It was an old building. She sniffed. It smelled of rotting vegetables, of sweat. She climbed the stairs slowly, second floor, third floor, third door on the left. No sign on the door, no name, no one in the corridor.
She raised her hand, and then froze, hesitated. She listened. Half-truths don’t satisfy. They only awaken a hunger that gnaws at your insides and stops you from sleeping. She rang the bell.
Steps approached, and the key turned in the lock as a man’s voice rang out: “Don’t you have your key?”
The door opened. Silence.
They stood facing each other, staring. Neither had seen the other before, but they recognized one another—from the photos. From what they’d been told. From others’ memories.
50
Arthur had the address. It wasn’t a very good neighborhood. He switched on the GPS and drove off toward the edge of town, whistling softly through his teeth. He was in a good mood after the previous evening with Karolina. They had celebrated their engagement, without a ring, without champagne—he had not even gone to the gas station shop for a bottle of sparkling wine. He had been too tired, too exhausted after a long day’s investigating. But she had welcomed him with a radiant smile, in a dress with a neckline that plunged almost to her navel.
Yes, things were going well! Fantastically well, and they had promised to treasure forever the little band of silver chewing gum wrapper he had given her in the absence of a real ring.
“You have reached your destination,” the GPS announced.
Yes, Arthur thought, that’s true. In every respect.
He parked the car and got out. No, this neighborhood was nothing special. Row upon row of concrete apartment blocks from the early seventies, few trees between the buildings. Poor people’s housing, his mother would have said.
Arthur approached the door with the right number and glanced down at the name plates. Twenty families lived in the building, but none of the bell plates showed the right name: Köhler.
Damn. It would have been easy if that name had been there. He could have just rung the bell. And then the door would have opened and he would have been buzzed in and climbed the stairs. The apartment door would have opened, framing a man, Tonio Junior, who would have said, Yes, it’s me, Tonio Junior. I murdered Gertrud Rabinsky and abducted Hanna Umlauf. I’m the criminal you’re looking for. Arrest me, Inspector!
Arthur grinned to himself while his eyes roamed hesitantly over the name plates again as he continued to dream. He dreamed about receiving a commendation, maybe a personal invitation from the mayor, because he had rescued Hanna Umlauf, who, after all, as Dr. Brückl had stressed, was a celebrity. Arthur dreamed about being granted three weeks’ special leave, three weeks in the Maldives or some such place, dreamed about Karolina going crazy and using her hot tongue to . . .
No, stop!
He cleared his throat and got a grip on himself. He couldn’t have such thoughts when on duty! The main door opened suddenly, and Arthur’s eyes widened—his dreams of a speedy conclusion to the murder case hadn’t vanished completely and perhaps . . . But, no. It wasn’t Tonio Junior leaving the building, but a young woman in a short skirt, tight blouse, shades. Sexy.
She gave him a brief stare, just for a second. As she moved past, he said, “Excuse me, could you just . . . ?”
She stopped and turned impatiently. “Yes?”
He drew the composite from his chest pocket, unfolded it, and asked, “Do you happen to recognize this man?”
She looked at the picture, looked at him, her eyes hidden behind the shades, and said, “No, I don’t know him. I’m only visiting here. Excuse me, I’m running late. I really have to go.”
And she was gone. Arthur watched her rapid retreat and felt a sudden impulse, but then the main door opened again and another woman appeared, a little older, with two whining children in tow. Arthur approached her, too.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Police.” He took his ID from his pocket. “Do you happen to recognize this man?”
She shook the children off and examined everything carefully—Arthur, the ID, the picture—and finally asked, “What do you want from him?”
“Merely routine,” Arthur said reassuringly. “He may be a witness in a criminal case.”
“Ah,” she said and thought for a moment. “Well, he looks kind of familiar. Looks a bit like the guy who’s been living here for three, four weeks in old Köhler’s apartment.”
It was as though something exploded in Arthur’s head. Fantastic, he thought. Fantaaaastic! A hit! Bull’s-eye!
“To be honest, I’ve been wondering who he is,” the woman said. “Never says anything, not a word of greeting. A bit withdrawn. You could almost say creepy.”
“Which apartment is it?” Arthur wondered if he should call the SWAT team straightaway or discuss it with Oberwieser and Herz first—they were the bosses, after all.
“On the third floor, I think,” the woman said. “But perhaps old Frau Steigermann can tell you a bit more. She had a bit more to do with old Herr Köhler. She lives on the second floor.”
OK, Arthur thought. I’ll go and see Steigermann first and then perhaps I’ll phone the bosses.
“Thanks,” he said with a smile.
The woman nodded, gathered her children together, and left.
Inside the building Arthur was struck by a wave of stale air, a smell of boiled cabbage, stuffy heat. As he climbed the stairs, he phoned Oberwieser and Herz. Their instructions were “Wait.” He should talk to Frau Steigermann and find out more about the apartment and the family connections here, but otherwise wait until they were there—no going in alone!
“OK,” Arthur sighed. “No going in alone. OK, OK, OK.” He felt a gnawing in his stomach. “Then I won’t.”
Second floor, outside Steigermann’s apartment door. He raised his hand about to ring, but then he hesitated. Looked up the stairs. It wasn’t far. Just a few steps. Couldn’t he just . . . ?
He lowered his hand, turned. Softly, softly. Up the stairs to the third floor, quietly, treading carefully past apartment doors in a bare corridor, the names unknown . . . and then an apartment without a name plate.
Bingo, Arthur thought. Bingo! This must be it.
He listened. Nothing. Or was there?
He thought feverishly what to do. Ring the bell? With his gun at the ready? Perhaps there were children behind the closed door who would stare at him with wide eyes, traumatized for life.
But perhaps there was a murderer standing there, also with a gun at the ready, prepared to do away with him because there was nothing left to lose.
Neither of these two options was particularly attractive. No, the official regulations were there for a reason, and his bosses’ instructions were clear. Wait, they’d said. Wait for reinforcements. So . . . !
Arthur closed his eyes briefly, took his hand from the gun at his belt, turned, and slowly went back down the stairs to the second floor, back to Steigermann’s apartment. The door before which Arthur had just been standing must be directly above it.
Arthur rang once, twice. No response. No one home. But then a voice finally answered.
“Who’s there?”
“Police,” Arthur said. “I’d like to ask you something. Please open the door.”
A brief pause, and then the door opened, and a woman of around eighty was standing there. She wore a dressing gown that once had been stylish, it was plain to see. She smiled, and Arthur took an immediate liking to her; there was warmth in that smile and in her face. Her permed white hair looked a little unkempt, as if she had not long since risen, and when she noticed Arthur looking, she smoothed it with her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve not quite gotten going today.”
Arthur smiled. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, producing his police ID for the third time. “Nice dressing gown.”
She giggled, took the ID, studied him carefully, and passed it back. “It is, isn’t it? It’s from New York.”
; “Oh, New York! Wow!”
Her expression grew a little more serious. “The police? What have I done wrong? Slept too late? Have the neighbors registered a complaint about my snoring?”
He had to smile, and she did, too. “No, no,” he said. “Please don’t worry. Will you let me in? I can explain.”
She opened the door wide.
“Come in,” she said, waving him through.
They entered a living room like Arthur’s grandmother’s—small, with neat photos of children and family on the walls, lace doilies, a shelf full of books. Arthur was amazed. He hadn’t imagined a home in this building could be so cozy.
As if she could read his mind, she said, “You can make anywhere nice.”
“Yes,” he said as he looked at the photos.
“My daughter.” She ran a finger over the face whose likeness at all ages covered the wall—from childhood through her wedding to adulthood with her own small family. “She lives a long way away. Up in the north. In Hamburg.”
“Oh,” he laughed in surprise. “What a coincidence—that’s where I come from!”
She nodded and indicated for him to sit. Could she get him something? Tea? Coffee?
“Coffee, please.” He sat at the ornate little Biedermeier table, hoping the similarly ornate chair he sat in would bear up under the weight of his workout-toughened body. It held without so much as a creak, and Arthur relaxed.
She vanished, and he heard the coffee machine. A few minutes later, she returned, now dressed and her hair combed, to serve coffee and cookies.
“Now, what can I do for you, young man?”
He brought out the composite produced from Renate Stockinger’s description. “Do you recognize this face?”
She was surprised.
“Oh,” she said. “This face? But of course I know him! Although I haven’t seen him for a long time.”
She stood and went over to a cupboard to take out a photo album that looked as though it contained photos from twenty or more years ago. She opened it up, leafed through it, and then held it out to Arthur.
“Here.”
A young man, midtwenties, in jeans and a T-shirt, was standing next to the girl whom Arthur recognized from the photos on the wall.
“They more or less grew up together, my Johanna and Tonio Köhler from the third floor. When his mother went back to Italy, he was at our place all the time. I was a teacher, you see, and I’d taught him at school. He was a difficult child, even at that age, but a lovable boy. It was sad that he died so young.”
Arthur nodded. “Yes, indeed. Died. So it’s not actually him I’m asking about.”
“No?” Her eyes were clear and confident.
“I mean the young man who’s been living in the late Herr Köhler’s apartment for a few weeks now.”
She nodded, taking another look at the picture. “Oh, it’s him. Yes, he does resemble his father. He’s Ernst’s grandson. Ernst left the apartment to him since his son had been dead for so long. He’s also called Tonio, by the way.”
She smiled briefly, but soon turned serious again. “But what do the police want with him?”
Arthur mentally wrung his hands in despair. This was taking ages. The old lady was very nice, but she was being pretty trying. Why couldn’t people just say what they knew? Why did they have to ask their own questions all the time? And on top of it all, manage to pry out everything they wanted to know!
“He’s a witness in a murder case,” he said, trying to sound casual, “and possibly an abduction.”
“Oh,” she said. “Those two women. I read about them in the paper. Terrible. But I can’t imagine he’d have anything to do with it. Not Tonio’s son. No.”
She shook her head vigorously, and then went to the window and gazed out for a while before turning back, a satisfied smile on her face.
“There are other things worrying him now,” she said. “A friend’s just been to visit him. A very pretty young woman. I saw her briefly. Very chic. Very elegant.”
She sat back down. “Help yourself,” she said kindly, gesturing to the cookies. “I baked them myself.”
But Arthur was no longer listening. A young woman, he was thinking, just been to visit, and then . . . a thought exploded in his head.
Short skirt, tight blouse, shades, sexy.
“Shit,” he exclaimed as he jumped up and ran from the apartment. “Goddamn it, they’ve tricked me! And now they’ve disappeared into the sunset!”
He was no longer aware of Frau Steigermann, or of her arms folding in satisfaction across her chest. He stormed out into the corridor and to the top of the stairs, from where he heard Franza’s voice and Felix’s laugh floating up. He dashed up the stairs to the third floor and heard Franza and Felix coming after him, also breaking into a run. He was finally outside the nameless door, hammering on it. With his knuckles, with his fists.
“Open up!” he yelled. “Open up! Police! Open the door!”
“What’s happening?” Franza asked breathlessly, positioning herself with her gun in her hands. Herz did the same across from her. “Report!”
Arthur turned to them in disappointment.
“I don’t think you . . .” he said, glancing at his colleagues’ firearms. They followed his eyes, stowed the guns away, and then began to calm a series of neighbors who had come out in ones and twos onto the corridor, drawn by the commotion. Franza asked one of them to call the janitor.
Arthur told them what he knew. They listened in silence.
“You did everything right,” Felix said as Arthur came to an end.
Franza nodded and clapped him on the shoulder.
“No going in alone,” she said. “That’s the number-one rule! And sometimes it means one slips through the net. For the time being, at least.”
The janitor arrived. The usual procedure: IDs, the request to open the door, his dubious expression, the usual question: “Do you have authority for this?” and the usual reply: “Yes, we do.” Finally, an unlocked apartment and the janitor hanging around—his curiosity knowing no bounds—needing to be forcefully sent away.
As they had suspected, the apartment was empty, the coffee machine still on, the birds clearly flown in panic. But the detectives discovered a lot, nevertheless. They unearthed another part of the story.
51
Tonio’s death. And that which followed. We avoided it, didn’t speak about it—not for a long time. Not until the end. Not until there was no choice.
It was September. It was September back then, too. Twenty-two years ago. Greece. Kos. The black sand. We dug ourselves in there.
Back to Gertrud’s kitchen. She had boiled up the last damsons. Small beads of sweat shone on her brow as she stirred the bubbling jelly in the large pan. She said she had to do it before she left, she was flying to Greece, to the house, and she had to get everything in order before she went.
She was barefoot, wearing a short dark red dress, sleeveless. I rinsed the jelly jars, dried them, and lined them up on the shelf. We worked in silence, concentrating.
It was hot, although it was nearing the middle of September.
“Coffee?” Gertrud asked.
I nodded. She made the coffee, and its scent spread through the room. She took cups from the cupboard, milk from the fridge, sugar from the sideboard.
I watched her, my eyes gliding down her back and her legs, their shape outlined by her red dress, and tried to remember the old times, the Gertrud she had been back then.
A jelly-making session, I thought. We’re having a jelly-making session.
We were silent, dwelling on our thoughts. Happiness is dangerous, I thought. You cling to it and it deserts you and you don’t know why. Contentment is what counts. Contentment is security.
Gertrud’s kitchen was bathed in late summer sunlight and the heat of the boiling damsons. She stood before the stove, which was speckled with drops of damson purée and damson jelly, and as she began to wipe and scrub, I finally realized that I had not thou
ght about Tonio for a long time. Yet I missed him, missed him, missed him.
The evening hung on the air, and a drop of jelly fell in the fading humidity onto Gertrud’s brown knee.
So that’s why I’m here, I thought. That’s why. To remember. To become one again with my memories. To become one with myself. To be reconciled, I thought. As if doing a jigsaw puzzle, I’m slowly putting all the pieces inside myself together. Now the last piece should finally fit into place, too. But can I bear it? And Gertrud? Will she be able to?
“Did you send me that letter, Gertrud?” I asked. “Was it you who sent it?”
She turned, brushed the hair from her brow with the back of her hand, and I remembered that she had always done that, always. Warmth flowed through me, and I wanted to hug her.
She looked at me thoughtfully, as if wondering what she wanted to say to me, and what not to say.
“Letter? No, I didn’t send you any letter. It wasn’t me, though I know who it was.”
She sat down by me at the table and began to talk. About Tonio’s son, whom he must have had with someone else, long before we’d met him. He’d appeared, searching for his father’s past.
I was amazed. A son? Tonio had a son?
Gertrud nodded as if she could read my thoughts. “Yes,” she said, “a son.”
She fell silent, giving me time to get used to the idea.
“I saw him,” she went on. “I told him everything I knew, and that’s not much. I hope he’ll leave us alone now. Will you come with me to Greece? Hanna? Will you come with me?”
Go with her to Greece? I hadn’t been back since that time. I’d suppressed it all, forgotten it all, avoided that country, that island, that sea, without knowing why—I didn’t want to go back down the trail of misfortune.
“Yes,” I said. “Greece. Kos. Why not? Yes, I’ll come with you. Maybe there’ll be a seat on your plane, and if not I’ll come later. It won’t do any harm to see the place again.”
Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2) Page 19
