Last week, when I was still allowed to leave the farm, I was so desperate I went to see the priest. I told him everything. He talked about the holy sacrament of marriage, and said my thoughts were sinful. That a marriage had its dark hours too, and that I had sworn, before “his” altar, to stand by Johann for better or worse.
Three days later, Johann came home having found out about my visit. He knew everything, Margret, even that I was thinking about leaving him.
There’s no one I can talk to in this place. I talk only with my daughter.
And now this has become another letter filled with complaints. Forgive me, Margret, but I have to tell someone.
To end with, though, I have one request. Can I come to you, with Anna, if I can’t bear it here anymore? Now that I can no longer do the shopping, I have no money at all, but I do have some jewelry, and I know the pawnshop in Cleves. It will certainly be enough for tickets.
I can’t wait to hear from you.
My best to your husband.
Your sister, Magdalena
Chapter 27
Once outside the front door, he pulls down the ankle zippers on his leggings.
Out on the dike, a perfect orange-hued sphere over Holland welcomes him. Thin streaks of cloud absorb the color and break it up into red and yellow tones. Damp air, gently rising, crouches over the fields and river.
He settles into an easy jog.
It had been a good evening. They ate, and did not drink too much. He talked about Andreas: how he had kept getting bigger and sicker. How he had learned, with difficulty, to count to ten, but how, in the last three years of his life, he had not even been able to speak. He had stumbled awkwardly through the house with the body of a young man. Less and less able to control his movements, by the end he had just lain in bed and stared at the ceiling. At night, Peter and Brigitte had taken turns to get up and turn him over in bed. During the day, Brigitte was alone with him. She had sat by his bed for hours every day, and when he died she had been unable to cope with the grief. She had shut herself in with her dead child, and when the funeral directors came to take the body away, he had had to come in and hold her back by force.
Van Oss had talked about Janine. About her impulsiveness, which he loved but which often went too far, especially when she impulsively went to bed with other men. He called her reckless, and with that Böhm heard the first chink in his loyalty to her.
With his blond hair and bright-blue eyes, Van Oss is a good-looking man. And charming. Brigitte once said, It wouldn’t matter if he were ugly. When he talks to me, I always feel I’m the only important person in the world. Böhm often made use of the alert sensitivity with which Van Oss dealt with people, especially when taking statements from witnesses.
Van Oss went home, and Böhm to bed, at about midnight. He tossed and turned until half past one, then sent Brigitte a text message:
I love you. I want to grow old with you.
After that he slept soundly and deeply.
The thin layer of cloud in front of the sun is breaking up. He looks at his watch, turns, and runs back.
He reaches the station shortly after eight.
Steeg calls out from his office: “Peter, the credit card from Duisburg hasn’t been used since the Internet café.”
Böhm goes in. “Morning, Achim. Have you read Lembach’s latest report?”
“Yes, but the ground was wet. It must have given way a little under the turf.”
“It didn’t start raining until after midnight.” Böhm goes across to his own office and powers up the computer. He turns around abruptly and runs back into Steeg’s office. “You’re right!”
“What?”
“He hadn’t planned the change of shoes. The rain took him by surprise, and he had to come up with something.”
Steeg nods. He goes over to the window. There is an army of cups on the sill, along with a small palm tree, unwatered for weeks, brown and as dead as Gietmann. His office faces outward. He is looking out onto the parking lot and a gray wall with some garage doors. “We can reconstruct the crime fairly accurately now. The killer calls Gietmann and summons him to the blind. They walk to the main road together, and then up the farm track on the other side. Gietmann is knocked out with a blunt instrument and tied up. The killer tapes his mouth shut and cuts open the arteries at the wrists. Then he waits. It starts to rain. He sees he is leaving footprints, takes off Gietmann’s shoes and puts them on. Once the man is dead, he packs up the weapon, the cell phone, the car keys, and his own shoes, and leaves. All that’s missing is a motive.”
Böhm picks up a newspaper from the chair, looks around, and adds it to the pile of papers on Steeg’s desk. “How do you find anything in this place?”
“Why? What are you after?”
“Motive isn’t the only thing missing; there’s the killer too. Could you do me a favor, Achim? Could you get in touch with our colleagues in Duisburg again? They should ask around in the Internet café one more time. Maybe they noticed somebody.”
Steeg returns to his desk. “Yes, I can do that. By the way, where’s Joop?”
“In the archives, isn’t he? I haven’t seen him today.”
“His car’s there, but that short one’s in the archives—what’s her name?”
“Nadine.”
Achim drums his fingers on the desk. “Ah yes, so our Dutch playboy is in the basement too, of course. I should have known.”
Böhm stands up. “Well, the main thing is that they bring me some results. There must be something there.” He scratches his head. “These people aren’t talking, you see. When I was questioning them yesterday I always had the feeling they were being cautious. They don’t want to snitch. Even the owner of the bar.”
“It only seems like that because you’re not from around here. You’re a Rhinelander: you people love talking. Here, people are suspicious. You have to earn their trust, or be a local.”
“Maybe. Do you think it would be better if you looked around in the village?”
Steeg shakes his head, grinning. “No, Peter. When I say local I mean you have to be from the village and be able to demonstrate at least three generations of family history in the village, or else be related to someone who can.”
Böhm stares at the brown fronds of the plant. “Then our killer is from the village.” He stands up and with two vigorous strides is at the door. “If necessary I’ll call every single one in. They’ll have to show me their alibis, and they’ll have to be watertight.” Having surprised himself with his sudden fury, he goes over to his office and makes a telephone call.
Father Rudenau can see him at eleven.
Chapter 28
Böhm’s car window is open. In front of him, the sun hovers over a small pine forest, creating a silhouette of regular peaks against the sky, like a child’s handwriting.
He switches on the radio. Foot-and-mouth disease has reached Holland. The border, normally open, has been closed. Farms that have imported British animals have been placed in quarantine. Six thousand animals will have to be slaughtered.
Böhm drives across the flat land through small villages. There are no cattle to be seen. He tries to remember whether this is always the case in March, or whether he is only noticing it because it is on the news.
The news about another plague, mad cow disease, is not quite two months old. Beef prices are already at rock bottom, and now this. No wonder people are suspicious here; they are slowly becoming desperate. There is always something new to threaten their way of life. What’s bad for farmers is bad for the country, his father always used to say.
When he reaches the village, he parks in front of the church. The clock in the bell tower strikes eleven. The first tone startles him. It has to be audible throughout the village: no one in the entire flock can be allowed to miss it. Especially not when it is calling them to worship.
The clock is still tolling across the land as he presses the button marked “Parish Office.” When the door opens, Böhm is surpr
ised to see a man in his midthirties. They shake hands, but the normal formalities are drowned out by the bells.
Rudenau shuts the door.
Böhm shakes his head. “Have you thought of having the noise levels checked?”
Rudenau smiles gently. “Don’t say that. We’re very proud of our bells.” With a practiced gesture, he pushes his dark ponytail over his shoulder. “But please, come through into my study.” He pours coffee gracefully. “Here you go.” He sits opposite Böhm, spreads his left hand, and opens the conversation. “Ask your questions. I’ll do my best to answer them.”
“How long have you been in this community?” Böhm is unable to conceal a tone of surprise.
The corner of Rudenau’s mouth twitches for a fraction of a second. He seems bitter rather than amused. “I’ve been here nearly five years. It’ll be exactly five in July.”
“Did you know Herr Gietmann?”
“Yes, of course. His wife is a particularly active member of the community. His daughter too.”
“But not Herr Gietmann himself?”
“Herr Gietmann attended church regularly. Here in the villages it’s the women who throw themselves into community work.”
Böhm nods encouragingly. “But you must know a little about Herr Gietmann, no?”
Once again, Rudenau pushes his hair over his shoulder. “Gietmann was a businessman. He made a number of generous donations, but afterward he always wanted it known. He certainly wasn’t a bad man. Sometimes he could seem rather boastful, but I don’t think he meant it. It was more that . . . everything here was too small for him, too narrow. He wanted more, and he had the means to achieve it.”
“Did he have enemies?”
“He wasn’t universally popular, but enemies capable of something like this?” He pauses. “No, I don’t think so.”
Böhm reaches for his cup. “Did you want this parish?”
Rudenau raises his eyebrows, then smiles. “At this point, of course, I’m supposed to say that we go where the Lord needs us. But that’s not the way it is. We go where there is a parish in need of a priest. And which one you take over is decided by others.”
“On the basis of the death notice, we think the killer was getting revenge. Do you know the old stories . . . or rumors about old stories?”
Again he pauses, thinks the question over. “If there were any, I would probably be the last person to know officially. What is said in the confessional—I’m sure I won’t have to argue the point with you—is sacred.”
“What can you tell me about Lüders?”
Rudenau slides back in his seat and crosses his legs. “Are you serious?” His voice is very quiet.
Böhm looks at him over his glasses. “I ask lots of questions, Herr Rudenau, and they’re all serious.”
“Lüders and Gietmann were friends. They were in the same bowling club and used to enjoy a drink together. That all changed in the last year. It was about money, but what exactly . . .” He shrugs helplessly. “It’s only a guess, but when old Frau Behrens died, it seemed to me . . .” Again he pauses, reluctant to say the wrong thing. “That hereditary lease, there were probably some oral promises made along with it. In any case, it was unclear.” He falls silent. He seems to be struggling to put the pieces of information in order.
Böhm waits. When he is sure that the man sitting opposite him does not know any more than what he has already said, he leans forward. “What do you know about the Behrenses?”
Rudenau nods, visibly relieved at the change of subject. “It’s a tragic story.” He gathers himself. “For generations, the Behrenses had the biggest farm around here. Old Frau Behrens lost her husband before the war. An accident: he fell off the roof while doing some repairs. She had three sons. The two older ones were killed in the war. The youngest committed suicide in the late sixties.”
“Do you know how he killed himself, and why?” Böhm slides forward on the sofa. His stomach is beginning to churn.
“But surely you know?” Rudenau stares at him. “He hanged himself in a prison cell.”
Chapter 29
March, and already so warm. It’s not normal. But you see it on the television: climate change. The winter wasn’t a real winter, and now summer is arriving in March. But it can still get cold, bitterly cold. As long as the months still have an R in them there can still be frost.
She strips the bed. Monday is her day off. Monday is wash day, and on Mondays she drives to the supermarket and does her shopping. One load of whites, one of colors, one of delicates. That will get her through the week. If there had been many events, she would have two or three loads of whites to boil, but the past week has been quiet. This week she’ll have Gietmann’s funeral. When they release the body, Frederike told her. She shakes her head. Why would they want to keep it for three days and then some? Even if they keep him cold, he won’t get any better.
She stuffs white tablecloths, dishcloths, and underwear into the washing machine and switches it on. She checks the spirits in the bar and writes down what she needs on a slip of paper.
An ordinary funeral, Frederike said. Even though they could certainly afford to spend a mark or two. Just soup and sandwiches. Werner would probably never have dreamed he would be buried on the cheap.
It’s understandable, of course. Everyone is holding on to their money and waiting. Nobody knows what will hit us next year, when the euro comes in. Not even the politicians, who always behave as if everything is in our best interest.
Prices are given in both marks and euros everywhere now. It looks pretty good on the invoice: in euros, it’s always half as much. But the bank statements also show half as much, and she doesn’t like that at all.
She makes her beef stock herself. Beef is a good value at the moment. There will be at least a hundred people. She’ll have to organize some helpers. Not that Frederike will give so much as a day’s warning.
She pulls on her cardigan, goes into the garage, and loads three collapsible crates and two coolers into her car. The discount store opens at seven. She is one of the first customers.
She crosses things off her shopping list methodically. Frozen vegetables, pork tenderloin, fresh vegetables, beef, and preserves. Milk, cream, butter, eggs, and cheese. A receipt for tax purposes. For the spirits she’ll pay cash at the supermarket. You have to cut a few corners to earn a little.
On the way back, she drives past the Lüders place. Ludwig hasn’t been to the bar since Friday. The least she can do is ask if everything is all right.
As she gets out of the car, she hears blackbirds bickering and, in the distance, the continuous roar of the main road. She looks around, puzzled. Something is missing, but what? She walks across the inner yard toward the gate, opens the small wooden door in the gate, and continues across the big covered yard. Now she knows what it is. Yak! The gate was standing open, and yet the big German shepherd has not come bounding out at her, not even here in the covered yard.
She pulls open the metal door to the kitchen. Klara Lüders starts with fright. She turns in her chair.
“Morning, Klara. Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Where’s Yak?”
“Oh, Ruth. I didn’t hear you coming at all.”
Ruth sits at the end of the table.
Klara is sitting at the side, peeling potatoes. Long twists of peel drop into the plastic bucket wedged between her belly and the kitchen table. She cuts the potatoes in two and tosses both halves into the pot. “Yak’s dead. Ludwig just took him away to be disposed of.”
“But he was no more than five years old!”
“Yes”—Klara shrugs briefly—“but he would also eat anything. Jörg thinks maybe he went into the storeroom by the barn and ate some fertilizer or rat poison. Anyway, this morning he was lying there in the yard, dead.”
“I’m so sorry.” Ruth pulls her cardigan tight around her meager frame and crosses her arms. “How’s Ludwig? I haven’t seen him since Gietmann died.”
“He’s sitting in the front room
. This thing with Gietmann has taken its toll. He couldn’t face the chitchat in the village.”
Ruth takes a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her handbag. “May I?”
Klara leans over to her right, fishes an ashtray out of a kitchen drawer, and passes it over. “Have you seen that announcement?” She does not look at Ruth; instead, she digs around among the peelings with her dirty fingers and brings out another potato.
“Yes, and you know what? I saw it in the morning and thought nothing of it.”
“The police were here. Ludwig says they were asking about the Behrenses and the lease.” Still holding the knife and a potato, she lays her hands on the mound of peelings. “What’s that got to do with it? Do they have to poke their noses into everything?” She sounds close to tears.
Ruth inhales deeply. “Let it be. Everything’s in order. You got the farm on a hereditary lease; Anna got the rest. What else is there to say?”
Their eyes meet for a moment over the cooking pot.
“But the announcement, Ruth. That terrible announcement.” Her hands go back to work; she does not need to look. Her voice is reduced to a whisper. “Ludwig doesn’t like to hear this, but God works in mysterious ways.” Gerhard has denounced his own father to the police, and yesterday Jörg spent half the night arguing with his father because of it. The family is falling apart.
But she doesn’t say that.
“Oh, Klara.” Ruth vigorously stubs her cigarette out in the ashtray. “Gietmann knew a bunch of people in town. Maybe he stepped on somebody’s toes.” She puts her cigarettes away and stands up. Through the thin veil of the net curtains she sees Jörg’s car driving into the yard. “Jörg’s back. I’ll just say hello to Ludwig, then I have to leave.”
Chapter 30
The office is tastefully old-fashioned, like the woman at the reception desk. He sits across from her and admires the speed with which her fingers race over the keyboard. The strap of the headphones disappears under her chin. She operates the recording system with her right foot, like a sewing machine. She keeps glancing away from the screen and up at him, as if to check that he has not run away.
To Clear the Air Page 8
