Time Heals No Wounds (A Baltic Sea Crime Novel)

by Hendrik Falkenberg

  “How can you be so sure if you didn’t see his face?” asked Fritz.

  “No idea. It’s just a gut feeling, probably because of his posture. Anyway, it couldn’t have been Ben.”

  “That means it was someone else from the group, if they’re the same documents,” Fritz said.

  “It doesn’t necessarily mean it was someone from Ben’s group,” Hannes said. “Several groups have access to the forum and archive. Damn it! I of course forgot the piece of paper with the log-in information. Without the password, I can’t get on.”

  “Try www.truth-about-lagussa.de,” said Fritz. “According to the video from last night, all the information is supposed to be posted on the site.”

  “Oh, that’s right.” Hannes typed in the address and the page loaded. “That actually all looks very familiar to me. Anna, take a look, please.”

  She held the laptop in her lap and concentrated on the screen, opening file after file.

  “Well,” she finally said. “I recognize some of this—photos, for example, and then this document here and the delivery receipt.” She turned the computer so the detectives could see the screen. “But I didn’t look too closely at the papers in the office, and it’s been a while.”

  “Hmm, so maybe, maybe not,” Fritz said.

  “I don’t think so,” said Hannes. “There was nothing about this elsewhere on the Internet, and the documents on the site come from a variety of sources and whistle-blowers. No one person could have had all of them without first downloading them from the site.”

  “But why would someone from this network give Ms. Ternheim the documents if there was already a plan to expose these things?” asked Anna.

  “That’s exactly it,” said Hannes. “I don’t think it was someone from Ben’s group! Mr. Ternheim received an anonymous warning last night. Maybe the same person provided Ms. Ternheim with the information—either because the person read in the forum that a protest was in the works and he just wanted to warn Ms. Ternheim, or because he wanted to take action against Lagussa, just not publicly.”

  “Maybe blackmail?” Anna said.

  “This is all wild speculation,” Fritz said. “Of course we should consider all angles, but we have a prime suspect we need to focus on now. Whatever role von Wittenberg played is beside the point.”

  “Who’s going to take care of Socks?” asked Anna.

  Hannes sighed and looked at Fritz. “I’ll have to take him . . .”

  “Absolutely not,” Fritz said. “We can’t take care of a dog now too. Ms. Stahl?”

  “I guess,” she said. “I can watch him today, but you’ll have to take over tonight, Hannes.”

  “Agreed,” he said. Then his phone began vibrating on the table, and he picked it up. He listened to the caller for a minute without speaking. “Are you absolutely certain?” he asked and then thanked the caller. “I don’t think we should focus just on Ben. That was a colleague from the federal police. I asked her to look into the flight info for Merlin’s dealer.”

  “I completely forgot about that guy,” Fritz said.

  “There’s no doubt about it. Laval lied to me. He returned from the US last week on Friday and not, as he claimed, the day before yesterday.”

  “Here!” Fritz slammed two photos down on Hannes’s desk back at the station. The two of them sat side by side and leaned over the close-ups. “The left image shows Helene Ternheim’s arm, the right photo was taken last night of Christian Ternheim’s arm.”

  “What happened to your arm?” asked Hannes, pointing to a giant bandage.

  “Oh, nothing. My neighbor has a small cat. I can’t stand those things. But the neighbor accepted a package for me, and when I picked it up, that fur ball sunk its claws into my arm. Now you know why I prefer dogs . . . But back to the Ternheims, Hannes.”

  Hannes grinned, then grabbed the two pictures to take a closer look. “We can only decipher three numbers off Ms. Ternheim’s. The first is a four, the next two are illegible. Then come an eight and a two. And the last we’re not sure about.”

  “That’s right,” said Fritz. “The first four numbers are clearly visible on Mr. Ternheim, a four, a one, a three, and an eight. The other two aren’t very clear.”

  “So the four and the eight are in the same position on both arms,” Hannes said. “And here: the second number on Ms. Ternheim could be a one or maybe a seven.”

  “And the fifth number on Mr. Ternheim resembles a two,” said Fritz. “It appears it’s the same sequence. The question is, what’s the last number, and why do both victims have it?”

  “And the next question is why Mr. Ternheim had money crammed down his throat. Maybe Anna was right, and it’s the result of blackmail?”

  “Possible,” Fritz said.

  “At least it’s now definitely clear that Ms. Ternheim was the victim of a violent crime,” said Hannes. “What does the senior medical examiner have to say about Maria’s assumption that Mr. Ternheim was also drugged with a sedative?”

  Fritz moved with a groan. “Still nothing. You’re visiting Maria at noon. The results should be available then.”

  “And what do I do until then?”

  “Grab a car and drive out to see Old Ternheim. Someone has to inform him of his son’s death.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because I have a doctor’s appointment. After that, I’d like to keep an eye on our colleagues to make sure the search for Ben is done properly. I don’t want him to get away again. We should get a move on. The boss called me last night. He wanted to give us backup when he learned of the second death. It took me a while, but I convinced him to hold off. I explained that having to bring additional colleagues up to speed would be more of a hindrance. Steffen gives us until Monday. If we haven’t solved the case by then, Isabelle and Per will be joining us.”

  “Fine, I’ll head out to the country,” Hannes said.

  “Here!” Fritz pushed the photographs over to him. “Show Old Ternheim these photos, perhaps he can make sense of them. And tell him how his son died. Perhaps it’ll mean something to him.”

  Hannes felt an inner restlessness as he drove along the winding roads. He scanned the scenery as if Ben might emerge at any moment. He was still shaken by the morning’s events and racked his brain for a plausible explanation of why Ben’s fingerprints were on the tattoo machine.

  At the old lighthouse, he stopped and got out of the car. The idyllic hilly landscape stretched as far as the eye could see, and the morning sun warmed his face. He walked around the old walls and sat down with his back against the warmed stones. Waves gently lapped the shore below, and a large ferry cruised along the horizon.

  Hannes closed his eyes and concentrated on the sounds around him. No voices, no cars. He was surrounded by the faint roar of the ocean, the melodious chirping of small songbirds, the screech of the seagulls, and the slight rustle of the wind in the branches of a birch tree. The air tasted salty and sweet, and Hannes wished he could sit there forever. The chaos of the day gradually faded, and when he opened his eyes twenty minutes later, he felt refreshed and clearheaded.

  He walked back to his vehicle with renewed energy—because Mrs. Meier was off on weekends, he’d managed to score a brand-new Audi—and headed down the narrow path that led to the old man’s cottage. Just before the road entered the small forest, there was another brief view of the beach below. Hannes slammed on the brakes.

  In the distance, a solitary figure sat perched on a small boulder looking out over the sea. Hannes got out of the car and stood at the edge of the cliff. He instantly recognized the hunched back, staff, and woolen cap.

  Hannes locked the car door and looked for a safe way to descend to the beach. He couldn’t see a path and wondered how the old man had gotten down there. He decided to walk a little farther until he came to the edge of the forest, which stretched to the cliff. Various storms had broken the branches of the crooked pines, and Hannes had to climb over torn-up roots and felled trunks. He stumbled upon a narr
ow path with logs serving as steps which led down to the beach.

  Hannes strolled across the sand to the small rocks and stopped beside the old man staring at the water. Lying in the sand beside him were wax pastels and a sketchbook, the paper untouched, and a silver flask.

  “Hello, Mr. Ternheim,” Hannes said.

  Ternheim looked him in the eye, nodded, and turned back to the water. Was this really the same man who used forced labor at his company and had supported the rise of the Nazi Party? Who had tested his drugs on prisoners?

  Hannes sat down beside Ternheim, crossed his legs, and looked at the water. “A beautiful place.”

  The old man nodded.

  Hannes looked at his cane and ran his fingers over the carved figures. “Do they mean anything?”

  Old Ternheim carefully laid the cane across his knees. His wrinkled, clawlike fingers ran almost lovingly along the notches. “Life,” he whispered. Hannes had to lean in to hear him. “My life . . .”

  He spoke! Hannes was shocked. The old man continued to caress the carvings, as if doing so brought forth memories. A stunned Hannes stared at him. He had done it! The old guy had finally spoken.

  “Your life?” Hannes asked. “These figures represent your life?”

  Old Ternheim looked him in the eye. Hannes shuddered. His eyes didn’t seem to correspond with the rest of his body: they seemed simultaneously young and old. The intense blue of the iris merged with the deep-black pupils, which flashed with small golden flecks of light.

  The old man grabbed Hannes’s hand and pulled it toward the bottom of the cane. His touch was unpleasant and reminded him of dried fruit. He placed Hannes’s index finger on the lowest notch, then led him slowly and gently to the other end of the cane.

  “From then till now,” he said. His vocal cords appeared to be completely out of practice, and he had great difficulty producing the sounds.

  Hannes nodded. “So you carved different episodes of your life into the wood?”

  For a moment there was silence. Ternheim looked out over the vast sea. “What was. And what is.”

  Hannes looked at the upper end of the cane, which the carved figures had already almost reached. Not too much space was left for more moments. He leaned forward and inspected one of the symbols more closely. Even if it was an older and already somewhat faded carving, Hannes could clearly make out a swastika.

  “Mr. Ternheim, I bring you more sad news. Last night your son was found dead during a charity gala. He was murdered, and we’re sure the death of your daughter was not an accident.”

  He let Old Ternheim absorb this. He sat completely still for a while and then sighed. His head fell forward; his eyes closed. He raised his head and looked over at Hannes. The golden flecks of light in his pupils had disappeared.

  “How?” he asked.

  “Both were slipped a sedative. Helene was drowned, and Christian choked to death on a bunch of twenty-euro notes which were crammed down his throat.” Hannes felt it best to speak bluntly now. “Their left forearms were tattooed,” he said, unfolding the printouts of the photographs. “Please take a look at these photos. The left image is of Helene’s arm, the right is Christian’s. It’s a six-digit number, and we assume the first five digits are: four, one, three, eight, and two. The last number is indecipherable. Do these numbers mean anything to you?”

  Ternheim stared at the photos in silence. A tear fell onto the paper. “Crime and punishment,” he whispered. “Crime and punishment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  The old man did not answer.

  “Mr. Ternheim, your children have been murdered, and I want to find out who did this. You have to explain what you mean. Are you talking about what your company did in the Nazi era? If so, what do Helene and Christian have to do with it? They weren’t even born then.”

  “The past . . . casts shadows.” After looking a second time at the two photographs, Heinrich Ternheim folded them and handed them back to Hannes. “Maria and Josef,” he whispered.

  “What do they have to do with it?”

  “Maria and Josef. Look for them!”

  Hannes scratched his head. What did Jesus’s parents have to do with this case?

  Suddenly the old man grabbed the sketchbook and a black pastel. With quick strokes, the image of a barn appeared before Hannes’s eyes. He watched as the crippled but astonishingly nimble fingers sketched a car half hidden inside the barn. Hannes shook his head. Ternheim then grabbed a yellow pastel and colored in the car. Hannes looked at the drawing. The vehicle was low to the ground, and he immediately remembered the sports car.

  “Is this your daughter’s car? Do you know where it is?”

  “Crime and punishment,” he said again and pulled a knife out of his pocket. He tucked his cane between his legs and began carving another figure at the top. Hannes watched him carefully sculpt the wood.

  Hannes got to his feet. At that moment, the old man’s hands hesitated, and he turned to him. He fumbled around in his pocket and pulled out a photo. The terror-stricken eyes of an emaciated and pale young woman in gray-and-blue striped pajamas peered at Hannes. He instantly recognized her. He had seen a photo of her three days before and had found her extremely attractive but couldn’t remember her name now.

  “That’s the woman who’s been missing for a week! Where did you get this photo? Who is she?”

  “Merle . . .” he said. “Young and innocent. In great danger . . .” He gathered his art materials and walked away.

  Hannes quickly called Fritz and informed him of the latest development.

  “That’s very interesting,” said Fritz. “I’ll let Marcel know immediately. He should find out if there’s any connection between Merle von Hohenstein and the Ternheims. And you said she looks like a prisoner in the photo?”

  “I’m not sure, but she seems terrified and is in a room with no windows. Apart from a bed, I couldn’t see any other furnishings. Something’s definitely not right! We need to find her!”

  “At least she’s probably still alive. I’ll tell Marcel that this missing-person report needs to be given immediate priority. Did you keep the photo?”

  “Of course!”

  “Then come back to the station and give it to Marcel. Why didn’t you grill the old guy to find out where he got the photo and what he has to do with this woman?”

  “You know he’s not one to talk. Besides, I tried, but he—”

  “Okay, okay. Just come back to the station.”

  As Hannes walked back to the car, he wondered what crime and punishment, Maria and Josef, and Merle in danger had to do with the case and how it all fit together. He tossed the small drawing of the yellow sports car onto the passenger seat and started the engine. The car bounced along the dirt road, and Hannes accelerated after turning at the lighthouse. The murders have something to do with Lagussa’s past, Hannes thought. But what role did the old man’s children play in all of this? Maybe it wasn’t about Helene and Christian. Maybe they were just pawns meant to get at the old man. But that also didn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t the killer just target the actual criminal? Merlin lived such an isolated existence that it would be easy to surprise him. Maybe the murders were meant to be an attack on the company. Maybe the two Ternheims knew too much. But how did Merle von Hohenstein fit into this story?

  A slow-moving tractor appeared on the road and Hannes was forced to slow down. The stretch of road was too narrow and winding for him to pass. Mr. Olsen turned around and waved, then stopped the tractor and got out. Hannes did the same.

  “Hello, Mr. Olsen! No rest for the weary, huh?”

  The farmer laughed and wiped his hands on his pants before he shook hands with him. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had a true weekend. The days of the week don’t matter to us. It’s the weather that counts.”

  “Well, you’ve been pretty lucky with the weather.”

  “I wouldn’t say that! The heat isn’t good for the plants, and the bad weather last weekend de
stroyed part of our crop. They’re predicting another thunderstorm for tomorrow, so we still have a lot to get done today. Hey, I was listening to the radio this morning. Is it true that the hermit’s son was killed too?”

  “That’s correct. The company’s now left without a CEO, unless the old man sees fit to take the helm again.”

  Olsen shook his head. “What drama! Within days, an entire family is destroyed. I can’t even begin to imagine what it must be like to learn that your own kids have been murdered.” His eyes fell on the small drawing in the seat. “Did Merlin draw a picture of our beautiful countryside?”

  “No, no, that’s just . . . Hold on, do you recognize the building?”

  “Of course! There aren’t very many barns around here, and the drawing’s very detailed. That’s Mats Petersen’s barn. When he died, we bought the fields from his heirs. The buildings, however, have been abandoned for years.”

  Hannes remembered his first visit to the Olsens’ farm. “You said on Tuesday that this road leads behind the lighthouse to an old farm. Is that the farm in this painting?”

  “Yes, I’m absolutely cert—”

  Hannes jumped in the car. “Thank you, you’ve been a huge help!” he said, shifted into gear, and took off. The lighthouse whizzed past him on the left, and a few yards later the asphalt was so torn up that Hannes was forced to a crawl. Fields extended into the distance on either side of him, separated by short hedgerows. After cresting a small hill, he saw three buildings standing close to one another. The road ended at the entrance to the old farm. A rusty gate blocked the driveway. Hannes got out and opened the gate. He stepped into the yard and looked around. The farm was the complete opposite of the Olsens’ tidy place. Nature was already reclaiming the area. Sprawling plants covered the ground and climbed up the walls of the buildings. The roof of the smallest building had already collapsed. Bits of brick were scattered everywhere. The main building still seemed reasonably intact, but Hannes was convinced that even when it was inhabited, this farm was no jewel. The windows were covered in dirt, and everything seemed gray and unwelcoming.