by Inge Löhnig
Barbara Schulz was leaning against the windowsill as they spoke. Her face had turned grey and all the colour had drained from her lips.
‘He wasn’t an altar boy,’ she said softly.
* * *
What have I done? Agnes thought and rolled onto her other side. She’d gone back to bed after Dühnfort had rushed off. But she couldn’t go back to sleep. She was ashamed of herself. When she’d gone into the kitchen earlier and Dühnfort had spun round, startled and then with that tentative smile on his face that was full of expectation, she’d immediately felt guilty. He’d looked at her with uncertainty and was properly taken aback when she’d said ‘Good morning, Dühnfort.’ Then she’d felt sorry for him. The kiss had actually been meant as an apology. But the way he’d responded . . . He has feelings for me and I’ve used him. I shouldn’t have done that. And then she remembered what she’d done.
It made her heart beat faster. She had never in her life felt as sexy as she had last night. She’d had no idea she could be so uninhibited. But she also knew that she wasn’t capable of starting a new relationship at the moment. How could she tell him that without hurting him? It was impossible. She pulled the blanket over her head and tried to think about something else. The letter. Yvonne. The memory struck her hard. She sprang out of bed and ran into the bathroom. As she stood in front of the mirror and brushed her teeth, she couldn’t look back at her own reflection. I’m to blame was the only thing that she could think.
She put on her jogging clothes and grabbed a hair-tie to make a ponytail, but that was no longer necessary. I look like Rumpelstiltskin, she thought and then Melli popped into her head. Melli. Oh, Melli. I have to go. I have to run. On my own? It’s all the same if the lunatic catches me, she thought. It doesn’t matter. I’m to blame. Yvonne, forgive me.
Fifteen minutes later, she was running quickly through the forest towards the Chapel of Our lady. Sweat ran down her back and between her breasts. Her muscles burned. She felt a little better, as the uniform rhythm of her steps and her breathing slowly drove out the thoughts. Suddenly, she remembered that she was supposed to meet Anselm at the chapel at half past nine. She looked at the time. Ten past nine. She had no interest in meeting him and didn’t want to see the votive tablets. I can just run past the chapel, she thought. I’ll be gone by the time he arrives. But she hadn’t cancelled the meeting and he was making the trip there specially for her. Damn that good upbringing, Agnes thought. All right, I’ll meet Anselm, but I’ll make it short.
* * *
‘He wasn’t an altar boy.’ Dühnfort repeated the housekeeper’s words.
‘Sepp Meyer didn’t kill himself,’ she said. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘He shot himself,’ Dühnfort replied, ‘and his parents covered up the suicide together with the priest. The parents wanted a Christian burial and the priest wanted to avoid an autopsy, since questions would have been asked. The doctor agreed to it.’
‘So, his parents knew about it . . .’ Barbara Schulz said and pulled a chair up to the table. She sat down. She suddenly looked every bit her age.
‘That the priest sexually abused their son? No, they didn’t know anything about that,’ Dühnfort said. ‘But you seem to have known about it.’
Barbara Schulz insisted that she’d had no idea. At least not when the priest was alive. She had first found out after his death. More specifically, on the day of his death.
‘I will never forget that day,’ she began. ‘I came into the house as I did every morning and made breakfast for the priest. When he didn’t show up, I went looking for him. But he wasn’t in his bedroom. He was sitting here.’ She gestured to where Schops was sitting. ‘I immediately realised that he was dead. I wanted to call the doctor and went for the telephone . . .’ She hesitated a moment. ‘There were pictures . . . I didn’t understand at first . . . It was so despicable.’
‘There were photographs on the desk?’ Dühnfort asked. Barbara Schulz nodded. ‘Who was in the pictures?’
‘I can’t . . . I . . . How can I put it into words?’
‘You don’t have to describe it to me. I can imagine. I’ve seen photos like that before,’ Dühnfort said. ‘I want to know who was in the photos. Meyer, Veith, Drewitz and who else? Who was not an altar boy?’
* * *
Agnes belongs to me and me alone, he thought desperately. He kneeled in front of the Madonna, immersed in silent prayer, and asked for forgiveness. He had failed, had shown himself to be unworthy. A blind fury had taken him over. Everything had gone out of control, and why? Because he’d put his feelings first, instead of focusing on his task.
He couldn’t understand it. Agnes a cheap whore. It hurt so much. As he remembered what he’d seen, the pain tightened round his chest like a band of burning steel. He lowered his forehead onto the cool floor. He wanted to finally understand.
It’s quite simple, the inner voice whispered. She’s a bitch, like the others. A slut, a whore, a spoiled piece of shit.
No, she isn’t. She can’t be.
Mad with rage and pain, he’d hurried home the previous night and charged into the vault. His fury made him lose control. It was as if a part of him had detached itself and was directing all his actions. He saw what he was doing and couldn’t prevent it.
A deep sigh rose from his chest and echoed through the room. ‘Forgive me, Mother,’ he whispered. He had stabbed Anna without completing the task. She had repented of her sins and atoned. At the memory of how he had punished her, he was touched by deep satisfaction for a moment, like the flutter of a moth that immediately disappeared into the darkness. But he had killed her before the redeeming act that Jesus had performed on the cross. Before she could confess. And because of that, her soul was now lost and a part of his true mother’s great suffering had been in vain. Isn’t that irrelevant? What does it matter? the inner voice asked sarcastically. He winced as if he’d been hit. ‘No. It’s not,’ he gasped hoarsely. Repentance and redemption are two inseparable parts of a whole. Just as good can’t exist without evil and light can’t exist without darkness, deliverance from evil can’t happen without punishment.
I have to come to a decision, he thought and stood up. He wrapped one hand around the medallion that he wore on a chain around his neck and drew strength from it. It is my time. I will prosper in everything I do.
Just like last night, the voice scoffed.
He ignored it. I must reflect on my task. Agnes belongs to me and me alone. But I am unworthy . . . My true mother tested me, that is why she made me see it . . . I have to forgive Agnes. That’s it. The realisation gave him a momentary sense of relief.
He saw the way out of his loneliness stretching ahead of him like a bright path. He just had to forgive Agnes.
But all he felt was hatred.
I will punish her, that bitch, he thought and it made him feel calmer. Not save? the voice said smugly. ‘No, punish,’ he said into the silence and it sounded good.
* * *
The question seemed to vibrate in the air. Schops had leaned forward and looked at his housekeeper as if he had never seen her before.
‘He helped the priest,’ Barbara Schulz said and looked out of the window at the fruit trees. ‘Picking apples, cutting wood, mowing the grass. Everything that the priest couldn’t do on his own. The altar boys also helped him, but Anselm was never an altar boy.’
‘Anselm,’ Dühnfort said. ‘Anselm Münch.’
Barbara Schulz nodded. ‘The farm is right over there.’ She pointed to the other side of the wall. ‘His mother sent him over regularly.’
* * *
Dühnfort called over five of the uniformed police officers who’d cordoned off the area round the church to protect it from prying eyes. He got his weapon out of the boot of his car, put on the holster and pushed in the gun. This method of storing his service weapon was not exactly in accordance with regulations, but Dühnfort didn’t like wearing it and had to
stow the thing somewhere.
Alois had arrived. Dühnfort updated him on what he had just learned and they went together.
Münch didn’t open the door. His car was not parked at the farm or by any of the outbuildings.
‘Put out a search on him,’ Dühnfort said. Alois nodded and got his mobile out of his pocket. ‘We’re going in,’ Dühnfort said and looked at the front door. Two security locks. He ran round the converted barn. There was a large meadow in front of him, on the edge of which was a greenhouse, and further back, by the churchyard wall, was a large log cabin.
He stepped onto the terrace and peered through the glass door. ‘You go in here,’ he said to Alois, who had followed him with the other officers. ‘I’ll check out the greenhouse and the cabin back there.’
He was already on his way when he heard the glass panel in the terrace door shatter. As expected, he found lilies in the greenhouse. It’s him, he thought as he closed the glass door behind him again. The door to the log cabin was secured with a padlock. Dühnfort went back and got a crowbar from one of the outbuildings. With a lever movement, he broke open the lock. He had no idea what he would find in the cabin. It struck him as strange. The farm had several outbuildings and sheds for vehicles and tools. The log cabin was actually unnecessary and was situated off to the side in the furthest corner of the garden by the churchyard wall.
Dühnfort opened the door and went inside. A wooden table with four chairs stood in the middle of the room. There was a shelf with garden tools on the opposite wall. Otherwise, the room was empty. Strange. Morning sunlight shone through the small window. Dühnfort glanced at the time. Half past nine. Was Agnes still sitting at the breakfast table, all alone?
He had to go back to the others. He turned round and was on his way to the door when his gaze fell on a narrow crack in the wooden floor. He immediately pushed the table and chairs aside. The crack turned out to be the edge of a trap door. Dühnfort pushed his finger into the narrow opening and lifted the hatch. At first, he thought he was looking into the pitch dark, but there was actually a faint light coming from below. A ladder led down to the underworld. He looked out of the window again. The sky was blue, the branches of the apple trees swayed in the wind in the priest’s garden. Dühnfort felt for his holster and climbed down.
* * *
No more than ten minutes, Agnes thought, and then I will politely take my leave. She felt a bit better. Jogging had helped drive away the emotional chaos for a little while. For a moment, she was tempted to keep running, but then she saw Anselm’s car. He was already there.
The chapel door was open. Agnes went inside. The windows were small and barred and let in very little light. Agnes walked between the wooden benches. Her running shoes made no sound on the stone floor. Anselm was kneeling in front of the small altar and seemed to be praying. Agnes didn’t know if she should make her presence known and disturb him. But she also didn’t want him to think she’d been watching him pray.
‘Hello, Anselm,’ she said.
‘Good morning, Agnes,’ he replied without turning round. His voice sounded different. It was probably the acoustics in the chapel.
There were two candles burning next to the Madonna on the altar and the air smelled of mustiness and incense. Anselm was still kneeling. Agnes didn’t want to wait forever. I’ll just start, she thought, and turned to the votive paintings that she’d discovered on the right-hand wall. She heard Anselm get up, walk behind her and close the door. A key clicked in the lock. What’s that about?
‘You have to look at them by candlelight,’ Anselm said, walking towards her. ‘They are more beautiful that way.’
Yes, that’s all good and well, but it would have been enough to just shut the door, Agnes thought. Anselm looked different somehow. He smiled at her, but the smile was icy under his cold blue eyes. His expression scared her.
‘You have every reason to be afraid,’ he said and pulled something out of his jacket pocket that looked like a bulging tennis sock. With a lightning-quick movement, he swung his arm. Agnes instinctively tried to dodge it but did not succeed. Something hit her hard on the temple. Colourful spots of light exploded and then it went black. She lost consciousness before her head slammed against the stone floor.
* * *
Dühnfort had reached the bottom. He was standing in a square antechamber in almost complete darkness. He could dimly make out two doors to his left. But the faint glow was coming from up ahead. Dühnfort followed it to a room with an open door. Without a sound, he pulled out his gun and went in. There were about two dozen large white candles organised in a circle on the sandstone floor slabs. The flames flickered in the draught and lit up the redbrick room. Four columns supported the vault above him. There was a life-size statue of Mary along one wall with a vase of white lilies in front of it. Otherwise, the room was empty.
Dühnfort took one of the candles, went back to the antechamber and stopped in front of a massive wooden door. It must have been ancient, as the wood was cracked and had nearly turned black. It had a panel in it at eye level. He slid it aside and looked into the darkness. A pungent odour escaped through the narrow gap.
Dühnfort opened the door. The stench hit him. It smelled of excrement and urine. In the flickering candlelight, he saw a camp bed that was pushed against the wall with a stained sleeping bag on top. There was a chain embedded into the concrete on the opposite wall. It hung all the way down to the floor and had a handcuff on the end. Dühnfort went further into the room. He tried to keep his breathing shallow. Another scent was mixed in with the stench. The sweet and metallic scent of blood. Now a sort of workbench appeared in the candlelight. There were hooks, pliers, a roll of wire, a hoist and various ropes on top. Dühnfort stepped closer and bumped into an object with his foot. He lowered the candle. There was a large stone on the floor. He crouched down and shone the light at the floor. About twenty stones were scattered across the space. They were densest in one corner, further back, where a sea of black blood surrounded them. This is where Anna Nötzel died, Dühnfort thought and paused for a moment before leaving the torture chamber and going into the last room.
In the candlelight he saw a light wooden table that had been scrubbed clean. On the table there was a pitcher covered with a white tea towel and a cloth sack beside it. Dühnfort looked inside and found a black balaclava like the ones motorcyclists wear under their helmets. A clothes hanger with a protective plastic cover hung from a hook on the wall. He lifted the cover and saw a pair of black trousers and a black shirt. Black raven, black raven, he thought.
Dühnfort climbed back up the ladder. The bright sunlight blinded him. He pulled the door of the cabin shut behind him and walked through the blooming garden to the converted barn. He felt as if he’d just climbed out of hell. He went through the open terrace door into Münch’s living room and found himself in the office again. Alois was standing at the computer and looked up as Dühnfort came in. He looked worried.
‘It’s him,’ Dühnfort said with a dry mouth and saw Alois nod. The stench of the cellar had made his mouth feel like it was coated in a layer of sand. He felt queasy and took a few deep breaths. ‘In the cabin, there’s an entrance into a part of the old monastery’s vault. It seems that not everything was destroyed in the war. Münch has a prayer room and a torture chamber set up down there.’
Dühnfort got out his mobile and notified Buchholz of everything. As he spoke, he walked up behind Alois to see what he was looking at on the computer monitor. He eyes lingered on a single word: Agnes.
‘What is that?’ he asked, trying to sound calm as his heart began to race.
‘The computer was on. The entry is from this morning at five forty-seven,’ Alois said. ‘It’s probably some sort of diary. He was watching you.’
* * *
The tide was coming in. She had to slowly leave the beach.
Agnes didn’t want to, she wanted to stay. It smelled so good, like lavender, like holidays, like France. She heard
Yvonne laugh. Mummy, it smells funny. Now she smelled it too. The scent of lavender had disappeared and it smelled like winter. Agnes began to feel very cold. She curled up and bumped into something. The smell of eucalyptus filled her nose. Someone said something. Then it clicked. Eucalyptus and lavender. The information was sent from the olfactory nerves in Agnes’s nose to the neurons in her brain and on to the scent memory. From there, it was linked with the information of who smelled that way. Anselm. This name was connected to the most recently stored memory. Agnes’s body reacted with fear. It released adrenaline, her pulse quickened, her blood pressure rose and her oxygen consumption increased. Her flight instinct was activated.
Within a split second, Agnes was awake. Her skull seemed to be bursting open; her brain couldn’t be contained within its bony container. She moved her head slightly to the side and nearly vomited.
A sound. Anselm. Why is he doing this? And Melli? Was that him . . .? No time for questions. Pull yourself together. He knocked you out. He said, ‘You have every reason to be afraid . . .’ Melli! Anna! That’s why Dühnfort was in such a hurry . . . Is Anna also . . .? Agnes didn’t open her eyes. If I want to get out of here, I’ll have to surprise him, she thought.
Where did he put the key? Presumably he didn’t leave it in the lock. She felt Anselm’s breath against her face. He grabbed her by the neck and lifted her head up. Agnes blinked. The weak light blinded her like a spotlight. Her skull was exploding. She suppressed a groan. Anselm kneeled beside her. He opened a vial of colourless liquid. The hand came closer. Agnes took a swing at it and tried to jump up at the same time. The small glass container flew a few metres away. She heard it shatter as she shakily got to her feet. It took a miserably long time and she felt as if she was moving in slow motion.
‘You demon!’ Anselm cried and grabbed her by the neck again.
She kicked out at him. He held her fast and felt around in his trouser pockets with the other hand. He pulled the sock out again. No, not again. Agnes quickly did a half turn, jerked her knee up and hit where she’d intended to hit. Anselm screamed, let go of her and writhed in pain. Nut butter, she thought, hysterical. She ran to the door. With every step, her brain tried to force its way out of her skull. Her mouth felt like it was full of sand. Of course, the key wasn’t in the lock.
