Hannes had to steady himself. He hadn’t expected this. That didn’t sound like the Thomas Beck he had gotten to know over the past few weeks.
“He must have done a complete one-eighty,” Mr. Jäger continued. “He would have condemned a group like New Way as the work of the Devil. That said, he became a little more relaxed just before leaving. After he met Christine, his behavior changed. She sang in the choir. They quickly became friends, and he started to distance himself from his more radical views because of her. Then there was a new problem. There were rumors they were more than friends, which was too liberal for some people. So we asked him to stay away from her. He had fallen for her, though, and she had an admittedly positive influence on him. It seems from your description of Thomas that his wife continues to exert a strong influence.”
“Conceivably,” Hannes said. “Mrs. Beck is warm and friendly. Still, I’m surprised. Did he anger anyone in the community?”
“He stepped on the toes of anyone who didn’t get out of his way fast enough. The atmosphere was very tense, until Christine entered the picture and he changed his behavior. But he’d already burned a lot of bridges.”
“Did the atheists stop protesting then?”
“The incidents did taper off. We haven’t had any problems since.”
Hannes thanked him for his insightful information and paced up and down the hallway. Mr. Beck had upset both moderate believers and atheists with his strict interpretations of the Bible’s teachings. Then he seemed to displease some members of the community with his surprisingly liberal interpretation of celibacy. He ran hot and cold, a mix of emotions. He seemed completely transformed today, advocating tolerance of different lifestyles. Was it possible for someone to change that much in only a few years? Was his wife’s influence that far-reaching? The doubts gnawed at Hannes until he entertained a completely new possibility. Was Mr. Beck’s change of heart only for show? Was he actually pursuing a different path—a truly fiendish one?
He swung open the door to the conference room and summed up his recent phone call to his colleagues.
“So you think Beck has only been pretending to be tolerant but is in reality a fanatic? That he’s the one who killed these people?” asked Federsen. “We’re about to interrogate our second main suspect, and you want to dish up this nonsense?”
“I’m not saying Bach and Meister are innocent, but we did consider the possibility that the two of them might have had an accomplice in New Way.”
“I think it’s bullshit. Beck doesn’t have fanatical tendencies. And if he used to, he’s changed. He’s pitted himself against the Schweigers, who’ve been gunning for a much more religious group. How does that fit into your theory?”
Steffen Lauer spoke up. “That would certainly be odd, but it’s worth a closer look.”
“I’ll go see Mrs. Beck now,” said Hannes. “She’s home alone. She’s not participating in the choir getaway. Maybe I can get her to open up. She seemed reluctant to speak yesterday on the phone when I asked about their former parish.”
Lauer agreed. “All right, who wants to go with Niehaus?”
Hannes looked around. Everyone wanted to watch Meister’s interrogation. Isabelle finally raised her hand.
“Thanks,” Hannes said. “By the way, something else occurred to me. I’ve been looking at news footage from the crucifixion.” He waved his colleagues over to his laptop and pointed to the still. “There, next to the redhead with the camera. You can’t make out his face because he’s standing in the background, but there’s something about that guy. We should get the image enhanced.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Per said.
“It’s just a waste of time,” Federsen said as Hannes and Isabelle left the room.
Mrs. Beck was apparently not at home. Nobody came to the door.
“If we head back now, we’ll only miss the beginning of the interrogation,” Isabelle said.
“Absolutely not. I’d like to look around.”
“Do you really think Beck’s implicated in the murders? So far there’s been no sign that he had any connection to Bach or Meister.”
Hannes walked alongside the house toward the backyard. He had no idea what to think. The garden looked even more cared for than before. The plants had died back for the winter—the apple trees were pruned, and the few flower beds were cleared of weeds. Both the lawn and the flagstones which led to the small garden shed had been cleared of moss. Its sides had been painted red, while the window frames and roof edges were white. The door was ajar.
Hannes suddenly stopped, and Isabelle bumped into him. He stepped off to the side and examined a large bush.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Only thorny plants,” Hannes said and pointed to the shrub. “Remember what was in Carlos di Santo’s mouth?”
“Yeah, a hawthorn branch. But there’s a lot of hawthorn in this city.”
“I’m not very good with plants, but I wouldn’t be surprised if this one’s a hawthorn bush. Marcel likes to garden—he should take a look.”
Hannes turned back toward the door and entered the large shed. Although the Becks had only moved in that summer, the shed was full of junk. He scanned the contents. Garden furniture lay next to the mower; flower pots had been brought in to protect the plants from the impending frost; and paint cans and various tools sat piled on a shelf. In one corner, wooden beams and planks leaned against the wall. Hannes examined the dark wood closer.
“The Becks seem to be very handy and do a lot of the work on their house themselves. I’m not an expert, but couldn’t this be oak?”
“You mean like the cross? Hannes. Oak is one of the most common types of wood out there. You can probably find it in every other garden shed.”
“I’m just saying.”
“I’m going to take a look around outside. But I think we should head back now.”
Hannes wasn’t ready to give up. He watched through the window as Isabelle walked across the lawn, then turned his attention back to the shed. At the far end was a heavy workbench covered in bits of potting soil. Hannes wiped a pile of sawdust off the bench. There were screws and nails of various sizes in a large toolbox with several compartments. A heavy iron hammer in front of the toolbox immediately stood out. But did it really mean something? Isabelle was right. These things could be found in any toolshed.
His eye fell on a square object pushed up against the wall under the workbench and covered with a gray blanket. He knelt down and lifted the cloth. The heavy wooden box was apparently meant to be hidden from prying eyes. He grabbed the metal handle and pulled the chest forward. The lid didn’t have a lock, so he flipped it open. A shiver came over him when he saw what was inside. Ballet slippers, old and worn, just like the other contents. Hannes pulled out a leather-bound photo album and opened it. Although he had spoken with Beatrice Reichert only over the phone, he knew that he was looking at the face of her youth.
Isabelle shouted. Hannes dropped the album on the workbench and rushed to the door. He didn’t see anything menacing in the garden. Isabelle was standing in front of the bay window and frantically waving her arms. He bounded over to her.
“What’s wrong? I thought someone was attacking you.”
“Look through the window,” Isabelle said. “Mrs. Beck is just lying there.”
Hannes cupped his hands and peered through the window. Mrs. Beck lay half on the sofa, half on the floor. Her curly hair was spread out over the armrest. But he saw something else. There were pill bottles on the small coffee table, and she had slashed her wrists.
“Call an ambulance!” Hannes shouted and sprinted to the terrace.
He grabbed a flower pot and threw it as hard as he could at the glass doors. They both shattered. Hannes quickly stuck his hand inside and unlocked one of the doors. It creaked open and he raced to the couch. Mrs. Beck’s face was pale. Her left arm hung motionless by her side. As he searched for a pulse, he knew they had arrived too late. Her arms were rigid. H
annes sank to the floor and leaned against the couch.
“Forget the ambulance. Call the coroner,” he said to Isabelle, who stared down at him, her eyes wide. “Rigor mortis has already set in. Mrs. Beck must have been dead for several hours. She probably mixed herself one final cocktail last night before cutting herself.” He pointed to the coffee table in front of him: two bottles of vodka and two empty pill bottles.
Isabelle picked one up and read the label. “It doesn’t tell me much, but it’s prescription only. Mrs. Beck mentioned on Wednesday that she could hardly sleep anymore. She probably got her doctor to prescribe her sleeping pills and saved them. She wanted to play it safe. But why would she go through all that trouble to kill herself?”
“I don’t know. And we don’t even know yet if it’s real or staged to look like suicide.”
He told her what he had found in the shed.
“So Mr. Beck was behind the break-in at Mrs. Reichert’s. That makes sense. As the chaplain, he’s familiar with the lives of the members,” Isabelle said.
“Exactly. And what do you confess to a chaplain? You talk to him about things that have been eating you up inside. He also probably wrote the letter to Mrs. Brinkmann’s children about their father.”
Both fell silent. Hannes stood and walked over to the terrace door. He needed some fresh air. Once outside, he took a deep breath. He didn’t feel like he had to vomit. He was slowly making progress. Given the number of bodies over the past few weeks, this didn’t come as a big surprise. Even the weakest stomachs harden at some point.
Isabelle followed him outside. A thought dawned on him.
“Elke. She’s with Beck at this choir getaway. His wife mentioned yesterday that he went early to prepare a few things. We have to call the others.”
“I’ve already called them,” said Isabelle. “They’re on their way here. Federsen and Clarissa will handle Meister’s interrogation. But why would Elke be Beck’s—”
“He knows she’s a lesbian!” shouted Hannes. “Rebecca told him. And he probably knows she’s friends with me. He saw us together last Saturday at the Christmas market.”
He nervously paced back and forth. It was a fucking stupid idea for Elke to join this group. It was an even dumber idea to have her play private investigator. If anything happened to her, he could never forgive himself. He grabbed Isabelle by the shoulders and looked into her eyes.
“I’m heading there now. Wait here for the others. I’ll contact you as soon as I find out where they are.”
Hannes sped down the highway and kept trying to reach Elke on her phone. But either she didn’t have any signal or her phone was off. Hannes’s concern grew. Who else might know where the choir was staying? The singers, of course, but they were already there. Or maybe not. Given the recent conflicts, it was unlikely that Mr. and Mrs. Schweiger were participating. Hannes called Per, who was shocked by the new developments and offered to track down the address. Five minutes later, he called Hannes back.
“I reached Mrs. Schweiger. They’re not attending. She was surprised I wanted to know, but I didn’t tell her my reason for asking.”
Hannes’s fingers flew across the screen as he entered the address into the GPS. He would arrive in thirty minutes. He slammed on the accelerator and told Per to send backup. As he exited the highway, his thoughts turned to the relaxing day he had spent with Anna at the nearby spa. Though it was only six days ago, it seemed like a lifetime. Instead of heading toward the beach, he made his way inland and was glad he had decided against an unmarked car that morning. Even though there wasn’t much traffic on the streets, he turned his police lights on. As Hannes barreled down the road, his phone rang. It was Marcel.
“Hannes, you have to hurry. The choir members are in big danger.”
“I’m going as fast as I can.”
“We searched Beck’s house and have already noticed a couple of things. Beck wears a size ten and a half. We’re collecting all his shoes to compare prints. There’s also a case of beer here—same brand as the bottles used to set the Grafs’ house on fire. And we found a book about mushrooms in his desk drawer with several toxic varieties highlighted. It seems we bet on the wrong horse. The culprit was right under our noses the whole time.”
Hannes cursed. Whether Bach and Meister were still somehow involved was irrelevant right now. They had clearly identified the mastermind.
He rolled down the gravel driveway of a single-story house on the edge of a small village a few minutes earlier than predicted. The house had a lakefront view. It was pouring rain and a cold wind blew from the north. Hannes got out and ran toward the house. He flung open the door. Rebecca Köhler, Wolfgang Hartmann and his friend Bengt, and another woman sat at a wooden table, playing cards and drinking coffee. They all looked up at him in shock.
“Where are Elke and Mr. Beck?” asked Hannes.
“They’ve gone out for a walk,” Ms. Köhler said.
“In this weather? I thought you’d be singing here.”
“We thought it was strange too,” Mr. Hartmann said. “We were up late last night and slept in this morning. Elke and Thomas got up earlier and left a note saying they were taking a walk down to the lake.”
Hannes looked at his watch. It was already noon. “Where’s the note?”
Rebecca pointed to the kitchen counter. Hannes recognized Elke’s handwriting.
Good morning, sleepyheads. Had too much to drink last night? ;-) Thomas and I went for a walk around the lake. Already made some coffee. See you later.
Hannes walked back to the table, stunned. “How long have they been gone?”
“We don’t know. We’ve been wondering why they haven’t come back yet. Did something happen?” Mr. Hartmann asked nervously.
“When did you find the note?”
“I woke up first, around ten,” Mr. Hartmann said. “I was still groggy, and it took me a while to get going. And I didn’t even drink that much last night.”
It was the same for the rest of them. The group had gone to bed around one o’clock after a few bottles of wine—but not enough bottles to explain the slow start to the day. Everyone had seemed to get suddenly tired the night before. It was clear what had happened. Beck had served a final round and had slipped a strong sleeping pill into four of the glasses. He hadn’t put anything in Elke’s glass, so she had woken up long before the rest of them. It must have been easy to persuade Elke to go for a walk while the others slept. Hannes rushed to the window. There were three vehicles in the driveway, not counting his police car.
“How many cars did you drive here?” he asked.
“Three,” Mr. Hartmann said, walking over. “What’s going on?”
Hannes pulled him outside while the others watched them with skeptical looks on their faces. He told him about that morning’s discovery. Mr. Hartmann shook his head in disbelief.
“I don’t want to start a panic,” Hannes said. “Please keep this to yourself, but make sure everyone stays together. My colleagues will be arriving in a few minutes. I don’t think you’re in danger, but Elke might be. Do you have any idea where they might have gone?”
“Yesterday Thomas kept raving about some beautiful path which leads to the Immenhof estate. You know, the country estate where they filmed a bunch of movies back in the fifties. The path starts at the end of the road.”
“As soon as my colleagues get here, please send two of them after me.”
Hannes jumped into the car and bounced down the gravel driveway toward the road. He was forced to leave the vehicle when he got to the end of the road, because the path was more of a narrow dirt trail. Hannes began to jog. To the right, he could see the lake whenever the rain didn’t pelt his eyes. The icy wind stung his face, and steam escaped his mouth. There wasn’t a single other person out. He crossed a small wooded area before reaching open meadows and fields again. Panting, he updated Marcel over the phone. Several colleagues had arrived at the cottage. Per and Isabelle were already chasing after him.
&
nbsp; Hannes squinted. In the distance, he thought he saw smoke. He picked up his pace. The slippery ground made it difficult for him to move quickly. After he passed a small stand of trees, he could clearly see the smoke. Panic gripped him. What could Beck have devised this time? He briefly stopped to orientate himself, then left the path to run across the fields in the direction of the rising smoke. He thought he could make out a human figure standing a little more than five hundred yards ahead of him. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. He was frantic.
The person seemed to stagger. They fell to their knees and struggled to get back up. Hannes sank ankle deep into the mud. Didn’t Elke have a blue windbreaker like that? He then recognized her long blonde hair and was relieved. But when she fell to the ground again, his relief faded.
He finally reached her a few minutes later. Elke was lying on the ground. She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. Her hair lay like a golden fan unfurled across the mud. Hannes knelt down beside her and patted her on the cheek.
“I’m so glad I found you.”
“Hannes?” She murmured his name in disbelief. Her eyelids fluttered.
He patted her again on the cheek, this time a little harder. “Elke. You have to pull yourself together. Stay with me. What did Beck do to you?”
“Do to . . . ? Nothing. Wanted to warm up. Barn. Then . . . fire. Were . . .”
Hannes didn’t understand the rest of what she said. He shook her shoulders.
“Where is he, Elke? Where’s Mr. Beck?”
“Wanted to save me. Fell. I . . . tried . . . to help him. Was too . . . hard.”
“Where, Elke?”
“Fire. Barn . . . on fire. He . . . still inside.”
Her eyes closed again, and Hannes was unsuccessful in getting her to say anything else. But he could feel a pulse, and her breathing seemed regular. Smoke inhalation? He stood up. Where were Isabelle and Per? He pulled out his cell phone. Per answered immediately. Hannes shouted his location into the phone. In the background, he could hear Isabelle requesting an ambulance. A little later, he saw his colleagues emerge from behind the clump of trees. He waved his arms above his head.
The Northern Cross (A Baltic Sea Crime Novel Book 2) Page 30
