Fritz nodded. “Ms. Maler’s opinion doesn’t surprise me. As I was chatting with the head secretary in Ms. Ternheim’s office, she told me Ms. Maler would not stay following her probation period. Ms. Ternheim argued in favor of waiting out her six-month contract so she could look for a new job without any stress. It’s obvious Ms. Maler hasn’t met any of the expectations set forth in her job interview.”
“Ms. Stahl seemed a little scared to speak candidly. She kept looking over at her colleagues and spoke very softly. I’m meeting with her alone tonight. I’m convinced she has more to say. Is that okay, or should we do it as a team?”
“Go ahead. She’ll probably be more willing to talk if there isn’t an old bag sitting next to her. Do you have any idea what she might be keeping secret?”
“No, all I found out was that the relationship between the Ternheim siblings had cooled a little lately. Were you able to coax anything from Mr. Ternheim?”
Fritz shook his head. “The guy clams up the moment he’s asked a personal question. According to him, his sister was totally focused on the company, just like him. Neither of them had much of a private life. In fact, both are unmarried and single.”
“That’s crazy! What kind of a life is that? I don’t think I could ever be so consumed by a job that it becomes my whole life. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to achieve something professionally or be invested in my job. Don’t get me wrong . . .”
“You don’t need to justify yourself,” Fritz said and laughed. “And you don’t have to explain the value of free time to me. The sooner I’m done with this crap, the better off I’ll be. I get what you mean about work-life balance. But the Ternheim family doesn’t seem to know how to strike that balance. If Old Ternheim was anything like them, that might explain his somewhat antisocial behavior.”
“Speaking of which, why did the old man not tell his son immediately after finding his daughter dead on the beach? Or did he not recognize her?”
“Good question. Apparently, the father and son don’t have a very cordial relationship and haven’t been in contact lately.”
“That’s unusual. You’d think after something like this, it’d bring the family closer together.”
Fritz shrugged. “Interpersonal relationships don’t seem to matter too much in this family. Let’s hope you can get the assistant to chat this evening. For what it’s worth, she didn’t seem entirely uninterested in you.”
Hannes quickly changed the topic. “What did Mr. Ternheim say about the body’s anomalies?”
Fritz took a long sip from his coffee cup. “He can’t explain them. His sister had always had an aversion to tattoos, and it seems unlikely she’d have become fond of them now. I showed him a reasonably tame photo of the tattoo, but he couldn’t make anything of it either. He’s already told us that she never dyed her hair and at least until last week still had her natural color. The traces of the sedative surprised him too. She was grounded and always had her life under control.”
“Other than murder, what other explanation could there be for the condition of the body?”
Fritz shrugged again. “I still wouldn’t rule out a suicide or accident. But of course you’re right, there’s already a lot of evidence that points to foul play. And it’s extremely unfortunate that the few people associated with Ms. Ternheim don’t know anything or don’t want to talk. I couldn’t get anything useful out of Ms. Wagner, and there was nothing interesting in Ms. Ternheim’s office either—not a single personal item. Mr. Ternheim denied the possibility that his sister’s death could have anything to do with the company. One of us has to pay Old Ternheim another visit. If he didn’t recognize his daughter, which I think in spite of the dyed hair is extremely unlikely, he must be officially informed of her death. And in any case, we’ve got to get him to talk, because he ought to have a lot to say about this, especially if she regularly visited him and took care of him.”
“So who’s going to visit the old man?”
Fritz leaned back in his chair. “I delivered the bad news to the brother, now it’s your turn. It’s part of our job, and you better get used to it! Also, I think you have a better shot of forging a rapport with him. Just consider our last visit.”
“What are you going to do in the meantime?” Hannes asked.
“I’ve been following the only other lead we have so far. Mr. Ternheim did share one interesting fact with me, which may give our case some momentum: Guess who Ms. Ternheim bought her chic penthouse from three years ago?”
“You mean . . . It can’t be!”
“Oh, it can. The transaction was conducted by the same agent who was also spotted at the crime scene and who disappeared once we started poking around. Also interesting is the fact that the transaction didn’t go too smoothly.”
“Why, what happened?”
“Schneider had apparently pocketed the commission without paying taxes on it. He was caught because Ms. Ternheim had included these costs in her tax returns and the revenue service conducted a routine audit. They then took a closer look at Schneider. It turns out that he was regularly evading taxes.”
Hannes shook his head. “How stupid is this man? He ought to have expected that his clients would deduct his commission from their taxes. Eventually, someone would have caught on!”
“Well, usually when this happens, there’s an agreement between the real estate agent and the buyer. The agent reduces the fee, doesn’t issue an invoice, and doesn’t have to pay the taxes.”
“That may be, but Ms. Ternheim was obviously not interested in such a condition.”
“Schneider claimed the opposite, which Ms. Ternheim denied. Fortunately, she actually had an invoice; but unfortunately, that invoice was surprisingly low. In any case, Schneider was found guilty of tax evasion. He luckily escaped a prison sentence, but the fine was probably pretty hefty and put him into some serious financial trouble.”
“In other words, he rues the day he sold Ms. Ternheim her penthouse!”
“Not just that, he probably regrets meeting her at all. And that’s why I’m going to find him.”
THURSDAY AT NOON
Hannes felt uneasy as he left the city. He had little desire to see the crazy old painter or his paintings again, especially on his own. Since no unmarked vehicle was available, he was stuck with a patrol car. At least it meant Old Ternheim would immediately recognize him as a police officer and refrain from attacking.
Even if he didn’t really suspect Ben of having something to do with the leak, Hannes had called him a few minutes ago, anyway, only to get his voice mail.
It was ninety-one degrees outside, and the air-conditioning was on full blast. After speeding past the Olsen farm, Hannes abruptly slammed on his brakes and did a one-eighty. He thought it might be a good idea to pay the farm another visit. Since the press had already divulged the victim’s identity, he no longer had to withhold that piece of information.
Hohenberg Farm seemed deserted as he pulled up in front of the big barn. The sun beat down from its perch, and Hannes left the air-conditioned vehicle. He smelled manure and heard the animals in the barn. The front door opened just before he reached it, and Mrs. Olsen came out to meet him, wiping her calloused hands on her apron.
“I heard it this morning on the radio,” she said. She blushed and looked at him with big eyes. “When they mentioned the businesswoman had been found on a secluded beach, I immediately said to my husband: that must be the dead woman from our beach! Poor old painter. That means he found his own daughter dead. My God, how awful! I immediately sent my husband over in case he might need something. His daughter was the only one who took care of him.”
“Did your husband see Merlin? Because I’m on my way there.”
“Oh, that’s nice of you to look after him. No, he didn’t see him, but he visited about two hours ago. He put a basket with food by the door. Now he’s out on his combine harvester.”
“Mrs. Olsen, did you or your husband remember anything else? Ms. Ternheim unfor
tunately had very few acquaintances, so we don’t know much about the deceased yet.”
She wrinkled her forehead. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. In all these years, she only once bought eggs from us, and she was very curt when she did. Apparently, she was in a hurry.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, it must have been two or three months ago. Otherwise I just saw her pass by in her car.”
“How long would she normally stay with her father?”
“Usually not very long, maybe an hour. She mostly came on weekends. Not that I’m a busybody, but it’s very rare that someone comes out here. Not to mention that she also drove a flashy car. Lately, though, she was coming here more often and staying longer.”
“When did you last see her driving here?”
Mrs. Olsen thought hard. “It must have been last Wednesday morning, because the farm machinery salesman visited us shortly thereafter. We’re thinking of buying a new tractor. Yes, I’m sure of it. She was heading back just as he drove away.”
“So that means she didn’t drive by on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday?”
“I don’t think so. I was at the farm the entire time and would have noticed when she came or went. But of course I don’t sit by the window all day.”
If Ms. Ternheim had committed suicide—and with each passing hour, he was even less inclined to believe this—how would she have gotten to the beach? She definitely didn’t walk. There was no way she could have made it from the nearest town to the beach in a business suit and high heels. And where was her sports car?
“I just thought of something else,” Mrs. Olsen said. “I’ve told you before that it’s rare for people who don’t live in the area to come here. But I’ve repeatedly seen a young woman. Sometimes walking with a backpack, other times on a bike.”
“Hmm.” That didn’t strike him as too out of the ordinary. But in the absence of any other useful leads, he asked, “Does the woman behave strangely? When was the last time you saw her?”
“I’ve always wondered what she does out here. I saw her last Saturday. She was walking along the road with her backpack, heading toward the lighthouse.”
According to Maria’s calculations, Ms. Ternheim was presumably dispensed with on Saturday.
“Around what time?”
“Oh, sometime late in the morning. I’m not sure of the time, and I didn’t see her come back.”
“Did you ever speak to her? Do you remember what she looks like?”
“No, I’ve never spoken to her. She looks young and walks at a very lively pace. She’s slim, with long brown hair—I can’t remember much more about her.”
Hannes thanked Mrs. Olsen. He got back behind the wheel and dialed the number for directory assistance. Within a few seconds, he was connected to Lagussa’s main switchboard and then put through to Mr. Ternheim. The head secretary answered.
“Hello, Ms. Wagner, this is Officer Johannes Niehaus, Mr. Janssen’s colleague. This question might strike you as a little strange, but could you tell me if Ms. Ternheim’s car is parked in the company lot or anywhere nearby?”
“I don’t know. If the car’s here, then it would be in her reserved parking spot.”
“Could you please check to see if Ms. Ternheim’s car is parked in the lot?”
For a moment, there was silence. “I’ll send Irene down to the parking garage. What’s the best number to reach you?”
While Hannes waited for her call, he contacted Fritz. From the corner of his eye, he could see Mrs. Olsen looking through the window at him.
“Hello, Fritz, it’s Hannes. When you were at Ms. Ternheim’s penthouse last night, did anyone see her yellow sports car?”
“No, not that I remember. Why?”
Hannes quickly shared his thoughts and Mrs. Olsen’s observations.
“I see,” Fritz said. “We should’ve thought of that sooner. I guess I’m getting ripe for retirement. I’ll send a couple of colleagues over to her apartment to look around there again.”
“Have you found any trace of Schneider?”
“No, I just went to the doctor. I’ve been having problems with my back again today. I have to go. I’ll be on it shortly.”
“Just one more thing, Fritz,” Hannes said and informed him about the young woman Mrs. Olsen had told him about.
“Nothing seems to escape her attention. I’m not sure if it’s a lead or not. So the woman is often in the area . . . Maybe she just really likes that lonely stretch of beach. But it’s conceivable that she could provide us with some clues. Could Mrs. Olsen describe her to our sketch artist?”
“All she can remember is a slender body and long brown hair.”
“Then while you’re out there, keep an eye out for her. After all, it’s your specialty.”
Fritz hung up. Hannes had been so busy with the case these last few hours that he had completely forgotten about Fritz’s health problems. His condition had been deteriorating over the last few days, even if he did his best to hide the pain. His face had grown more gaunt and ashen with each passing day, and he appeared to be losing weight. Hopefully, he could hold out until the case was solved.
Hannes’s cell phone rang. “Johannes Niehaus.”
“Hello, Mr. Niehaus. It’s Irene Maler from Lagussa. I enjoyed our lovely chat earlier today.”
He rolled his eyes. Not only did Ms. Wagner think it beneath her to go check the parking lot, but she had also delegated the return call.
“That’s nice of you to call back so quickly. Have you checked on Ms. Ternheim’s car?”
“Of course! I’m glad to help the investigation. At least it gives me something to do other than type up letters.”
“And? Is the car there?”
“No, of course not,” she said.
In the background, he could hear Ms. Wagner scolding her.
“Unfortunately, I have to go now.” She sounded annoyed. “There’s some extremely important correspondence waiting for me.” She lowered her voice. “But maybe I could help more with the investigation this evening . . .”
“That’s really nice of you, but right now there’s a lot going on. I’ll get back to you if I still need you to do something for me. Thanks, and see you soon!”
Hannes hung up. He had always been particularly bad at saying no. He started the engine, waved to Mrs. Olsen—who had still not given up her seat by the window—and turned onto the road leading to the lighthouse. Just as the old structure appeared around the curve, his cell phone rang again.
“Fritz sent us to Ms. Ternheim’s place to search for her car. It’s a yellow sports car, right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Hannes said and pulled to the side of the road. “Did you find it?”
“No. We looked in the garage and surrounding streets. No vehicle fit that description.”
Hannes thanked his colleague for the information and shifted into first gear. He wondered why the car had disappeared.
As he pulled up, Hannes noticed that the basket from the Olsens wasn’t by the door of Merlin’s dilapidated house. Nothing in the clearing had changed since his last visit, though the book was no longer on the porch table.
Hannes wanted to get this visit over with quickly. He knocked on the door. He had deliberately parked in front of the house so the old man would see the police car. He was about to knock a second time when he heard a key turn in the lock. A moment later, the door opened, and Helene Ternheim’s father stood before him.
He seemed a little more hunched over than before, but otherwise nothing about his appearance had changed. His woolen cap was still pushed to the side; his threadbare corduroys flapped against his thin legs. He also wore a tattered wool sweater not meant for the summer heat. His clothing and face were dotted by small splashes of color, and the brush in his clawlike hand explained what the old man had been doing.
Merlin stared at Hannes. His gaze wandered between the green eye and the blue eye.
“Forgive me for ambushing you. I’m sure y
ou remember me. I’m a police officer and was here on Tuesday with my colleague. I’d like to discuss something with you—calmly. Shall we sit here in the sun for a minute, Mr. Ternheim?”
Hannes deliberately addressed him by his given name and pointed to the chair on the porch. Merlin shuffled over to it and downed a half glass of vodka. After placing it on the table, he stared ahead at an imaginary point.
Hannes looked at Merlin’s large birthmark, and he remembered Fritz telling him that Merlin’s son also had a birthmark under his right eye. Did the murdered Ms. Ternheim inherit something similar? Hannes could not remember.
He sat diagonally across from Merlin on the porch and leaned against the rotten railing. “Mr. Ternheim, I’m sure you can guess why I came here. It’s about the dead woman you found Sunday on the beach. Do you know who it was?”
The old man only stared into the distance.
“Your son Christian reported his sister, in other words your daughter Helene, missing yesterday. Unfortunately, the dead woman was your daughter. I’m very sorry, Mr. Ternheim.”
There was still no reaction.
“There are some things we don’t understand. Your daughter had bleached hair, which surprised your son. We also found traces of a sedative in her blood, and her car has disappeared. There was one more anomaly: your daughter had recently gotten a tattoo on her left forearm.”
Finally Hannes had his attention! The old man turned his head and looked into his eyes. His facial muscles twitched. But when he remained silent, Hannes gave up all hope of getting him to talk.
“Does this tattoo sound familiar to you? And did your daughter have it for a while? The last time she visited you was on Wednesday of last week, correct?” Hannes realized he was getting nowhere. “We can’t make out what the tattoo is supposed to represent, but we believe it’s a group of six or seven numbers.”
The old man’s eyes widened, and his right hand was trembling so much that small drops of paint flew from the brush.
“Mr. Ternheim! We need your help, otherwise this investigation will go nowhere! You know something, I can see it. I’m begging you. This is about your daughter.”
Time Heals No Wounds (A Baltic Sea Crime Novel) Page 13
