To Clear the Air

by Mechtild Borrmann

  A delicate, tuneful gong sounds. She takes off the headphones and stands up. “If you will follow me.” She knocks at a door on the left-hand side of a spacious hallway, steps aside to let him enter the room.

  The little man behind the large desk stands up and holds out his hand. “Herr Böhm. My name is Kley.”

  The men shake hands briefly.

  “Please, do sit down.”

  Böhm sits down in a wide upholstered chair with armrests. Everything in this office seems to be made of mahogany. Even the notary’s skin has a reddish-brown tinge. He is way past retirement age. His eyes examine Böhm with close attention.

  “We are investigating the Gietmann murder. I’m sure you’ve read about it.”

  The gaunt face beneath the full, white hair shows no emotion.

  “And in that context I’m interested in the situation with regard to the Behrens legacy.”

  Kley’s bushy eyebrows travel upward momentarily. Deep creases appear in his forehead, like freshly plowed furrows in earth.

  Böhm waits.

  The old man nods, his decision made. “I remember it well. I didn’t notarize the contract willingly.” He raises his hand, as if calling his interlocutor to silence. “Wait. Before we go on, let me have the files brought in. Not that I’m not telling the truth, but it was thirty years ago, after all.”

  He picks up the telephone and gives brief instructions.

  “Ludwig Lüders took over the farm. Johann Behrens wasn’t even in the ground, and he was already asking for an appointment. At the cemetery!” His outrage is audible. “I explained to him that it was more appropriate for Frau Behrens to ask for such an appointment.”

  The secretary brings in the files. Kley buries himself in them. “Yes.” He looks at Böhm and nods with resignation. “He paid fifty thousand deutschmarks for the farm and seventy-five acres of arable land, plus six hundred marks a month in rent.”

  “Fifty thousand marks?” Böhm cannot believe the sum is so low.

  “Yes. Of course, we must remember that that was a lot of money in the late sixties, but even then it was blatantly insufficient.” He pushes the folder to the middle of the desk. “I spoke to Johanna Behrens, told her she should put it on the market, but that was the way she wanted it.” He rubs his mouth with his bony, liver-spotted hand. “I know I shouldn’t say this, but at the time . . . my first thought was that it was a decision of the heart. They’d been neighbors for years, after all. But when they were sitting here in front of me, I thought: there’s something else going on.”

  “Extortion?” Böhm’s voice betrays none of his excitement.

  “If there had been even the slightest evidence, I would have blocked the contract, I can assure you. But there was nothing.” He stares at the cover of the folder. He begins to poke at the paper with unexpected vigor. “And then, a year ago, when Johanna Behrens died, he called me several times. What was the story with the will? When would it be opened? He obviously believed the cottage, the meadows, and even the little oak forest were now his. But there he was mistaken.” This is not said without pride. Kley makes it sound as if he personally prevented it.

  Böhm reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small notebook. “The heir was Anna Behrens. Can you tell me how she was related to old Frau Behrens, and where I might find her now?”

  Kley leans back in his chair. “Anna Behrens was her granddaughter. She was the daughter of Johann and Magdalena Behrens. She came here a year ago and signed the inheritance documents. She lives in Cologne and didn’t want to move here. I can’t say I blame her.” Kley opens the file again and reads out Anna Behrens’s address and telephone number.

  Böhm stands up, returns the notebook to his back pocket, and holds out his hand to Kley. “Thank you very much for taking the time to see me. You’ve been truly helpful.” It is on the tip of his tongue to ask why Johann Behrens was in jail, but it feels awkward. The priest’s remark—But surely you know?—had already been unpleasant. Besides, he can find out at the office later.

  But there is something else that interests him. “Tell me, Herr Kley: Do you know what became of Johann Behrens’s wife?”

  Kley looks at him as if he had just walked into the room without knocking. “But . . . don’t you know? Johann Behrens killed his wife. That’s why he was in jail.”

  Chapter 31

  He reaches the station at about two o’clock. The big redbrick building is dozing in the sun. One of his fellow officers, seeing out his shift on phone duty, is hunched over a crossword.

  “Hello.” Böhm taps on the armored-glass screen. “Are the others upstairs?”

  “No. Wait: Achim and Joop told me to tell you they’re eating at the Ratskeller.”

  Böhm checks the time. “Did they say how long they would be there?”

  The officer shakes his head. “They left no more than ten minutes ago. And they said you should join them.”

  Böhm takes the stairs, two at a time, up to the fourth floor. Worth seeing what Van Oss has dug up, and whether the Duisburg guys have handed in their report on the Internet café. Why do I feel I’m on the right track, even though I have no evidence this old story has anything to do with Gietmann?

  “Life comes to an end, but memory is forever.” You wrote that. You didn’t mean it the way most people would understand it in a death notice. You want the world to learn something about Gietmann. For that you were prepared to take a big risk.

  “Böhm.”

  He turns in surprise. An officer from Narcotics is standing right behind him.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Sure, why wouldn’t it be?”

  “Because I’ve said hello to you twice and you haven’t answered.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I was thinking.”

  “The Gietmann case?” They walk side by side. “Steeg already asked us, but our customers are out of the question. Not like that. The MO, the victim, and especially the announcement. Doesn’t fit.”

  Böhm raises his right hand briefly and turns left into the hallway. “Anyway, thanks for checking.” He disappears into his office. The sun is shining straight in through the window; it is hot and stuffy. He switches on the computer. The icons on the desktop are invisible in the sunlight. He stands up and pulls the blinds halfway down. It’s a pity: he’s waited so long for sunshine.

  Suddenly he remembers. He opens the Gietmann folder and the Addresses and Phone Numbers file. He dials the number for the parish office. Rudenau answers in person.

  “Böhm again, Herr Rudenau. This morning I forgot to ask whether you know Gerhard Lüders.”

  There is complete silence for a moment at the end of the line. “Yes, I know Gerhard Lüders, but if you think he had something to do with this, you’re wrong. That man has enough trouble.”

  “Are you in touch with him?”

  “He was here two or three times. But that was a few months ago.”

  Böhm takes off his glasses and chews on the earpiece. “I had the impression the man needed help. I wanted to ask you to check on him.”

  When the voice at the other end speaks again, Böhm senses the subtle, bitter smile. “I’ve already done that, Herr Böhm, several times. Herr Lüders doesn’t want any more visits from me. He told me, ‘God doesn’t take care of justice.’ He felt he had to take care of it himself. But it’s to your credit that you’re calling me.”

  Böhm places his glasses on the keyboard. “Okay, so is there nothing to be done, or is there another way?”

  “I’ll talk to Jörg Lüders. He has quite a good relationship with his brother. And maybe Frau Lüders, his mother.”

  “Thank you.” Böhm hangs up.

  He opens the day’s summary file. The Duisburg team has staffing problems and won’t be sending anyone to the Internet café before tomorrow. The worker fired by Gietmann lives in Osnabrück and was there at the time of the crime. As for the two lawsuits brought against Gietmann, one was about a window that was forgotten during the building pr
ocess and the other was about a cellar that started showing cracks within a year. In both cases a compromise was reached after mediation. None of these is a reason for an act of this nature.

  Böhm leans back, satisfied. As much as he searches for clues and clutches at straws in the early stages, he loves the second phase, when you can start to rule certain suspicions out.

  The cell phone in his pocket pipes up like a stuttering bird. Brigitte! He takes it out of his pocket and sees from the display that it is Van Oss.

  “Peter, where are you?”

  “I’m in the office. Just looking through what you’ve been up to all morning.”

  “We worked hard, didn’t we?”

  Böhm laughs. “Yes, I can see that. Look, can you bring me a salad? I’ll make some coffee in the meantime.”

  “Sounds good. What do you want? Wait, there’s . . .”

  He hears the sound of pages turning.

  “Tuna, ham and cheese, salmon, or just cheese. What would you like?”

  “Salmon would be good.”

  He dives into Van Oss’s notes.

  There it is: April 12, 1967. Magdalena Behrens: serious assault followed by death (see accompanying file).

  Böhm goes over to Van Oss’s office. The bleached gray folder is lying on the desk. The name Behrens, along with the file number, is written on it in a beautiful script. He runs his fingers over the coarse paper. The file is thin, but when he picks it up, it is heavy.

  He opens it in his office. The pages are wafer-thin carbon copies. In some words, the ink has run, leaving blotches scattered across the text. He used to work like this: with manual typewriters and carbon paper. If you were careless and made too many typing errors, you had to start over. Which he used to hate.

  He strokes the top of his screen affectionately. Then he buries himself in the files.

  Chapter 32

  Margret has thrown the windows open. A light breeze wafts through the kitchen and living room. Anna sits on the sofa, listening to her various admonishments and watching her tidy up. Her small, shapely body moves nimbly through the rooms. Every touch seems effortless, natural; she has no need to think about it.

  Mama’s letters belong to her, really. They’re addressed to her.

  Anna sees the work surface become visible again as glasses, plates, and cups disappear into the cabinets. For a year, she has been wanting to give Margret this correspondence from the distant past. But it would break Margret’s heart if she knew her sister had repeatedly tried to ask her for help back then.

  Margret keeps up her cheerful chatter. “A bit of fresh air will do you good, and so will being among people again.”

  Anna feels her stomach tighten. “Margret, couldn’t you go and do the shopping by yourself for once? I’m so exhausted. These pills . . .”

  “Oh no, Anna. You know what they said at the clinic. And you know from your own experience. You have to start living a normal life again, bit by bit. If only your daughter were here. She would be giving you a hard time.”

  Tired, Anna shakes her head. “It’s good she’s not here. She’s suffered enough with my depression and anxiety attacks. She should be living her own life at last.”

  “Go take a shower and get changed. I’ll put another load in the washing machine.”

  Anna stands up wearily. She gathers underwear, a pair of jeans, and a sweater from the closet and locks herself into the bathroom.

  If she ever again gets up in the morning and feels the need to take a shower, she will know she is well again. That’s how it has always been.

  She takes a long time. Margret blow-dries her thick, dark hair and smooths cream onto her face. “Such a beautiful woman. And yet you bury yourself here.”

  “It’s not good to be a beautiful woman.”

  “Anna, what kind of nonsense is that?”

  Anna falls silent. Margret’s heart is in the right place, but it’s better not to say things she doesn’t want to hear.

  When Anna came to stay with Margret and Karl, they looked after her with love. For two years they told her Mama and Papa were ill. You can’t go and see them now. You’ll be able to go back soon. She had known better all along. Then, one hot summer’s day, they told her the whole truth. Papa and Mama are dead. She screamed, hit out at Karl. They had lied to her. She had known Mama was dead, but Papa? Maybe they were still lying. Maybe Papa wasn’t dead at all.

  Not until she was eighteen did she summon up the courage to hire a lawyer and demand access to the police file. Page after page of lies, nothing but lies. She ran to the bathroom and threw up. She went home in a trance, and a few days later it happened for the first time. She woke up and her whole body was shaking, incapable of breath, as if a huge hand had her in its grip and was squeezing. Slowly, harder and harder. Depression, anxiety neurosis, psychotic episodes. Do you take drugs, Frau Behrens? She’d heard it all. They’d tried it all on her.

  Like a child, she trots toward the supermarket beside Margret.

  “Isn’t it a lovely day, after such a long winter?”

  Anna stares at the concrete slabs of the sidewalk. They are dirty and gray, in summer and winter alike.

  “Shall we look for some new summer clothes for you? What do you say?”

  “Oh no, Margret, not today, please.” She feels dizzy. She holds on to a lamppost. Lampposts are good. Lampposts just stand there and give you something to hold on to.

  Margret turns to look at her. “We don’t have to do it today, don’t worry.”

  How is she supposed to explain it? The madness that comes driving in at her. Sweat, born of anxiety, because she feels someone looking at her. Can’t bring out a single word when she’s at the cheese counter and should be talking to the saleswoman. Taking money from her purse with trembling fingers at the cash register. There’s no reason. That’s the most frightening thing. There’s no reason at all.

  By about four o’clock, Margret has done another load of laundry and made three days’ worth of soup, and she goes home.

  Anna lies down on the sofa and stares into the cleaned-up kitchen. She could lie here forever.

  The telephone wakes her about an hour later.

  The telephone. The publisher, or her daughter. Or maybe Margret has forgotten something. She goes to the desk and picks up the receiver. “Behrens.”

  “Cleves police, please hold.”

  Anna sways on her feet. She grabs the arm of the chair, turns, and allows herself to fall into it. Her heart is pounding; her head throbs again. When her heart is pounding, she can’t think straight.

  “Böhm here. Is this Frau Anna Behrens?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’re investigating a murder, Frau Behrens. The victim is a Werner Gietmann. Does that name mean anything to you?”

  Anna tries to keep a grip on the desk.

  “Are you still there, Frau Behrens?”

  She is gasping. “What do you want from me?”

  “I’d like to come see you and talk.”

  She feels panic rising within her. Her grip tightens on the receiver. Her neck stiffens, her muscles tense. “But . . . I don’t know anything.”

  Her head feels heavy as lead. She must hold it up. It mustn’t drop. If it drops, she will drop. She swallows.

  “Frau Behrens, can you see me tomorrow, shall we say at eleven?”

  The voice is friendly. Gietmann is dead. Why do the police care about the deaths of old men?

  “Yes.”

  “Good, then I’ll see you at about eleven tomorrow.”

  He hangs up. She holds the receiver in her hand for a long time, staring at it.

  Gietmann is dead. Her ears start buzzing.

  Shit, she’s bleeding everywhere!

  Come on, let’s get out of here!

  Chapter 33

  From the marketplace, only a few lit windows can be seen in the police station. The heat came too quickly, and now, in the early darkness of late afternoon, a storm is brewing. For the moment it is just a distant
rumbling, but it is getting nearer, creeping in over the open fields and meadows. No mountains to hold it back, not for miles.

  Van Oss, Steeg, and Böhm are going through the thirty-four-year-old files for the third time.

  Steeg leans back in his chair. He is drumming nervously on the heel of his shoe. “Yes, of course they should have done some more investigating, but back then they didn’t have the resources we have now. They took Johann Behrens’s suicide as an admission of guilt. End of story.”

  Böhm nods. “You don’t have to defend anyone here, Achim, because no one is being criticized. As far as I’m concerned, I see certain parallels that could be interesting for our own investigation.”

  Van Oss is sitting at the computer. “Let’s put the connections together.” He pushes himself upright in the chair. “How can you sit in a chair like this, Peter?” He makes a point of raising himself a little, removing the wedge from the seat, and throwing it on the ground.

  Böhm’s eyebrows rise, creating deep creases on his forehead. “If you can’t sit on that wedge, it means your back has had it. At least, that’s what my orthopedist says. But I suggest we draw up a matrix so we can compare the cases directly.”

  Steeg leans forward for a better view of the screen. “Magdalena Behrens bled to death. Gietmann bled to death.” Steeg rubs his hands between his legs.

  “Yes, but Gietmann’s wrists were slashed, and Behrens bled to death because of a wound in her back.” Böhm goes to the window and breathes in the dense, stormy air. “The killer wasn’t able to copy that death exactly. So maybe he just wanted to get as close as he could.”

  “The announcement suggests an old story, and the case is more than thirty years old.”

  “Write that in a different color, Joop. That’s how we interpret the announcement, but we may not be right.”

  “Behrens and Gietmann knew each other. They went bowling and drinking just before the original crime.”