Driving over the Brenner Pass, he listened to jazz. Bill Evans, Explorations; Dave Brubeck, Time Out; Herbie Hancock, The New Standard. When he was seventeen he’d wanted to be a musician himself. He had appeared at clubs then, playing jazz trumpet. Audiences liked his rounded, mellow tone. But then he had met Albert Mangelsdorff with his gigantic trombone. Mangelsdorff used to play and sing into the mouthpiece at the same time. Biegler had known at once that he himself would never play again.
He put off phoning Elly until he was over the border between Italy and Austria. She was cross, of course. ‘Oh, really, you’re hopeless, Biegler,’ she said.
Three hours later, Biegler was parking in front of the Bayerischer Hof hotel in Munich. ‘Civilization at last,’ he said, meaning room service. He over-tipped the concierge.
Although he usually showered, now he lay in the bathtub for almost an hour. When the floor waiter delivered the envelope to his room, he was still in his dressing gown. Biegler found his reading glasses, sat at the desk and read the memo. He lay down on the sofa. He knew how sick he really was, but he had to go back. They’ve gone too far, he thought.
3
On the morning of the next day but one, Biegler got up at six. He had read the files overnight, and had not slept much, but all the same he felt better, refreshed. He had breakfast with Elly.
‘The tree expert was here last week,’ Elly said from behind her newspaper.
‘The what?’
‘Tree expert. If you want to fell a tree in Berlin you have to get permission from a tree expert.’
‘Oh God,’ said Biegler.
‘He said the tree is perfectly healthy, so you can’t chop it down,’ said Elly.
The tree stood outside the conservatory where he and Elly breakfasted every morning. It cast a gloomy light into the room.
‘Does that mean I have to go on living in the shade?’
‘So to speak, yes,’ said Elly.
‘We Germans are truly crazy,’ said Biegler. ‘I’ll poison the tree. Lead poisoning. How do I go about it?’
Elly didn’t reply.
‘I could call one of my clients and get him to shoot the tree,’ said Biegler.
‘Do stop making such a fuss,’ said Elly.
Two years ago, Elly had sent him to a psychoanalyst. He was getting more and more impossible, she had said. He went, and sat listening to the analyst breathing for eight sessions. Each session cost him 85 euros. Naturally Biegler hadn’t said a word. Thinking about himself bored him to death. After spending 680 euros he had broken off the analysis. He dared not tell Elly, and had been living ever since in the fear that she would find out. He had bought Freud’s Collected Works, and sometimes quoted from them. He hoped to get by like that.
‘It says in the paper you’ve taken on the case of that artist,’ said Elly.
‘I may.’
‘They write that he probably did commit the murder.’
‘Otherwise it wouldn’t be news,’ said Biegler.
Elly suggested that he might take the new secretary flowers, but he declined to. ‘Flowers are open sexual organs; I don’t give that kind of thing to anyone, particularly not a young woman,’ he said.
At eight he went to the Moabit remand prison. At reception he showed his authorization as Eschburg’s defence counsel and asked to see his client. The woman police officer telephoned, and then asked Biegler if he felt better for his holiday. Biegler didn’t reply to that.
At the moment, said the officer, Eschburg was the most famous prisoner on remand there. He was very calm, she said, and spent most of his time lying on the bed in his cell. He was polite to the officers on duty and the other inmates. So far, she added, he hadn’t complained of anything or asked for any kind of special treatment.
‘Sounds pleasant enough,’ said Biegler.
‘There’s something strange about him,’ said the woman officer.
‘What?’ asked Biegler.
‘I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘It’s just a kind of feeling.’
‘A feeling,’ repeated Biegler. The woman officer nodded.
After a few minutes Eschburg arrived. Biegler took him into one of the interview rooms kept for lawyers and their clients.
‘Do you smoke?’ asked Biegler.
‘I’ve given up in here,’ said Eschburg.
Biegler put his cigarillos away again. ‘Smoking in these interview rooms is forbidden anyway. You’ve asked me to take on your defence.’
‘Yes.’
‘You already have a defence counsel from Legal Aid.’
‘But now I need you,’ said Eschburg.
‘Why?’
‘Everyone out there thinks I’m a murderer.’
‘Well, you did confess,’ said Biegler.
‘Yes.’
‘And you signed your confession.’
‘Yes, but that was under duress.’
‘Do you mean that your confession isn’t true?’
‘I’d like you to defend me as if I were not the murderer.’
‘As if you were not the murderer? Do I understand you correctly? Are you or are you not a murderer?’
‘Is that important?’
It was a good question. Biegler had never heard a client ask it before. Journalists ask such questions, he thought, students or legal interns. ‘It’s not important for the defence, if that’s what you mean,’ said Biegler.
‘And for you personally?’
‘In defending a case, only the defence matters.’
‘That’s why I want you to defend me. Not all lawyers see it that way.’ Eschburg seemed perfectly calm. ‘Have you read the files?’ he asked.
‘I’ve seen worse,’ said Biegler.
‘How would you defend me?’
Biegler looked at Eschburg. ‘If one is aiming for a verdict of not guilty to a charge of murder, there are six possibilities. One: it was right to kill – that line of defence is very unusual. Two: it was self-defence. Three: it was an accident. Four: you didn’t know what you were doing; in effect, you couldn’t tell right from wrong when you did it. Five: it wasn’t you, someone else committed the murder. And six – also very unusual – there wasn’t a murder at all. To sum up, briefly: for now, we can leave aside self-defence, accident and the inability to tell right from wrong for the time being. So let’s begin with the alternative murderer theory. Who, if not you, could have done it?’
Eschburg thought for a little while. ‘No one.’
‘Don’t you have any neighbours?’ asked Biegler.
‘Yes, a woman called Senja Finks,’ said Eschburg.
‘Tell me about her.’
Eschburg told him what he knew about her, including the knife attack and her injuries.
‘Right,’ said Biegler. He wrote it all down in his notebook. ‘I can think about that. Now we come to the last possible defence, and in this case the most interesting one: there has been no murder.’
‘But I confessed.’
‘So you did.’
‘But?’ asked Eschburg.
‘The prosecution will do everything possible to get that confession accepted in court. But I suspect that the court of first instance won’t want to evaluate it. In that case the judges in your full trial will have to decide whether the other evidence is enough on its own to arraign you. There are some open questions. The two most important are: who was the woman victim? And where is her body? Your confession stops short at that point.’
‘Do I have to answer the court’s questions?’
‘No.’ Biegler opened the file. ‘Here’s the last thing you said: “I made the body disappear. I disposed of it.” That’s the end of the interrogation.’ Biegler turned the file to Eschburg and showed him the place.
‘I remember,’ said Eschburg.
‘How did you do it?’
‘What?’
‘The disappearing trick? Like Houdini the magician?’
‘With chemicals.’
‘Aha.’
‘As a
photographer I have access to them.’
‘Go on.’
‘I put the body in a bath of hydrochloric acid. It dissolved,’ said Eschburg.
Biegler picked up the file again and put it back in his bag. He stood up. ‘No, I don’t think I will agree to defend you.’
‘Why not?’
At last, thought Biegler. For the first time, I’ve got a reaction out of him. ‘Because I don’t believe you. Of course you don’t have to tell me the truth. You can deny everything. You can say nothing, you can even try out different versions of a story on me. Lies are in order. But one thing I can’t stand, and that is clients confessing to something they did not do.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Eschburg.
‘Bodies dissolved in hydrochloric acid – that kind of thing belongs in a crime novel. It doesn’t work, or at least not particularly well. Even after many days in a bath of hydrochloric acid, a body doesn’t dissolve entirely. The liquid turns yellowish, there are clumps of organic matter left. Not to mention teeth and bones.’
‘How about that case in Belgium – the pastor?’ asked Eschburg.
‘You found out the details of that? Interesting. You mean András Pándy, the Hungarian,’ said Biegler, while he put his coat on. ‘Yes, Pándy killed four of his eight children. But he didn’t use hydrochloric acid, he used drain cleaner to dispose of the bodies. You could buy the heavy-duty sort in any pharmacy at the time. Pándy’s daughter confessed to doing it. She was not a very likeable character herself. She shot her mother so that she could go on sleeping with her father as before.’
Biegler was pacing up and down the room in his coat, with his hands behind his back, a posture he sometimes adopted when he gave guest lectures at the Police College.
‘At least, the young woman claimed to have taken the bodies apart, put them in drain cleaner, and then washed everything away down the plug-hole. No one believed that story. The Belgian investigating magistrate wanted to check it. As far as I know, that’s the only time such a procedure has been scientifically tested.’
‘Did it work?’
‘In an experiment, pigs’ heads were taken apart and put into the drain cleaning solution first. It was astonishing; they did indeed dissolve entirely within twenty-four hours: teeth, hair, bones and all. After that the method was tested on human remains, not a pleasant business, and ethically dubious into the bargain. I published an article on it. The experiment with human body parts went just like the experiment with the pigs’ heads. Everything dissolved entirely and very quickly. The drain cleaner was made in England; its brand name was Cleanest.’ Biegler smiled. ‘Kind of suitable, don’t you think?’
He stopped pacing up and down, stood beside Eschburg and leaned forward. ‘But that was in 1998, fourteen years ago. When the experiment was made known publicly, the manufacturer of Cleanest changed the composition of the cleaner, and hydrochloric acid had never been part of it.’
Biegler found it unsettling to see how much his own impression of Eschburg differed from the accounts of him given in the files. The young man was not cold. It was something else: Eschburg seemed to be waiting for something, but Biegler didn’t know what it was. ‘So don’t fool yourself,’ he said. ‘You probably wouldn’t even be capable of taking a body apart. It’s far from easy. And now I must be going.’
‘Please, wait a moment,’ said Eschburg. He took a press cutting out of his jacket and put it on the table. Biegler picked it up. It was an article about him. He had been acting for the defence in a case of rape at the time.
‘So? There are better-known lawyers,’ he said.
‘I’m not bothered about that. You said in that interview that truth and reality were entirely different things, in the same way as justice and morality were different. Did you say that only because it sounds good?’ Like most remand prisoners, Eschburg was pale. He was wearing a black cashmere jacket and a black roll-neck sweater, which further intensified his pallor.
‘It says in this article that you really wanted to be a musician, but then you began studying law.’ Eschburg read aloud. ‘“The law courts are the last major institution to concentrate on the subject of truth,” you said. That’s why I want you to defend me.’
‘All that was a long time ago,’ said Biegler. ‘You’re accused of murder. You ought to be devoting your mind exclusively to yourself.’
‘I am,’ said Eschburg. ‘Will you defend me?’
‘Because reality and truth are two different things?’ asked Biegler.
‘Because you understand that,’ said Eschburg.
Biegler looked at the time. He sat down again. ‘Very well, then. I think your case is interesting. But not because of the alleged absence of a body, and certainly not because you’re a well-known artist. All that interests me in your case is the question of torture.’
‘Do you want me to describe it?’
‘No,’ said Biegler. ‘Counsel for the prosecution in this case has written a memo on the subject. It all depends on that and nothing else. I’m afraid the court wouldn’t believe you if you told a different story. For now, that memo is enough for me. I have an engagement to see both the lawyer from the public prosecutor’s office and the presiding judge in your case tomorrow. The day after tomorrow the review of your remand in custody takes place. So, we’ll see. I’ll get the people here to bring you copies of the files today.’
Biegler left the remand prison by way of the cellar staircase to the courthouse building. Wet leaves were lying in the street and sticking to the bonnets of cars, and the large window panes of the buses were clouded with condensation.
Maybe that police officer was right, thought Biegler, and there’s something wrong with the man. Eschburg couldn’t have got hold of that newspaper article after he was remanded in custody; he must have read it earlier. Suddenly Biegler felt that pressure in his chest again. The pain moved on over his shoulder and up to his lower jaw. He waited for the pressure to slacken. Although it was chilly, he took off his coat.
He went through the little park to the church. He hadn’t been in a church for years, not since his son’s christening. The door was open. He took off his hat and sat down in the last pew at the back. The church was empty, and light fell, slanting, through the yellow windows to the floor. Someone had scratched his initials on the pew. There was a crack in a flagstone on the floor. He passed his shoe over it. For a while he stayed there, staring at the flagstone.
Outside the church, a boy was repairing his bicycle on the pavement. He had turned it upside down, handlebars and saddle on the ground, and was pushing the pedals to make the back wheel go round. It was unbalanced. The boy’s hands were dirty and one elbow was grazed. He was trying to straighten the wheel with his forearms.
‘You’re not going to get it straight that way,’ said Biegler. The boy looked up at him. Biegler shrugged. ‘That’s life,’ he said. The boy went on trying. Biegler watched for a little longer, then pulled his wallet out of his jacket and gave the boy a twenty-euro note. ‘Buy yourself a new wheel rim,’ he said. The boy took the money and put it in his pocket, without saying anything.
4
‘Almond biscuit?’ The presiding judge offered a biscuit tin, holding it out over his desk. He wore a blue blazer with gilt buttons that had a fancy coat of arms engraved on them. He was smooth-shaven, with a pink skin, a double chin and ears that stuck out. He wore round-rimmed glasses that were too large for him. Those who didn’t know him thought he was a friendly soul, perhaps slightly stupid.
‘My wife made them,’ said the presiding judge.
Landau shook her head, Biegler helped himself to a biscuit. It tasted like cardboard. Biegler remembered that a few years ago, the presiding judge had had an affair with a woman studying to qualify as a judge. Rumour said that it had cost him his appointment to the Federal High Court.
‘Thank you very much,’ said Biegler.
The presiding judge watched Biegler munching. ‘She’s wonderful at baking,’ he said. ‘Have a
nother?’
‘Thanks, I will.’ He’s steering clear of them himself, thought Biegler.
‘You’ve seen the charge?’ the presiding judge asked him.
‘I have, yes.’ His mouth was full of flour and sugar.
‘Then we can begin. If you don’t want a longer extension to study the case, we could open the trial itself next Monday. Another case has been unexpectedly adjourned, so all of a sudden we can fit this one in.’
‘That’s a little surprising,’ said Biegler. ‘In fact I haven’t prepared yet. Isn’t there going to be a review of the case for remand in custody?’
‘No, we’d rather go straight to the trial itself, if you have no objection,’ said the presiding judge.
‘Then are you quashing the arrest warrant for Eschburg?’ asked Biegler.
‘Why would we do that?’ asked the presiding judge.
‘Because his confession can’t be used in court. The police officer interrogating him threatened him with torture. Surely Frau Landau’s memo makes that perfectly clear,’ said Biegler. ‘Of course we’re glad you can bring the case to court so quickly, but I would like him released from custody.’
The presiding judge nodded. ‘The question of torture is one of the problems of this case,’ he said. He looked at Landau and waited.
‘We can clear that up in the course of the trial itself,’ said Landau.
She’s good, thought Biegler, not at all unsure of herself. He turned to her from his armchair. ‘I don’t understand why you haven’t cleared it up long ago. Although you were present at the time, you filed Eschburg’s confession with the charge sheet as if it were nothing out of the ordinary. But all of us know that it can’t be used.’
The Girl Who Wasn't There Page 10
