dead. With a knife in her breast, piercing her heart. With a pain that tore her apart and finally released her into gentle death. Perhaps she was astonished by this remarkable fact—the fact she was dead. Now. So suddenly. So unforeseen. In this place that was intended for life, not for death.
She fell and left her body. Her arm sank to her side, her hand opened, bitter white lines, blood.
Perhaps she felt a vast loneliness, perhaps she froze. Perhaps she still heard the blade as it clattered to the floor, perhaps she heard the sound in the air, then . . . nothing more. Death swallowed all noise, muted it, muffled it, killed it.
“Gertrud Rabinsky,” said Arthur, who had already gotten down to work.
Franza abruptly raised her hand. He hesitated, and she took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a couple of seconds before finally turning.
“Now, go on,” she said.
“Sorry,” said Arthur.
“No problem,” she replied.
He began.
“Forty-four years of age, married, an adult daughter with an apartment in town. A young son, who was spending the night with his grandparents, I believe, or with friends. In any case, neither of the children were at home. Her husband found her. I sent him away a little earlier. All he was doing was standing around in complete bewilderment. I’m sure he’ll be breaking it gently to his children that their mother . . . you know . . .”
He fell silent.
Well done, Arthur, Franza thought, feeling a pang of tenderness for her young assistant. You’re doing well. Never allow it to leave you completely cold. Protect yourself, but don’t be cold.
She gave him a nod, and he continued. “She had a pottery shop in the town center. Near the cathedral.”
“Ah, that’s it,” Borger said. “Now I know why she seems familiar. I bought some mugs from her. I watched her working and then I bought some mugs. It wasn’t long ago. Lovely mugs.”
Franza nodded. “Yes, I’m sure.” She felt the beginnings of a smile.
A case took on a whole new strangeness if you knew the victim, however fleetingly. If you had met them even briefly when they were still alive, the shield of distance was suddenly removed.
“What have you got to tell us?” Herz was a little less sensitive, not always hearing, or wanting to hear, the subtle undertones. Franza was grateful to him for that. It was a way of building bridges between what was clear and what was indistinct. So often she found that the truth lay somewhere in the middle.
“Stab wounds,” Borger replied. “Three. Inflicted with great force. Probably in quick succession. Typical of a crime of passion. People who know each other. Emotions running high. You’ve got the murder weapon here—a simple kitchen knife, which it looks like someone had been using shortly before to cut sausage and cheese.”
He indicated the table, the wooden chopping board, the onion on the floor. “And perhaps onions, too. Not this one, though. I’ll be able to give you a more precise picture when I’ve examined the traces in the puncture wounds.” He paused briefly. “The place where she was found is without doubt the crime scene.”
Herz smiled. “Thanks, Borger, but can you leave us something to do? Or have you already solved the case?”
“When did it happen?” Franza asked.
Borger tilted his head. “Judging from the degree of rigor mortis and the consistency of the blood, I’d say fourteen, fifteen hours ago.”
“During the night, then.” She did a quick calculation. “Around one. Around midnight.”
Borger nodded. “I can tell you more precisely later.”
“Did she try to defend herself?” she asked.
Borger shrugged. “Can’t say yet. Apart from the stab wounds there are no immediately obvious injuries.”
He picked up one of the dead woman’s hands and indicated her nails. “What will I find under here? When I examine her, it’s possible I’ll find skin particles under the nails indicating a struggle. But I need a little more time.”
Franza nodded. “Sure. Of course.”
Borger sighed. “So you want it yesterday.”
“Correct,” she said, a smile escaping her. “I’m so lucky to be surrounded by such exceptionally intelligent men.”
They took a quick look around the house, taking care not to get in the way of the forensics officers, who would soon be taking over the house—the crime scene—for themselves. But Franza and Herz were eager to gain some insight, some feeling for the people who lived here, for the dead woman.
It was clear from the house that Gertrud Rabinsky was a woman of taste, with a feel for shape and color, for warmth and light. In the family photos, however, she came across as slightly aloof, reserved, as if the camera were an alien intrusion, something against which she had to defend herself.
Herz picked up a portrait. “OK, we’ll take this with us. Now let’s go see her parents. They’re all together, her husband, her children, and her parents. Arthur, you hold the fort here.”
They left the house. Past the damson tree, still laden with overripe fruit. They’ll go rotten now, Franza thought. No more jelly, no damson schnapps, no cakes. What a shame.
She’ll have turned up, Felix thought. H
anna Umlauf will have turned up and is probably safe on her way back to France with her husband. He wondered whether he should call Hansen and ask him. Sometime next week. There was no hurry.
They drove back toward town, but before reaching it turned off into a valley, at the end of which was the house—no, the villa. That was a more fitting description. Tasteful. Idyllic. From the outside. But no longer so inside.
“Herz.” He produced his ID. “Criminal investigation. This is my colleague, Oberwieser.”
“It didn’t take you long,” said the man who opened the door to them. He was somewhere in his midsixties, wearing a shirt and tie. Perhaps he had been pulled away from his office. His face betrayed signs of exhaustion and deep sadness.
“True,” Herz said. “That’s part of our job.”
“Brendler,” the man said. “I’m her father. Come through; we’re all in here.”
They followed him through the house and finally entered a spacious living room. An elderly woman was sitting at the table, leaning on her elbows, shock visible in her features and in her bearing. Once again Franza was amazed at how quickly it all happened, how rapidly tragedy seeped into a person’s body, how fast it spread and drained them of all strength.
Moritz, the five-year-old boy, was sitting on a sofa, and a man, evidently his father, was holding him in his arms. Franza guessed he was in his midforties. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, blond, glasses, moustache—his features were set as if the pain had not yet fully registered.
“I found her,” he said. “I came home and found her. That’s all. There’s nothing more to say.”
“Yes, there is,” Herz said. “I’m sure you can tell us more. Just take your time.”
Herz turned to Frau Brendler. “Perhaps you could take care of the little boy. He shouldn’t hear all this.”
“Yes, you’re right.” The woman stood. “Come on, Moritz, come with me!”
“What about your granddaughter?” Felix asked.
“We’ve called her,” Hans Brendler said. “She’s on her way.”
They didn’t find out a great deal. The evening before she was found, Gertrud’s husband had been at a friend’s birthday party that lasted until the wee hours. He had done the rounds with his colleagues, had drunk too much, and had gone to his office to sleep for the few remaining hours of the night. Late morning he had gone home, taken a shower, and changed, assuming that Gertrud had gone to her shop. He’d gone to the kitchen to fix a quick snack before driving back into town—and found her lying there.
“It says here you found her around twelve,” Franza said, glancing at the notebook Felix was filling with an increasing volume of notes. “But you didn’t call the police until half past one. Why leave so long? What were you doing for all that time?”
Christian Rabinsky stared at the floor, his elbows on his knees and his face propped in his hands.
“I don’t know,” he said flatly, barely audible. “Nothing. I wasn’t doing anything. She lay there, not moving. She was really dead. Nothing could have changed that. I just wanted some time alone with her. That’s what I did, I spent some time alone with her. Something I’m never going to be able to do again. Or, maybe . . . ?” He raised his head and looked Franza in the eye. “Maybe . . . ?”
“No,” she said. “You’re right. You’re never going to be able to do that again. But nevertheless—”
She broke off. What had he said? She was really dead.
He was right. There was nothing that could have changed that. Nothing. Some time alone, him and her. Was there anything wrong with that?
Her attention was caught by a nearby movement, and she turned.
Felix was standing by the wall. The photos hanging there drew him. He’d been driven by curiosity, the instinct that led him through life. He did not know what exactly it was that attracted his attention, but it suddenly seemed as though the pictures began to glow, to wink at him as if they had something to tell him. He held his breath. A redhead. Did he recognize her? A memory. Radiant hair. Young. Could it be? Could it really be? Could it be her, her hair shining as if it were a matter of life and death?
“Who is that?” he asked, feeling a tingle, sensing a tension spread through his body.
“Who?”
Brendler’s voice was louder than it had been. Felix turned and stared at the man as he slowly approached.
“Who do you mean?”
“This girl here. The girl with the red hair.”
“Her? That’s Hanna,” Brendler said. “Why do you want to know?”
“And the one next to her? Gertrud?”
“Yes,” Brendler said quietly and ran his index finger over his daughter’s face, slowly, again and again. “That’s Gertrud. My daughter.”
“Hanna Umlauf? The photographer?”
“Yes.” Brendler frowned, and Felix noticed the sudden alertness in his expression, in his voice. “Hanna Umlauf, the photographer. Why do you ask?”
“What’s her connection to your family?” asked Herz tensely.
A rueful smile passed across Brendler’s face. He turned and looked out of the window, out toward the trees, the garden. Green as far as the eye could see.
“Hanna is like my . . . our second daughter. She grew up here. Together with Gertrud. You could say we have . . . we had two daughters.” He was briefly lost in his memories and then turned around, returning to the present. “Lovely days. Yes.” Another short pause. “We haven’t seen her for years. And now Gertrud’s dead. I have to tell her. I must tell Hanna.”
“That’s going to be difficult right now,” said Herz slowly. “Hanna Umlauf has disappeared.”
“What?”
For a fraction of a second, Brendler and his son-in-law froze. Franza too. She came to her senses first. “What do you mean Hanna Umlauf has disappeared?”
“Just what I said.” Herz’s gaze moved between Brendler and his son-in-law to gauge what they were thinking and feeling. “Her husband reported her missing two days ago. I’m not sure of the current state of affairs, but looking at the situation here—”
“Her husband?” Brendler asked tensely. “Jonas? He’s here?”
“Yes.” Felix nodded. “He’s here. So you know Jonas Belitz?”
“Of course I know Jonas Belitz.” Brendler’s voice sounded gruff and dismissive, but Felix was not put off.
“You do?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Just tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell. We grew up together, he was my best friend, until . . .” He hesitated, turned away.
“Go on.”
Brendler turned back to Felix in agitation. “You’re beginning to get on my nerves, you know that? What on earth does it have to do with anything? My daughter’s been murdered, Hanna’s disappeared, and you’re asking me about a man I haven’t seen for at least twenty years.”
Felix smiled a little complacently. “Well, you could almost say he’s your . . . son-in-law, so I think he’s got everything to do with it.”
Brendler calmed himself and sat back down. He thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said wearily, “you would see it like that.”
“So?”
“What would you say if your daughter came to you one day and told you she was going to marry your best friend, who is twenty-five years older than she is?”
Felix raised his eyebrows and took a deep breath. “Well,” he said.
“Exactly,” said Brendler. “And after that they didn’t come to see us anymore.”
Herz nodded. “OK, I think that’s enough for now. We’ll make enquiries. Missing persons cases aren’t usually our area, but I’d say this is rather a remarkable coincidence.” He turned to Franza. “I think we’ve got enough here for now.”
As they were leaving, they opened the front door to find Lilli standing there. Franza recognized her on the spot.
“Lilli,” she said in astonishment. “Lilli!”
What a surprise! The little kleptomaniac from
the shopping mall was Gertrud’s daughter.
“Yes,” Lilli said. “Yes.” She burst into tears. “I’d hoped that you . . . I really hoped!”
“Shhhh,” Franza said as she hugged Lilli. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”
Even as she said it, she thought what a stupid phrase it was.
Frau Brendler came to the door and drew Lilli to her. “There, there, little one, come to me! Let’s go in.”
“Yes,” said Lilli, wiping away her tears. More flowed in their place. Her grandmother drew her into the house and closed the door.
“What was that about?” asked Herz.
Franza waved an arm. “Nothing . . . nothing. We know each other, that’s all. Ran into her by chance a few days ago. She went to school with Ben.” She thought for a few seconds. “And this Hanna? What’s going on with her?”
As they drove back into town, he told her about the strange coincidence that had found him stopping by Hansen’s office when Hanna Umlauf’s husband had come to report her disappearance.
“There’s no such thing as coincidence,” said Franza, giving Herz a friendly pat on the shoulder. “What’s another word for it? Happenstance. Things happen for a reason.”
And things were beginning to happen. The tingling had begun.
12
The black birds fly over the fields for the first time this year.
Shadows in the gray morning light. Cries.
Every morning I compare the pictures—the pictures on the screen of my laptop with the pictures in my head. Until I finally feel the flight of the birds in my head. In my body, too, but more in my head. And then I can feel myself dissolving, becoming black, growing feathers, raising myself up into the endless expanse of the sky.
I continue taking photos. I have my subject now. The ravens. When they make their early-autumn flights in black flocks above my head, cawing and noisy, I photograph the expanse of the sky with the ravens as the centerpiece, circling, swerving, turning suddenly and changing direction.
I watch them with all the yearning in my head and my veins, and when their cries grow quieter and fade into the yellow-gray of the morning sky, I close my eyes and send myself after them, falling into the past.
Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2) Page 6
