by Dora Heldt
Christine took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. “Aha. Well, I’m going down to help Kalli make breakfast.”
“You do that.” Heinz patted her arm. “I’ll shave and then wake Walter.”
When Christine came back into the kitchen, Kalli was hanging headfirst over the deep freeze.
“Do you have rolls anywhere?”
“I brought some with me.”
“That’s good.” Kalli came back up, his face red. “There’s nothing in here at all. And I was looking for sugar beet syrup too.”
“What?”
“Sugar beet syrup.” He noticed Christine’s confused expression. “Don’t you have it? Doesn’t matter, I need to make a shopping list anyway. You put it on bread. It’s good for the digestion. Do you have jam?”
Christine pointed silently at the pantry. Kalli opened the door. “Ah, there it is. And strawberry, too, very good. So now I just need a thermos flask, egg cups, and milk. Could you please show me where they are?”
“Kalli, do you know how long you’re planning to stay?”
He stopped what he was doing and re-knotted the sash of the bathrobe. “Oh, around a week I guess, it depends. I phoned Hanna yesterday evening, so she knows where I am. She’s going to send me a few things. I can borrow toiletries from Heinz, but I need my own underwear.”
Christine hesitated. “What do you mean, it depends?”
Kalli looked at her patiently, as if she should know what he meant. “It depends how long it takes. I mean, two marriages are at stake here. We have to find out what’s wrong with Inge, and we have to convince your mother to come back to Heinz. I can’t just leave him and Walter hanging in a situation like this.”
“My mother hasn’t left my father. She’s just gone to Georg’s…for other reasons.”
Kalli stroked Christine’s cheek sympathetically. “Yes, sweetheart, let’s hope so. But we’ll sort everything out. We’ve made a plan. Do you want to hear it?”
Christine stared into Kalli’s eyes. “No. Not in the slightest.” She stood up decisively. “I’ll help you set the table.”
Chapter 29
* * *
Inge fiddled nervously with her pen as she waited for someone to pick up the phone at the other end of the line.
But yet again, all she heard was the recorded message: “Mark Kampmann Solicitors. The office is closed at the moment. Please leave a message with your full name, address, and telephone number. Thank you.”
Inge took a deep breath. “Good morning. My name is Inge Müller, and I’m calling with regard to the will of Anna Nissen. I’ve phoned several times already, and I can never get through. Please call me back. Thank you.”
With a sigh, she put the phone down and rested her forehead in both hands. She didn’t understand what was going on. Mark Kampmann hadn’t been in touch since the break-in, apart from the over-the-top bouquet of flowers he had sent her in the hospital. And now this unpleasant Guido Schneider guy had turned up and was claiming the house belonged to him.
“Oh, Anna…” Inge whispered, looking out into the backyard. “What a mess.”
She jumped as the telephone rang. The solicitors? She picked up the phone, holding her breath.
“Frau Inge Müller?”
It was an unfamiliar male voice. “Yes?”
“Good morning, Frau Müller. My name is Herr Martensen, from the Flensburg Criminal Investigation Department. Frau Müller, it’s about the break-in. I have a few questions.”
“What kind of questions? I’ve already told everything I know to the police in Westerland.”
“Yes, I know, we had the files sent to us. That’s why I’d like to talk to you. I’m in Westerland at the moment. Could we meet perhaps? It won’t take long.”
“I can’t really say no, right?”
Martensen laughed softly. He sounded nice. “Not really,” he said. “But I would really appreciate your help. Shall we meet in the town? Or should I come to where you’re staying? It’s completely up to you.”
Inge thought for a moment. “It’s probably best if you come to the guesthouse—where it happened. Or are you driving a cop car with flashing blue lights that everyone would see?”
“No. We in the Criminal Investigation Department drive Passats, I’m afraid. What time would be good for you?”
“Right now, if possible.” Inge wanted to get it over with.
“Okay. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
While Inge was in the bathroom quickly touching up her lipstick, the telephone rang again.
“Müller.”
“Kampmann Solicitors here, this is Helga Gross. Frau Müller, I’m very sorry for the delay in getting back to you, but everything is chaotic here at the moment.” Her voice sounded hurried and agitated, but not unfriendly. “It’s about the inheritance form, right? Unfortunately, Herr Kampmann is ill and will probably be away for a few weeks—”
“What’s wrong with him?” interrupted Inge.
Helga Gross paused. “He…Well, I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information. In any case, I’ve looked through the file, and I can’t find the certificate. That must mean that Herr Kampmann has already submitted it, so I assume everything is in order.”
“But I can’t speak to Herr Kampmann?”
“No, as I said, he’s ill. Okay then, have a nice day, Frau Müller.”
“Yes, thank you. And please wish him—”
But Helga Gross had already hung up.
Before Inge could start to ponder the call, the doorbell rang.
Martensen bore no resemblance to the CID inspectors Inge knew from the TV. He was thinning on top and wore frameless glasses and a denim jacket. He was young, midthirties at the most.
Presumably he was used to people’s reactions upon seeing him for the first time. He immediately whipped out his ID and said in a weary voice, “Martensen here. I know, I would only get the role of the taxi driver in Law & Order. But I’m the real deal.”
Inge laughed and stepped to the side. “Come in. Did I really look that surprised?”
“Everyone does.” He wiped his shoes thoroughly. “But you get used to it.”
“Shall we sit in the backyard? Would you like a coffee?”
“Yes and yes,” he replied.
None of the other guests were around when they sat down on the terrace five minutes later. Martensen pulled a ring binder out of his bag, then concentrated on stirring some cream into his coffee. With a glance at Inge, he opened the file.
“So, Frau Müller…” he said, flicking through it. “You’ve already made a statement that nothing was stolen. Have you discovered anything missing since then?”
Inge shook her head.
“Good. And you’re feeling better now? Have there been any aftereffects from the blow to your head?”
“No.” Inge shook her head again. “Everything’s fine.”
Martensen looked at her earnestly. “Have you had any thoughts about who broke in and what they might have been looking for?”
Inge frowned. “Now you’re the one talking like this is Law & Order. I imagine it was just some local kids who needed money. After all, the young people here don’t have much anymore, and they have to watch all the summer tourists with big cars and flashy jewelry taking over their island. It must put ideas in their heads.”
Now Martensen was the one who looked confused. “And that makes it okay for them to break in and assault women?”
“No, of course not. I just meant that, unlike my brother, I don’t suspect some kind of conspiracy behind the burglary.”
Martensen scanned over a page of the file and grinned. “Yes, your brother had some very interesting theories, didn’t he? My colleagues in Westerland were very impressed. They checked them all out too.”
Inge raised her hands in protest. “I don’t want to know, really. And I think you can close the case. Nothing was stolen, and I’m fine, so what’s the point?”
Martensen clapped the file shut and looked at her searchingly. �
�Doesn’t it seem strange to you that nothing was stolen, despite the fact that your jewelry was right there on the table, your wallet was visible in your handbag with all your credit cards and cash, and the drawers were all opened and searched through?”
“Well, I took whoever it was by surprise,” answered Inge. “They heard me and had to flee. So I guess they overlooked whatever was lying around in their haste to get out.”
He stared fixedly at Inge now. She held his gaze. “Does the name Mark Kampmann mean anything to you?”
She gave a start. “Yes. Of course. What about him?”
Martensen didn’t answer the question. Instead, he said, “You told my colleague that you were here to sort out an inheritance matter. You also asked for this piece of information to be handled discreetly. Why is that?”
Inge reacted indignantly. “Herr Martensen. You’re asking as though I’m under suspicion of breaking the law now! Really!”
He tried to appease her with his calm voice. “That wasn’t my intention. But I have to ask you these questions. My interest isn’t just related to the break-in. My colleagues are looking after that, in any case. We’re working on some other cases in Flensburg at the moment, and there may be a connection. So, please, Frau Müller, what is the inheritance, why did you ask for it to be handled with discretion, and how do you know Mark Kampmann?”
The conversation was slowly starting to get on her nerves. This whole mess seemed to be getting bigger and bigger. She took a deep breath. “The inheritance is from Anna Nissen, a very old friend of mine. And I wanted it to be discreet because my husband, Walter, is a retired tax inspector with a compulsion for maximizing money. I inherited Frau Nissen’s house…well, at least, that’s what it says in the will, and if Walter knew that, he would immediately commission a Realtor to turn the house into money. But that’s not what I want. What was the third question? Oh yes, Kampmann. In the letter that was included with Anna’s handwritten will, she wrote that a managing agency had looked after the rental of the vacation apartments for the last few years. I phoned them right away. A very nice woman answered the phone, and I told her that I had inherited the house but didn’t know what steps I had to take next. After all, I couldn’t ask my husband.” She paused briefly and noticed that Martensen was hanging on to her every word. “This woman, what was her name again…Oh yes, Frau Fischer. She said that she didn’t know either, but that she would find out for me and be in touch.”
Martensen wrote down the name Fischer. He looked at her. “And then what?”
“That same day, Mark Kampmann phoned me. He said he was a good friend of Frau Fischer’s, and a lawyer. He offered his help. And given that we have legal insurance—Walter’s had it for twenty years, because he’s rather fond of suing people—I made an appointment with him. I was planning to come to Sylt anyway. He explained everything to me very patiently, looked at the will, and filled in all the necessary paperwork for me. Why are you shaking your head?”
“Have you already received all of the papers? The certificate of inheritance? The reference number from the probate court? Anything?”
Inge’s head was spinning. “No,” she admitted. “And I haven’t spoken to Herr Kampmann since the break-in. But a Frau Gross from the chambers phoned earlier. She said Herr Kampmann was ill, but that my applications were completed and with the court.”
Martensen whistled softly. “A likely story.” He straightened his shoulders and looked at her searchingly. “All right, Frau Müller. I don’t want to keep you in suspense any longer about why I’m here. I imagine I don’t need to tell you how valuable property on Sylt is. And wherever there’s an opportunity to make lots of money, you find strange things happening. In the last three years there were several large properties that went to different companies. In most of the cases, the deceased owners were old people who didn’t have any family, and who had completed wills in which three firms appeared as their sole heirs. A management company, an advertising agency, and a mobile care service. All of the wills were notarized by Kampmann.”
Inge had been listening skeptically. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. There aren’t that many lawyers in Westerland, after all. And more and more people are completely alone in their old age, so if there are people around them who look after them, it’s conceivable that they’ll be included in the wills. Not everything has to go to the church, state, or some animal charity.”
Martensen looked at her patiently. “Of course not. And if there aren’t any family or friends, then of course that’s fine. But we received a tip-off from a lawyer in Flensburg. He had a mandate that seemed a little strange, and it was about a property on Sylt. After that, the lawyer did some investigations, and he discovered a number of inconsistencies. One name kept coming up. That sounds to me like more than a coincidence.”
Inge felt overwhelmed. “And what do I have to do with this?”
“Do you still have the will? Or does Kampmann have it?”
“I do.” Inge sounded miserable.
“Good.” Martensen nodded, relieved. “I think Kampmann was very surprised when you turned up with the will. After all, Frau Nissen had lived alone. And the management company had already…er…” He coughed. “Well, we don’t want to jump to conclusions.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll explain later. But I will say this. It’s possible that the burglar was looking for the will.”
Inge stared at him in disbelief. Then she shook her head resolutely. “That’s an unlikely story! We’re not in Las Vegas, you know. This sounds more like something my brother and his overactive imagination would come up with. The lawyer in Flensburg must go to the movies too often.”
Martensen slowly stood up. “Frau Müller, you don’t have to believe me on this. But your story happens to match up with ours. This is my advice to you. Go to another lawyer and have everything checked over. And talk to your husband. I’m sure he can help you.”
“I’m sure he can too,” Inge said drily. “You should meet him.”
Martensen reached for his briefcase and held his hand out to Inge. “All the best, and thank you for the coffee. Oh, and I have one more request. Could I get a copy of the will? Here’s my card.” He put a business card on the table. “Give me a call if you need anything. Have a good day.” He turned around to go, then turned back to face her again. “What are you planning to do with the house? I mean, if you don’t want to sell it.”
Inge looked at him, feeling tired. “I was planning to start up a housing community. A multigenerational house.”
“Really?” Martensen’s eyes widened. “I read an article about those once. I think it’s a great idea. My girlfriend is fascinated by them too. She works in Westerland as a teacher. So, if you’re looking for residents…Oh, forget I said that—it was very unprofessional of me given the situation. ’Bye then.”
Inge watched him go, feeling exhausted. First he had ruined her day, and now he wanted to become her tenant. Things were getting crazier and crazier.
Chapter 30
* * *
By the time Heinz came into the kitchen, showered and shaved, Kalli and Christine were already sitting at the table waiting for him.
“Morning,” he mumbled, and was just about to sit down when his gaze fell on Kalli. He stopped in his tracks in disgust. “Kalli, seriously!”
Kalli looked at him, confused. “What?”
“You’re not consciously planning to have breakfast like that? Come on! We not in an old people’s home, you know.”
Christine had to repress a chuckle. She had quickly gotten used to the sight of Kalli in the lilac bathrobe. Kalli shook his head hesitantly.
“Yes, well, I don’t know, what…”
“The bathrobe,” whispered Christine. “Maybe it’s painful for him to see you inside it and not his wife!”
“Oh!” Kalli jumped up abruptly, fumbled awkwardly with the belt, and gave Heinz a sympathetic look. “I was so stressed trying to find everything in a
strange place, I can’t tell you. I was so relieved when Christine arrived. But now she’s here, I can go to the bathroom and get washed up. Start without me.”
He scurried out of the kitchen while Heinz thoughtfully watched him go.
“Where did he get that robe?”
“It’s Mom’s.”
Heinz looked at his daughter in surprise. “Really? That’s why it looks so familiar to me then. Well, we can eat breakfast in our robes when we’re no longer able to dress ourselves. But until then we should maintain some discipline.”
He picked up his cup and handed it to her. “Is the coffee ready?”
“Yes.” Christine stood up and took the pot out of the coffeemaker. “But shouldn’t we wait? Uncle Walter isn’t ready yet either.”
“Well, there’s no harm in having a cup while we wait. And Walter is just getting dressed.” Heinz lowered his voice. “He had a really bad night.”
“Why’s that?” Christine poured coffee for him. “It certainly looked very cozy, the two of you in the double bed.”
“Cozy?” Heinz pulled the cup away while Christine was still pouring. “Not so full. I still need to put milk in.”
“Then say stop!” Annoyed, Christine reached for a few paper towels and mopped up the brown puddle from the table. “So what was wrong with Uncle Walter?”
Her father stirred his full-to-the-brim cup of coffee carefully. He had a proud look on his face. “I told him the truth yesterday evening. I had to do it. I owed him that at least.”
Christine threw the last wet paper towel into the garbage and turned around to him. “The truth about what?”
“Well, the truth. Don’t look at me like that. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
“What?”
Heinz looked toward the door to make sure that no one was listening. Then he said quietly, “The voice mail message. At Petra’s. Well? Does that ring a bell?”
Seething, Christine remembered the conversation that she had had with Johann in the backyard. About the caller on the evening of the break-in, the one who wanted to pick Inge up the next morning. So it seemed her father really had been listening.
