Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2)

by Gabi Kreslehner

  She let him.

  “I want to look at you, Hanna. May I?”

  She let him. Later he sat five yards from her on his barstool, glass in hand, drunk, and she let him yell her name out into the thumping bass. Hanna smiled, and her teeth gleamed in the bright light.

  30

  It’s raining.

  I understand things now. A little. But to understand is not to forgive. The years flicker back, a gleaming carousel.

  It’s raining. The rain is warm and soft. I enter the water and swim out, the wetness enfolds me from above and below, the raindrops patter on the surface of the river, forming small circles and sinking into the depths.

  Tonio. My Tonio. I hadn’t thought about you for a long time. For all these years you were merely a tiny shadow in my memory, and now . . .

  Nothing is lost, even if you shut it away in the depths of your memory and try to lose the key. At some point it all comes back. Stronger than before. What a mistake to believe that you can escape from your life.

  Tonio was full of impatience. In everything. He lived life at such a fast pace. So different from me, so different from Gertrud. He came over us like a storm, unbridled, unrestrained. Wanted everything on the spot, unable to wait. Although . . . that’s not quite true. No. He waited for me. Three whole days and nights. Waited until I noticed him. Until I favored him with a glance. My smile. My longing. And yet . . . I gave him everything on the first day, in that first moment.

  We were already away from home, we were already in Munich, Gertrud and I. There was this bar, like an enclave of our city, where we went on weekends. Renate’s Inn was where all our friends met up, all those who had drifted away from the claustrophobic small-town scene. It was where we pursued life with Guinness, Bavarian pretzels, and Spanish cakes, and it was where Tonio found us.

  It’s difficult to remember. So many pictures in my head. The rain. Now I swim. The water bears me up so lightly, so naturally. It’s amazing, but I never lost my trust in the water. The water has always remained my element.

  Since I got the letter, Tonio’s letter to me—one of his many letters—since his son, his son whom he never told me about, sent this letter back to me, the story has come to life again.

  It’s as though the gate to my memory has opened wide—it’s all there again, every little thing, the tiniest detail.

  Tonio was a good swimmer. He cut through the water with strong arms and legs. He was fast, much faster than I was. But he drowned. Now, at last, I know why.

  You asked me whether I could understand it, Gertrud. Understand it? Understand that?

  No. What can you understand in your head when there’s a deep wound in your heart?

  Now everything is an open book. Now I know, Gertrud, that at some point you stopped loving me like a sister. I may have suspected it back then, but I couldn’t lose myself to you. Only to Tonio. Only to him. Only to his body.

  Perhaps I should have said, “Go to Nuremberg, Gertrud! Or to Hamburg. Or to Cologne. Don’t pin your life to mine. Nor your heart. It’ll burn up.”

  But I said nothing.

  I know your mother did. And she was right, Gertrud. But even she couldn’t help us.

  To understand means only to understand, not to forgive. Two people are dead now. But back—to the beginning. Or rather, to the middle. Back to Renate’s Inn.

  31

  Renate’s Inn.

  Renate had to smile when she thought about it. It had been her first bar—the first bar of her own.

  “What are you thinking about, darling?” Vasco asked, putting his arms around Renate’s shoulders from behind her. She leaned her head back and thanked God for this man and his strength, this man who had made her life so much easier.

  “You remember Munich?” she asked. “Hanna and Gertrud?”

  “Gertrud. The potter.” He pointed across the street. “The one who was killed. Of course I remember her.”

  “No, I mean do you remember her back then. In Munich. When I was running the Inn. She was always there with Hanna. Her friend. Or her sister. Whatever.”

  “Yes, you know I do,” he said without hesitation. “They were there every day. I remember it well. Hanna was cool. Distant, somehow. Not my type at all. Always kept Gertrud at arm’s length. And she found that difficult to cope with.”

  “You remember all that?”

  She turned and looked at him in surprise.

  He smiled. “Yes, why shouldn’t I? I felt really sorry for her, that girl. She had no chance. Hanna really did have a heart of stone. Until . . .”

  “Until Tonio came,” Renate said, nodding. “Until Tonio came.”

  32

  And then he danced, my Tonio. He really let go. He drank in the music, fell into it, moved beneath the flickering lights, saturated by the thumping beat.

  Everyone around him was cool and alone—glittering, nameless night creatures. But not Tonio.

  Tonio was . . . real.

  I stood there as if struck by lightning. I stared at him, bewildered, stunned that someone could be so much himself and proclaim it so openly, shameless and unbridled. I was transfixed, unaware of time and space. It was as though he came from another world.

  How lovely the water is, how beautiful this river is. I’d forgotten. How could I be away from here for so long? I’m only realizing now how much I missed it.

  You were no longer very young, Tonio, and I liked that. I liked the fact you had a few years on me. I liked the traces of life in your eyes, in the lines on your face. I liked that.

  And then, Tonio, you drew me into you. You took my hand and pulled me to you. But I had long since fallen in love with you, long since. In love with your cool, light hand that kept brushing the hair from my face, in love with your eyes. In love with you, Tonio. In love with you, body and soul.

  Eventually we left the bar. You led me out, and we went down to the Isar, and stopped under some bridge.

  “Just imagine this is the Danube,” you said. “Just imagine this is our Danube. In our town. It’ll make you feel more at home.”

  “But I feel at home anyway,” I said, thinking, now, here, with you. I turned to the water. I couldn’t bear your eyes on me any longer. They saw everything.

  The Danube. The Danube, here, now. My river. I’m coming back to you. I’m leaving Jonas and coming back. Everything’s been done. There’s nothing new under the French sun. But here, by the cool Danube. Where it all began—even if it was actually the Isar. But he said: Just imagine this is the Danube. And it was the Danube.

  I didn’t dare turn to him that night beneath that bridge. I didn’t dare turn from the water to him. He gave me time. He gave me all the time in the world. His eyes embraced me, singed the back of my knees, burned the nape of my neck. I felt it all. His eyes—like sharp arrows—hooked me fast, vertebra by vertebra, brushing my shoulder blades, over my neck, through my hair, transforming my brain into a mass of mushy thoughts.

  You gave me time, Tonio, and then you didn’t—all the time in the world, and then none. The world was so big, yet only the size of an almond. There was so much time, yet only a moment. I loved you from the very first second.

  Finally he approached me, quiet as a panther. As his hand touched me, cool, light, stroking the hollow between shoulder and neck, I stood still, because it seemed so familiar and right, because it fulfilled my desire.

  “You’re so soft, Hanna,” he whispered in my ear. “So soft, like a fresh cake.”

  I had to laugh, a little nervous, a little hysterical. The street lights were reflected on the water, breaking into dazzling orange pearls, as I felt his breath on my ear, as I heard him saying he wanted . . . he wanted so much . . .

  “My Hanna,” you said. “My Hanna, I’ve found you.”

  “My Hanna,” you said, and your gentleness took my breath away.

  And so it began.

  33

  Hanna is the center, Gertrud wrote in the red book, and that’s nothing new. That’s how it’s always
been. She is the point around which everything turns, around whom we circle like tigers around a piece of meat. I know I’ll be the loser in the end, but the crumbs she gives me, because she’s happy and radiates her happiness in every direction, these crumbs are worth any pain . . .

  They knew nothing of love or its power. They were young, still children in some ways. They had no way of foreseeing what they should have foreseen.

  Three people, surrendered to one another in their helplessness, unsuspectingly destroying each other, excessive in their demands of life and love. All three of them were happy if only for a brief time—even Gertrud. She greedily took the enthusiasm Hanna radiated from her love for Tonio. He, an intruder, an interloper, had awakened a love the like of which had never been before, which permeated them all with the certainty that they had been made for each other.

  They became dependent on one another, plunged into a feeling of imprisonment, which was deceptively weightless and clear. It made them happy, and if there was the slightest hint of fear and the inkling of a suspicion that this happiness couldn’t last, they didn’t want to believe it. They became dependent on the feelings they held inside. But dependence was the last thing they intended or wanted. Freedom—as Janis Joplin sang—is just another word for nothing left to lose. They now had a lot to lose. But they didn’t realize it at first. The loss happened gradually, and for a long time they had no idea what it looked like, what it felt like, or how bitter it tasted.

  Because they were happy at that time, every one for themselves, happiness at least seemed guaranteed. But was it guaranteed? No.

  It’s all in vain, Gertrud wrote in her diary while sitting in the departure lounge two hours before their flight to Greece. All in vain. Hanna won’t let me touch her, inwardly or outwardly. Her boundaries are clear as glass. I’m lost . . .

  And then Tonio died.

  34

  “Shit!” Felix exclaimed fervently when he and Franza met at a bar on Hollingerstrasse for a quick lunch and a brief team meeting, taking a table outside to make the most of the good weather. “Shit! She’s simply vanished without a trace, this Hanna Umlauf! We’ve found nothing—nothing! Nada, niente, zilch!”

  He’d been to the hotel and asked the staff whether they knew where she intended to go, whom she had met, what her plans were. But no one knew anything.

  Checking the telephone records had yielded nothing. No interesting numbers on the telephone company’s list, no one who might be the slightest bit likely to have anything to do with the case. She’d hardly made any calls at all. Jonas Belitz, on the other hand, had tried to make contact with his wife innumerable times, but without success. Since the night of the murder, her cell phone had been switched off, so there was no possibility of locating her that way. That was an additional cause for concern. It meant that either Hanna was dead or held captive somewhere, or that she didn’t want to be contacted—which gave credence to the scenario in which she was Gertrud’s murderer.

  They had, of course, also checked Gertrud’s telephone calls. Disappointing. There was only the usual contact with family. The only thing of interest was a number of calls from a prepaid SIM card, although that didn’t really help, as it was not registered.

  “What about you? Have you found anything new?” Felix asked, taking a halfhearted bite of his ham-and-cheese toasted sandwich. The cheese dripped, and Felix began to curse again.

  Franza shook her head. “Now, now, calm down! Things are never as bad as they seem.”

  “They are,” he snapped. “This damned cheese, for a start!” He rubbed at his mouth and chin with a paper napkin. “It’s damn hot. Burned me!”

  Franza waited a few moments for him to calm down, and then she told them about her conversation with Gertrud’s mother.

  Felix listened attentively. “Perhaps we shouldn’t concentrate on Hanna as the sole suspect.”

  “No, of course not,” Franza replied. “She could still be a victim. But of course she’s a trail to follow. Did Gertrud’s husband come to the station this morning? And the children?”

  Felix nodded. “Yes, they came. We took their fingerprints. They’re in for analysis now. But Robert thinks it could take a while until they’ve all been filed and sorted. In a family home like that, with children and visitors and all the comings and goings, there are a lot of fingerprints.”

  He thought for a moment, shaking his head. “This Rabinsky . . . I don’t know. There’s something strange about him. He knows more than he’s saying. Perhaps Brückl’s right after all. Jealousy has always been a strong motive. And that red hair in his bed . . .”

  “Have you confronted him with it?”

  “No, not yet. I thought we’d wait until we’ve checked out his alibi. Then we’ll do it together.” He grinned. “You know, good cop, bad cop. Sometimes we just have to live the cliché.”

  Peter Hansen joined them, carrying a beer.

  He had no news either. He had questioned Jonas Belitz again, but he knew nothing about any stories from the past. When asked about his friendship with Hanna’s foster father, he confirmed what they had already found out from Brendler—there had been no contact between them for many years. That was likely because Belitz had married Hanna, which was not met with great enthusiasm. But love rules all.

  “He’s really upset,” said Hansen, taking a drink of his beer. “It’s time we found her. The missing-person alert will be on the evening news. Let’s see if that yields anything.”

  He studied the menu, which was rather scant, and finally ordered what he always did: egg on toast. “What do you think about the older man–younger woman thing?”

  Felix had to smile, and Franza raised her eyebrows. Hansen hesitated. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No, no. Nothing wrong.” Felix cleared his throat. “Well, to each his own, I say. Variety is the spice of life. Live and let live. That’s what’s so good about democracy and human rights, isn’t it? Franza?”

  He gave her a little nudge and grinned again. She nudged him back with a smile of her own. Hansen watched them in amusement. “Well, you two understand each other well enough. You’re a good team, aren’t you? It’s enough to make me envious.”

  “Yes, it is,” Franza said. “Oh, here comes the rest of our team. Just a word of warning: he’s walking on air, don’t drag him back to earth too suddenly!”

  Arthur did indeed seem to float over to their table, his face slightly flushed, stars in his eyes.

  “Jesus Christ!” Felix said. “What’s up with him?”

  “He’s getting married.” Franza raised her hands in the air. “But you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Oh my God!”

  The men stood up to greet him, Arthur looking bewildered as they clapped him on the shoulder.

  “So you’ve finally gotten your way with our little Karolina,” Felix said and smiled.

  “But how . . . ?” Arthur stammered.

  “She couldn’t keep it shut,” Felix said affectionately, nodding in Franza’s direction. “But don’t be angry with her. You couldn’t have hidden it in any case—it’s obvious a mile away.”

  Franza punched Felix playfully, and then shrugged, her head to one side. She smiled remorsefully and gave Arthur a hug. “I’m sorry, fella, but it’s no big secret, is it?”

  “No, not a secret,” Arthur said. “Just total madness!”

  He thought of his hometown in the north, the moors and heathland—everything he wanted to show Karolina—and of his mother, who could be a bit complicated at times but was basically fine.

  They eventually turned their attention back to Gertrud, to Hanna, and to the case.

  “So, this café owner, Renate Stockinger,” Arthur began. “She used to have a bar in Munich, a place Gertrud and Hanna often frequented. Then a man turned up, around thirty years old, Tonio. He was interested in Hanna and it turned into a passionate love affair. But then there was Gertrud, who, according to Stockinger, was inclined toward Hanna, in a romantic sense. So it lo
oks like there was a bit of a triangle going on.”

  “Long live democracy and human rights,” Felix said. Hansen and Franza nodded.

  Arthur raised his eyebrows in question. “What?”

  Franza shook her head. “Nothing. Inside joke. What else did she say?”

  “One day, the three of them set off on holiday together. Greece, the island of Kos. Brendler has a holiday home there.”

  “And?”

  “Only Gertrud came back.”

  “Because?”

  “Tonio died and Hanna took off.”

  “Well, would you believe it?” said Hansen.

  “That matches up with what Gertrud’s mother told me,” said Franza. “Did Frau Stockinger know any more details?”

  “He drowned. He went swimming on a stormy night and drowned. Apparently he was an amazing swimmer, but it didn’t help him that time.”

  “Why would someone go swimming in the open sea on a stormy night?” Hansen frowned and shook his head.

  “Hopefully our Greek colleagues were able to find out,” Franza said.

  Felix nodded. “Indeed. But what do you mean, Hanna took off?”

  “Well, Stockinger didn’t really know. Hanna simply failed to return to Germany. She . . . set off into the world. She never saw her again. Unlike Gertrud.”

  “It’s an incredible coincidence, isn’t it? The café and the pottery shop being opposite one another. The fact that the two met again there.” Franza sipped her coffee.

  Arthur nodded. “It certainly is. Stockinger thought so, too. She was quite amazed when Gertrud moved in. It wasn’t that long ago. Just over a year. Before that Gertrud had stayed home with Moritz. When Stockinger went over to greet her new neighbor and invite her over for a coffee, she found out it was Gertrud from Munich. It seems Gertrud wasn’t particularly pleased to see her old acquaintance at first. It was a while before she accepted the coffee invitation. They weren’t particularly close. In fact, it had only been in recent weeks that Gertrud had come over to the café with any regularity.”