“Yes, he suffocated. When’s the press conference?”
“Twelve o’clock in the conference room. Why? Do you want to come?”
Böhm laughs. “No, certainly not.”
That had been a condition when he took this job. He did not hold press conferences, he had said. He was a police officer, not an entertainer.
The way the media play the game today no longer has anything to do with the public’s right to information. They corrupt cops with sums of money a simple police officer can’t earn in a year. Ten years ago, a young and capable colleague, in financial difficulties because of a new house and a divorce, was forced out of his job for corruption in public office, and the newspaper got off scot-free. It dealt a heavy blow to Böhm’s faith in his country’s system of justice.
Since then, he has cultivated no contacts in the press. His “no comment” is well known and loathed among journalists. On several occasions they have tried to portray him as incompetent. So far they have not succeeded.
“I need more people, Siegfried. The killer is working fast, and we don’t know who else he has on his list. Whatever happens, I need someone sitting in the listings department at the Tagesblatt for the next few days, accepting death notices. It’s already arranged with the editor responsible. On top of that I need people to go door to door in the village. The killer drove two wooden posts deep into the ground. Someone must have heard something.”
“Agreed. I’ll take care of it. I can certainly give you the new candidate for inspector. She should really be going to Serious Crimes first, and then to you, but we can do it the other way around.”
Van Oss and Steeg are sitting in front him, chewing sandwiches. Steeg pushes a cup of coffee toward him. Two miniature Dutch flags are blinking on his screen, telling him that some internal e-mails have come in. Van Oss set up this notification, and it drives Steeg crazy. For days he has tried, but failed, to get rid of the Dutch flag and replace it with some other symbol.
Bongartz has sent in his preliminary autopsy report, and Lembach the early results from the scene of the crime. Böhm opens the messages, and all three of them stare at the screen.
Lüders suffocated because his mouth and nose were taped over. He was knocked out first, just like Gietmann. The killer used a blunt instrument, as before. In addition, the left arm was wrenched out of its socket. The genitals were removed with a normal knife. Judging by the cut surfaces, it could be the same knife as was used to cut open Gietmann’s arteries. Fibers were found in the palm of the victim’s right hand. Bongartz has passed them on to Lembach. Time of death was between nine and ten o’clock at night.
Van Oss leans back in his chair. “This time the date of death in the announcement is correct.”
Steeg chews the last mouthful of his sandwich and swallows. “He had less time, too. Jörg Lüders said in his statement that his father went to the Dorfkrug bar every Monday at eight and came back by midnight at the latest.” He picks some sandwich remnants out of his teeth with a fingernail. “How does the killer know all this? He was well informed about not only Gietmann’s but also Lüders’s habits. You don’t pick that up from watching someone for a few days.”
Van Oss stretches out his legs. “Exactly. And don’t forget the dog.”
Böhm turns. “What dog?”
“Lüders’s dog was found dead in the yard yesterday morning. Jörg thought he had eaten some fertilizer or rat poison by mistake. The thing that’s interesting, though, is that old Lüders often used to take the dog with him when he went drinking.”
Böhm’s eyes narrow. “Yes, I remember. The dog barked like mad when I was over at Lüders’s place. If a stranger went there to put out poison, he would have reacted in the same way.”
“Jörg says the dog always made a racket. Even with people he knew. Only he, his brother, Gerhard, old Lüders, and his wife could come into the yard without being attacked.”
Van Oss looks at the time. “I’ll go call the hospital. I’d like to know how Frau Lüders is doing.”
“Have the two of you already been to see Gerhard Lüders?”
“Yes.” Steeg stands up and approaches the table with the coffeepot. “I was there at five. He wasn’t home.”
Böhm swivels on his chair and pours himself some coffee. “He works in the cooperative.” He reaches into the top drawer and pulls out a phone book.
Van Oss comes back into the room. “What are you doing?”
Böhm runs his finger down the page. “Checking whether Gerhard Lüders has shown up at work.”
“He hasn’t. He’s at the hospital, with his mother. The doctor says her heart is unstable.”
Böhm closes the phone book. “Joop, drive over to the hospital and grab Gerhard Lüders. I’d like to know where he was last night and this morning.”
Van Oss grabs his jacket and heads out. He almost collides with Lembach in the doorway.
“Hey, hey! I haven’t been greeted with this much enthusiasm for a long time.”
Van Oss grins. “You’ve got me wrong. I’m running away from you.”
Lembach heads for the coffee machine. “Can I get some coffee too?”
“Sure. We were just about to read your report.”
“There are no mugs.”
Böhm looks at Steeg. Steeg slides his chair back, stands up, and, grumbling, goes to get some.
“So what have you found?”
“We have some footprints. Not very meaningful ones, because the sole doesn’t show much of a profile and the prints aren’t very deep. Size nine. Small feet, and as I said in Gietmann’s case, the man is light.”
Böhm rubs his forehead. Gerhard Lüders weighs at least two hundred and twenty pounds.
“How light?”
“I estimate between a hundred and thirty and a hundred and fifty pounds.”
Steeg hands Lembach a cup of coffee.
“Thanks. Lüders was bound and gagged with gaffer tape. A kind you can’t buy just anywhere. It’s mostly used in the arts scene, for set construction. It’s used to keep cables in position, secure dance floors, put together sets; artists use it to attach canvases to frames. It’s very strong longitudinally but can easily be torn across its width.”
“Where can you buy it?”
“Artists’ supplies. Specialist stage suppliers. Then there are companies that rent out floodlights and sound systems. They might sell it too. And of course you can order it on the Internet.”
Böhm and Steeg are taking notes.
“Then we have a fiber in the victim’s right palm. Dyed red. A completely synthetic material. Widespread, unfortunately, particularly in sports clothing.”
Böhm nods appreciatively. Lembach is not carrying any written files. He knows all the facts by heart, down to the smallest detail, and you can be 100 percent sure he hasn’t forgotten anything.
“The wooden posts are spruce and standard, something you can buy in any garden center or do-it-yourself store. They were driven a good foot into the ground with a square-faced hammer. Probably a normal mallet. Based on the leaf cover and the ground immediately around the posts, we think they were definitely put in before Saturday.”
Steeg and Böhm look up together. “What?”
“Yes. The scene of the crime was prepared at least three days in advance.”
Chapter 38
Oh, if only she had said it yesterday. She hadn’t wanted to frighten Klara. But it was her first thought. Even before Klara said he had eaten fertilizer or rat poison, she had thought, Who poisoned him?
She carries the wooden board and a cup over to the kitchen table. Jam, honey, margarine. The teapot and two slices of rye bread. She sits down at the neatly laid table and shakes her head. A cup of tea, yes, but she certainly isn’t hungry. Every bite will stick in her throat.
Klara called at midnight. “Is Ludwig still there?”
She was about to lock up and said, without thinking, “He hasn’t been here.”
Klara had made a panicked sound in
her throat, like a dying animal.
She sits down at the kitchen table and pours some tea.
She had driven over, and they looked for him. She drove along the main road in her car, went to Gerhard’s, up to the cottage and the blind. She kept thinking, I don’t want to find him, please God, don’t let me find him, and then the first police cars came toward her. Then she knew. She drove home and drank three Mariacron brandies.
And now Klara is in the hospital. She’s tough; she’ll recover. But Gerhard not at home last night? At one o’clock in the morning, midweek? She shakes her head again. And now these strange people running around all over the place. Journalists: vermin. She saw one, with one of those long lenses, from her bedroom window. They must be from the television. Merklen has become famous. She should really open up at ten; there’s definitely money to be made today.
Then she pushes her cup aside, slides her folded arms over the surface of the table, and lays her head on them. It is cold out. She doesn’t want to make it comfortable for them. If these bloodhounds have to sit in their cars all day long, they’ll leave. She stands up wearily. In the bar, she writes Closed today on the back of an envelope, using a thick marker, and slips it behind the blind on the door. Hardly has she turned her back before someone is hammering on the glass with an open hand. She goes to the window and pushes the net curtain aside a bit.
More hammering on the door.
“We’re closed!” Shameless rabble. She doesn’t want that kind in her bar anyway.
“Ruth! Open up!”
She pushes the blind back all the way and sees Günther Mahler and Egon Jansen standing on the steps.
“Come around the back, through the kitchen.” She goes behind the bar, hears the kitchen door slam shut.
“Why are you closed?” Mahler offers her his callused hand. He handed over his carpentry business to his son a long time ago, but he can always be found there anyway. He can’t not work; someday he’ll drop dead at the workbench, Gietmann used to say.
Jansen is sixty and has no children. He owns the funeral parlor and the cemetery-maintenance business. He is a small, almost delicate man. He transported the dead Gietmann into town, and he will probably do the same for Lüders.
Mahler tosses the newspaper onto the counter. “Give us a schnapps, and then read that.”
Ruth Holter takes two chilled glasses out of the freezer and pours. Mahler leafs through to the pages with the death notices and turns the paper toward her. She draws the sheet over, looks at it for a moment, and nods. “Just as I thought.”
“What do you mean?” Jansen whispers.
She goes over to the beer taps, fills a provisional glass, and pours it down the drain. “Would you like a beer?”
Jansen hunches over the counter. “Yes. But why did you think that?”
“Because someone’s getting revenge, Egon.”
Mahler takes off his cotton jacket and perches on a bar stool. His voice cracks as he says, “You’re crazy, Ruth. Who would do that? Nobody knows about it.”
She draws two beers. “Apparently someone does—or are you telling me this is all coincidence?” She turns to Jansen. “Did you drive Lüders’s body last night?”
Jansen nods.
“How did he look?”
“His balls had been cut off.”
A beer glass crashes onto the screen beneath the taps. Ruth gathers up the pieces and throws them in the trash. She stops in front of the two men, rests her hands on the work surface, and shakes her head. “My God, why that? He may be a pervert, but he knows. He knows exactly who was there. You might even think he was there himself.” She looks from one to the other and back again.
“You’re crazy,” says Jansen, still whispering.
She goes back to their beers.
Jansen whispers. He always has. Maybe his profession has something to do with it, but there is also something mysterious, clandestine, about him. Back then, too, he was the one who took it worst. He was determined to call an ambulance, and to this day nobody knows who informed the police. Jansen has always denied it, but who knows?
She places the beers in front of the two silent men.
“I’m scared.” Jansen picks up his beer. “I ask myself whether we hadn’t better go to the police.”
Mahler shakes his head firmly. “Out of the question.”
Ruth leans on the rear counter and puts her hands on her hips. “You call me crazy, but you’re thinking what I’m thinking.”
“Yes, but who? Who, Ruth? I’ve been thinking about it ever since Gietmann. I think about it all night long. There’s nobody!” Jansen withdraws into himself.
Ruth hopes he won’t start crying. Her suspicions of Jansen evaporate. He wouldn’t have it in him. Or would he? Jansen runs deep, make no mistake, her Karl—may he rest in peace—used to say. She hears the kitchen door close again.
Lena comes into the bar. “Frau Holter. Morning, everyone. I saw all the people, and I heard what happened. I thought you’d have your hands full and could use me.”
Ruth smiles at her. She runs her hand through Lena’s thick blond hair. “You’re a wonder, but I’m not going to open today. I don’t want those vultures in here.”
Lena puts her hands in her coat pockets. “Is it true Yak’s dead?”
Mahler looks at her in disbelief and bursts out laughing. “Yes, Yak’s dead. And in case you didn’t know, so are Lüders and Gietmann.”
Lena looks down. “I’m sorry, Herr Mahler. I didn’t mean . . . I wasn’t . . .”
Jansen slaps the counter. “Leave her alone, Günther. Lena was with me when we drove Gietmann away; she knows better than you that he’s dead.”
Ruth strokes Lena’s arm. “We know you didn’t mean any harm, child. There’s no need to take it so seriously. Everyone’s on edge around here at the moment.” She strokes Lena’s cheek. “You look pale and tired. Two jobs and your studies—maybe it’s a bit much, eh?”
Lena slings her backpack over her shoulder. “It’s okay, Frau Holter. Everything’s fine. If I hurry, I can still make it to my lecture.”
Ruth goes into the kitchen with her. “Lena, it looks like I’m going to have two big funerals in the next few days. Could you work during the day?”
“Of course. Give me a call. If I’m not in, just leave a message. I’ll call right back.”
Ruth helps herself to a cup of tea and takes it back into the bar. “That was unnecessary, Günther. Lena was very fond of that dog.”
Jansen is still sitting on his stool, as if it were the sole remnant of a shipwreck. “They’re going to question everybody now. The whole village. If they ask me about the Behrenses, I’ll tell them the truth.”
Mahler raises his empty glass. “Give us both a refill.” He turns to Jansen. “And then what?”
“Maybe they’ll catch him. I mean . . . they have resources, after all.”
“You mean, maybe they’ll catch him before he catches us.”
Jansen shrugs helplessly. “Yes. Maybe you’ll think I’m a coward, but I don’t walk through the village alone at night anymore.” His upper body straightens gradually. “We didn’t do anything, Günther. We were there, yes, but the whole thing was thirty years ago. If you had seen Ludwig, you would think the same.”
“You can say you were there if you want, but you may not mention my name.” Mahler looks contemptuously at Jansen. Gietmann is dead, Lüders is dead. Now it’s his turn. The old Behrens woman’s granddaughter told them both: I’ll sell the land to anyone but you. She doesn’t know anything about buildable land. Maybe he can buy a few meadows and reap some building land for himself.
Chapter 39
Liefers has put five more officers at Böhm’s disposal. Three have taken over questioning the villagers. One is taking care of stores that sell gaffer tape. Steeg is looking into the announcement, and Van Oss is sitting next door with Gerhard Lüders, who claims he was out fishing all night and didn’t come home till seven o’clock this morning.
&nbs
p; Böhm gets out Jörg Lüders’s statement again. Ruth Holter helped with the search during the night. She had not returned to the farm. Jörg tried to reach his brother at midnight.
For the third time, he picks up the telephone, dials Anna Behrens’s number, and puts it on speakerphone. The ringtone buzzes through the room eight times, and then he hangs up. They had an appointment at eleven o’clock, and that was when he tried for the first time.
He goes over to Van Oss.
When Van Oss arrived with Gerhard Lüders, Lembach glanced at him and said, laconically, “He’s too heavy.” Böhm agreed. But he is no longer quite so sure they are only dealing with one person in this affair.
Lüders is sitting hunched forward in a gray plastic chair. Dark pouches beneath his eyes show that he hasn’t slept all night. His feet and ankles are hidden inside black rubber boots. He glances quickly and warily at Böhm.
“You can go over there. I’m sure the prints from my boots are still there. You’re sure to find tire tracks too.” He doesn’t seem to be talking to anyone in particular. The words drop onto the old, worn-out linoleum floor, monotonous as a nursery rhyme, and rip a hole in Böhm’s suspicions.
Van Oss rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “Herr Lüders, for the third time, we don’t need to check that. We believe you were there. But you could have been there five minutes or—as you claim—eight hours. Do you see our problem?”
Lüders seems not to notice him. He is staring at the floor and muttering to himself. “Why would I do that to him? Castrate him. We haven’t talked since . . . I wouldn’t kill my own father.”
“How do you know your father was castrated?” Böhm leans against the door, arms folded.
“Jörg told me he was tied to a tree and . . .” His shoulders begin to shake. He covers his face in his hands.
Van Oss looks questioningly at his boss.
Böhm goes over to the desk. “Herr Lüders, are you willing to let Forensics have a look at your car?”
Lüders has pulled himself together again. He removes his hands from his face and nods.
To Clear the Air Page 11
