“Benno?” Her voice was squeaky, very thin. “Is that you?”
And then he felt her strong arms grabbing him. She pulled his face down to hers and covered it with kisses. “You can’t just run away from me. Don’t run away! “She reached under his shirt and put her hands on his back, dug her fingers into his skin. He did not cry out. He let himself be dragged to the car, pressed down on the back seat, which smelled of Rasmus and was full of shopping bags. Then she was on top of him, around him, tugging at his shirt and his pants. “May I?” she whispered.
He knew that this would only be a short phase, that Carolin would later hate herself for her weakness and greed, and that this hatred would be eventually directed against him.
He knew all this, but at that moment it didn’t matter. Perhaps she was crazy, but he had never felt so loved.
She clutched him, buried her face in his neck. “May I?” she begged. “I want you in me.” Her face was wet, whether from tears or snow, he couldn’t tell. “May I?”
“Oh, I’m so happy that you made it home safely,” Mrs. Schmied greeted them. “I thought I would have to call the police. After what happened to little Sybille.”
Carolin’s hand was still in his, her face relaxed, flushed. “We really need to apologize to you,” she said. “We weren’t able to get out of the city. An accident in the old town, everything was gridlocked.”
The lie came so easily to her. It was credible too, because Carolin didn’t even try to come up with a better one. Her voice was casual, solicitous, and not interested in the widow’s opinion. Benno’s pant legs were wet, Carolin’s were stained. And yet he couldn’t help but wonder about Carolin’s response. What had Benno told her yesterday? He had dodged a deer? How many lies did they tell each other in a day? In a week?
“Why? What’s happened to the girl?” he asked.
Tim ran toward them happily, Rasmus whimpered softly. Benno stroked the broad head of the animal, and the dog let him. Manfred stood up from the kitchen table and held out his large hand. He had taken off his suit jacket, wearing a winter sweater with a pattern of snowflakes.
“Hello,” he said. In the other hand he was holding a half-eaten cookie. Rasmus turned his attention away from Carolin and focused with his good eye on the cookie, sat down in front of Manfred and looked silently up at him.
“Here you go.” Manfred grinned as the dog tenderly took the cookie from his hand and then gulped it down. “We are friends,” he said. Indeed, the devil dog looked quite tame in Manfred’s presence.
Benno turned around again to the widow Schmied. “And Sybille?”
The widow sighed deeply and cleared her throat. “She was found this afternoon in the forest. Half-naked.” She paused and looked around with a mixture of sadness, anger and satisfaction. The girl had been hitchhiking home from Lübeck—even though her parents had strictly forbidden it—and came to a few hours later in a wooded area near Wengsten. She had no idea how she got there. Or so it had been told to Mrs. Schmied by Mr. Witte, the mailman, with the urgent request not say a word to anyone. The parents were too ashamed.
“If you ask me, she brought this on herself,” Mrs. Schmied said. From the Antlers’ neighbors she had heard that the girl had taken drugs with the driver. “I’m not saying that I wanted this to happen, but look at the girls nowadays. They run around as though they want to get assaulted.” Whether Sybille had been raped, she couldn’t say, but the evidence pointed to it.
“Awful,” Carolin said. “Just awful. We need to pray for them.”
When Benno walked toward his office to put down his bag, he saw light behind the half-open door, and a moment later Mr. Heintz came out with a slip of paper in his hand.
“Oh,” he said when he saw Benno.
“I made him come over,” the widow said quickly. “We were worried.”
“Sure,” Benno said hesitantly, and looked at the paper in Heintz’ hand. Why hadn’t the old man joined them yet? They had been home for ten or fifteen minutes already. What was he doing in the office?
“What is this?”
“I was looking for your work number.”
“The phonebook is in the hallway.”
“Really? I didn’t notice it.” Without another word, Heintz walked past Benno and joined Mrs. Schmied.
“Would you like to drink a glass of wine with us?” Carolin took off her coat and Benno could see that her black shirt was buttoned the wrong way. “Tim, shouldn’t you be in bed?”
“Oh, thank you. But we must go home,” the widow said.
“But it’s only seven. And I don’t have to go to school tomorrow,” Tim begged.
“Thank you again.” Carolin’s voice was still hoarse. She closed the door behind the neighbors, leaned against it, smiling.
Tim said, “Can we make mulled wine?”
She nodded, but winced when there was a knock on the door behind her. It was Mr. Heintz, who almost pushed her out of the way and approached Benno, as if he were in his own home.
“Can I have a word with you?”
“But you were just . . . maybe tomorrow morning,” Benno said.
“Only takes a minute,” the old man said and walked casually through the apartment and into Benno’s office. Benno had no other choice but to follow after him.
“What’s this?” he asked sharply, after closing the door behind him. Mr. Heintz waved his question away, as if it were a waste of time.
“Where did you get that?” he asked, pointing at the cardboard sign that Benno had leaned against the wall the night before. The King Must Die.
“What business of yours is that?”
Heintz seemed not to have heard the question. “When did you find it?”
“Last night.”
“Here at the house? Or inside the house?”
“No.”
“Good, excellent. That is excellent.” For a moment he seemed lost in thought. He was still wearing a suit, including a red, plaid shirt. “So?”
“What?” Benno’s voice broke. He was at the end of his patience. “It was kind of you to take care of Tim, but . . .”
“Have you even looked at this?”
“I can read.”
Heintz looked at him sharply. “Yesterday, right?”
“Yes, at the Miracle Oak.”
“What were you doing there? Who else did you see there? Something evil is coming our way.”
“Get out!” Benno opened the door, and to his surprise the old man left the office without another word. With as much determination as he had entered the house, he went to the entrance door, opened and closed it gently behind him.
“What was that?” Carolin had opened a bottle of Bordeaux and poured it into a saucepan. The smell of wine and spices spread throughout the kitchen and living room.
“I have no idea.” Before Benno joined Tim and Carolin, he went back to his office one more time and picked up the cardboard sign. Last night it had been wet, and now it was wavy, the black letters had run. After today’s events—the car, Holger’s remarks about Irina’s murder, his row with Carolin—he had completely forgotten about it. ‘Something evil is coming our way.’ What did that mean?
When he came back into the kitchen, he felt that the last shred of this evening’s feeling of security was gone. He thought of Sybille Antler, whom he had wanted to talk to just a few days ago. Other things had occupied him—the identification of the body, the Christmas party—and now he wouldn’t be able to ask her for quite some time. In the summer the girl had found Irina Sobieski, and now she had fallen victim to rape. Was the killer after her? Because she had discovered something on or near the body? Did the killer live in the village, as Holger had suggested? Or in Lübeck? But why hadn’t he killed the girl?
What had Heintz to do with all this? And why had he behaved so strangely tonight? Was the old man more than just a carpenter?
Benno shook his head and looked around the brightly lit apartment. All the lights and lamps made the darkness in front of the
ir house completely black. Whoever might be standing outside the windows would remain unseen.
The next morning Benno and Carolin spent in their pajamas. Tim and Rasmus were outside, romping through the snow. Benno had never seen the dog so alive, he seemed like an entirely different animal. He chased after Tim’s snowballs and then looked in vain for them on the ground.
Although Benno had only drunk a little mulled wine, he felt hungover. The cardboard sign looked just old, ugly and stupid this morning, and he threw it into the kitchen trashcan. The newspaper reported nothing of Sybille Antler’s abduction.
Carolin had gotten out of bed before him and wrote Christmas cards to friends and relatives in Berlin. They wouldn’t arrive in time for the holidays. Benno made more coffee and went into his study, looked thoughtfully at the pristine garden behind the house. Although he had now been living almost half a year in this house, he had never ventured there. It seemed impossible to access the garden from their side of the house, or maybe only the widow could get to it. But he had seen neither Mr. Heintz nor Manfred outside his window, and the garden was largely overgrown. The old Christensen had never cut the grass.
Benno had typed two pages of his article, but they’d been lying on his desk for weeks now, and looked at him alternately stern and disappointed. Hecht had been right—there wasn’t anything newsworthy in Strathleven. Benno would have to disappoint the pastor.
After lunch, which consisted of all sorts of leftovers and old rolls, Benno left the house under the pretext of needing to run some final errands, got into the car and drove over to the old clinic. The death of Friedrich’s father couldn’t have left any permanent traces, and yet he felt he had to visit the building again.
To his surprise, the side door of the building was locked, and the bike chain at the main gate had been replaced with a proper padlock. Benno trudged through the snow around the walls of the clinic, but the only other gate, a service entrance, was blocked off.
When he came to the east side of the property, he stopped abruptly. According to Wehrke’s description, Friedrich had hung himself from the main balcony. Now a white sheet hung from the balustrade on the second floor, and shifted uncomfortably in the wind. The black, untidy letters read The King Must Die!
The lights in the house were already on when Benno drove into the yard. Two cars were parked there. Wehrke had to have guests.
“Sorry to bother you,” Benno said, as the door opened. Wehrke wore a sand-colored suit and held a glass of wine in his hand.
“It’s you. Come on in.”
“I really don’t want to disturb you, but I wanted to ask you a question.” Benno entered, took off his wet shoes and placed them next to a pair of expensive-looking leather boots.
“You’re not disturbing me at all,” Wehrke assured him and led him into the living room. A man in white trousers and a red knit-sweater was sitting on the couch and greeted Benno with a nod. “A friend of mine from Hamburg, Thomas Hutter.” The man stood up and shook hands with Benno. He might have been in his forties, and wore a neatly trimmed beard and gold-rimmed glasses. His voice was deep and pleasant and had a strong Hamburg accent. “Nice to meet you.” He could have been a radio announcer.
“I just came back from the clinic,” Benno said, taking the glass of wine Wehrke offered him. The room was lit by only a few lamps, and in one corner stood a Christmas tree. It wasn’t a spruce, but something that looked like an oversized coat rack. Chromed metal rods stuck out in all directions, and were furnished with strangely thin, silver needles.
Benno sniffed his wine and took a tentative sip. The liquid spread over his tongue, and although Benno understood little of wine, he realized that compared to this, the Bordeaux he bought at Johannsen’s store was pure vinegar.
“California Syrah. Here, of course, people still turn up their noses.”
“Oh,” Benno said, trying to find a suitable facial expression, but only managed a grimace. “I went over to the old clinic again, after what you told me about Friedrich’s death.” He couldn’t possibly talk about wine now.
Wehrke frowned. “You don’t think . . .”
“If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, no, no, of course not,” protested Benno, all the more because it was a lie. “The last time I was there the building was full of clothes. All the rooms were . . . full of clothes and not even moldy.”
“What clinic are we talking about?” asked Wehrke’s guest.
“Oh, I’m sorry. The old mental hospital,” Benno said.
Hutter looked at Wehrke. “Do I know it?”
He shook his head. “Nothing special. A stupid old box. Creepy family history. What you saw,” he turned back to Benno, “were the remains of the ill-fated attempt to use the old hospital as a transit camp for refugees.”
“Refugees?”
“Asylum seekers,” Wehrke explained. “You can imagine how people responded here, when they showed up in the village.”
Benno shook his head. “Not really.”
“They locked their doors. Were afraid that the strangers would steal something. Everything.”
“When was that?” Hutter asked. He poured himself more wine and sat back down on the sofa.
Wehrke followed him and offered Benno an armchair. “Last winter. The camp in Lauenburg was overcrowded, and the state was looking at other options. Hostels were converted, and finally they came across the clinic. And then people came from all over the world into the Schleswig-Holstein winter. Didn’t have winter coats, sweaters, or boots. Had no money, no one to look after them. What you saw might have been donations.”
Benno nodded. “What happened then?”
“There were cases of syphilis, then lice, and then the clinic, just like before, had to close. After only five weeks, it was all over.”
“An epidemic?”
Wehrke shrugged. “Let’s say the sanitary conditions were lacking.”
Benno was silent and took a sip of wine. “The people here weren’t happy about the refugees?”
“Of course not,” said Wehrke. “Imagine nearly a hundred people from Africa, Asia and the Middle East, strolling into Johannsen’s store and walking along the aisles. The shelves are filled and they have no money. Everyone in the village stares at them.”
“Was there any violence?”
“Wasn’t necessary,” Wehrke said ambiguously. “Didn’t stay long enough.” Then he grinned broadly. “Strathleven is certainly not a village full of angels, but people immediately started collecting clothes for the refugees. Friedrich had a large container on his lot and delivered the packages himself. Nevertheless, that doesn’t mean that people weren’t pleased when the refugees were gone.”
“The sheet,” Benno said suddenly.
“The sheet?” echoed Wehrke.
“With which the old Friedrich hanged himself.”
“Yes?”
“It was hanging from the balcony? Above the main entrance?”
Wehrke nodded. “And?”
Benno told him of his find. After he had finished, there was a sudden silence in the room. It was so quiet that Benno heard the refrigerator spring to life in the kitchen. “You know what that means? ‘The king must die’?”
Wehrke looked at him probingly, at least Benno had the feeling that his host’s expression became more serious, suspicious even. Hutter, however, seemed perplexed, amused maybe. He looked at his clock.
“Do you have to leave? I’m sorry I just barged in.” Then he asked, “Is this connected with the Twelve Nights? Two days ago I found two dead ravens tied to the Miracle Oak.”
Wehrke also looked at his clock and nodded. “We have to make a show,” he said apologetically. “The king must die,” he repeated. “Two dead ravens?” Then he shook his head. “Someone is showing very little sensitivity.”
He saw Benno to the door. The shoes seemed to be even more soaked than before, and Benno reluctantly headed back out into the cold. He liked how quiet Wehrke’s house was, loved the absence of toys
and dog hair and cheap Bordeaux. It was the absence of things that allowed him to breathe.
“Keep me posted” Wehrke said. He was still standing in the doorway, when Benno had reached the county road and turned toward the old school. He needed to get back to his own life with toys, dog hair and cheap Bordeaux. At least the car heater worked.
14
Carolin was ready to go to a final rehearsal for Christmas Mass and kissed him quickly goodbye. After Benno had put on dry socks—thick gray socks from Berlin, three pairs for ten marks—he, Tim, and Rasmus took a stroll through the village.
They went to the former mill pond, which now consisted of a water hole for the Grevenhorster fire department. The little stream winding through Strathleven was partially frozen. Only distant children’s voices reached them, the streets lay deserted. Snowmen stood sweating in front of decorated windows, sleds rested unloved in front yards. Benno had made Tim promise to keep Rasmus on his leash at all times, even if the dog wouldn’t leave his side anyway. The episode at Friedrich’s dealership still gave him pause. He was convinced that Rasmus would never hurt Tim, but in regard to strangers he wasn’t so sure.
Yet today, the dog behaved perfectly normal. He sniffed eagerly at lampposts and hydrants, leaving yellow snow behind for the other dogs in the village. A group of children came running across a yard, stopped in the street to look at Benno and Tim, and then ran away laughing.
“Your friends?” asked Benno.
Tim shook his head. “They don’t talk to me.”
Benno was taken aback. “Why?”
The boy shrugged.
“Have you guys quarreled?”
“No.”
“And what about Daniel and Jens?”
Tim didn’t answer. He stared straight ahead and didn’t even notice that Rasmus had stopped to lift his leg. He pulled impatiently at the leash and Rasmus lowered his leg and trotted after the boy without having relieved himself. “They have other friends now.”
Knives, Forks, Scissors, Flames Page 12
