To Clear the Air

by Mechtild Borrmann

  She looks down and whispers, “It could come to that, Peter. Not by another man, but by death.”

  For a moment he thinks he has misunderstood her.

  She raises her head and looks at him. Her eyes are moist with tears. “I have cancer.”

  The words reach his ears and then withdraw. He hears them over and over again, like waves pounding the shore and then retreating into the sea. Then he understands. He stands up, lifts her out of her chair, and embraces her tightly. The anguish escaping from deep within his gut reaches his throat, and for a moment a howl shatters the room and his belief in order and justice.

  He doesn’t know how long they stand there.

  Brigitte disentangles herself cautiously. He takes a step back and leans against the kitchen counter. Thirty minutes may have gone by, or sixty, he doesn’t know. For him, the world has turned on its axis several times and fundamentally changed.

  Brigitte is the first to find her way back into this kitchen, back into a world of sober facts. Breast cancer, she says. The left breast has to be removed, she says. Then three months of chemotherapy. Chances of recovery, 50 percent.

  “Are you listening, Peter?”

  He nods.

  She knows it all. Has seen the doctors, made all the arrangements herself. On her own. Are they really so alone with each other?

  “How can they know all this? Isn’t it normal to take tissue samples for that?”

  “I was in the hospital for two days, two weeks ago.”

  Fourteen days ago? He tries to adjust his mind to an earlier time. A time before. He was on that training course for four days. Personnel management in the public service.

  “Why . . . why didn’t you talk to me?”

  Again she looks at him in that way that reminds him of her grief for Andreas.

  “When would I have? When have you had time in the last few months?”

  He gulps.

  “It’s just like it was before Andreas died, Peter. We were going to change, be there for each other more.” She covers her face with her hands for a moment, then pulls herself together. “We had realized that we only live once.”

  He cannot hold her gaze; he looks down at the floor. Looks into the abyss. As if talking to himself, he says, “But then we forgot; maybe we couldn’t bear living with what we knew. My job sucked me in, and . . .” He pauses.

  How alive they had been after the crisis, how close. And then the subject of death had slipped away from them, and they fell back into the belief that it was just the way things were. He finds himself thinking about Gietmann’s coffin.

  She turns in her chair, leans forward, and pulls another one over. She takes his hand and pulls him down onto the empty chair. “I did this alone because I am alone, Peter. On one hand, I love you. On the other, I can’t go on living with you like this.”

  They sit opposite each other. She is still holding his hand. He tilts forward until their heads touch.

  “We need to make some decisions, Peter. I can do the chemotherapy as an outpatient or an inpatient. I may throw up, my hair will fall out, I won’t feel well. If I have to do it in the hospital because I can’t rely on your being there for me, I won’t come back to this house.”

  He is shaken by her carefully considered matter-of-factness.

  “And you need to make some decisions too. I’ll lose at least one breast. I may have no hair for a long time, and it may be that none of it helps and I die anyway.”

  He flinches. He feels he is prepared to give up everything for her. He feels this is not just a spontaneous reaction, born of despair. It is true.

  He tells her so. They sit there for some time, whispering. He asks about the pain, when she has to go to the hospital, what he can do, what she wants from him.

  His cell phone rings in his jacket pocket.

  Chapter 54

  The church is full to overflowing. Many people have to stand. Van Oss stands in the foyer, just inside the main door. With his wide beige trousers, bright-red jacket, and yellow umbrella, he really does look like a parakeet among the mourners in their black, gray, and dark-blue outfits.

  The priest plays down the murder. He uses phrases like “suddenly and unexpectedly taken from us” and “God’s plan, inscrutable to mortal beings.” The whole village seems to be gathered here, and Van Oss is surprised how many people that is.

  When the throng starts moving to accompany the deceased to his last resting place, he stays where he is and lets them go by. He recognizes Jörg and Gerhard Lüders and Mahler among the pallbearers. Mahler and Gerhard are wearing long raincoats like the ones fishermen wear.

  When the church is completely empty, he goes up to the altar and has a careful look around. Then he follows the funeral procession through the heavy rain. He stands to one side; the crowd of people, with their umbrellas, blocks his view of the grave itself. As the mourners hurriedly disperse in different directions, heads down, he realizes: there are only five people standing there with their white gloves and bowed heads. Mahler is no longer among them.

  “Shit!” He does not hesitate. He goes to the Dorfkrug at a run. The umbrella stands are overloaded. He puts his own with the others at the bar and sees Mahler there. He is at the counter, talking to two men.

  Van Oss sighs with relief and sits down at a small table near the door. He takes a coaster from the small plastic holder and snaps it in two with a single movement. If Mahler wants to play the strong loner, let him. He tosses the two halves of the coaster onto the table and looks grimly at the bar. He has no desire to see another death. No desire to find another tortured and discarded soul among these endless fields.

  He has been sitting there a while before the waitress comes to take his order and asks him whether he is with the Gietmann party. She is tall, pretty, and athletic looking.

  Van Oss smiles at her. “I’ll have a coffee, please. And no, I’m not with the party.” She hurries to the bar and returns immediately with his coffee. Her hands shake as she puts the cup down. Some coffee spills into the saucer.

  “I’m sorry.” She picks up the cup. “I’ll bring another.”

  He grips her arm and clicks his tongue reassuringly. “It’s not bad. I can drink this one, no problem.” Their eyes meet momentarily. He sees her enlarged pupils and her fright.

  Ecstasy. It flashes across his mind. Also: what a pity!

  “Thanks.” She turns away and vanishes into the crowd.

  Van Oss sees Jansen come through the door. Satisfied, he takes a sip of coffee. Jansen walks past, as if he has not seen him. At the bar, Mahler grabs Jansen by the arm and pulls him into a corner. Van Oss watches them out of the corner of his eye. They are arguing heatedly. He would love to be able to hear. He sees Jansen free himself from Mahler’s grasp and disappear into the throng.

  He is on his third cup of coffee when Steeg suddenly appears behind him. “And about time. What took you so long? Wait, I’ll get Jansen.” Van Oss stands up.

  Steeg looks him up and down and shakes his head. “I’ll do it. You don’t seriously intend to go through a crowd of mourners dressed like that?”

  Van Oss rolls his eyes. “I’m not in mourning, Achim. I’m on duty.”

  Steeg heads off. Van Oss picks up his umbrella and waits.

  Barely two minutes pass before Steeg is back. He grabs Van Oss’s lapels and applies pressure to his chest. “Where is he? Where’s Jansen?”

  Van Oss slaps Steeg’s hands down. “In the dining room.” He sniffs angrily. “He hasn’t left.”

  Van Oss goes to the counter. The owner is very busy. “Excuse me, do you know where Herr Jansen is?”

  Ruth Holter glances up. “Are you the cop?”

  He sees the disbelief in her eyes. “Yes, that’s me.”

  “Where’s the other one? Böhm?”

  Van Oss loses his temper. “Please, Frau Holter! Where’s Jansen?”

  For a moment, all eyes are on him. Ruth stares at him in shock.

  She snaps back. “He’s driving
Lena home, and then he’ll come to the station in his own car. He asked me to tell you. I’ve been looking out for that other detective the whole time. Böhm. How could anyone know you’re one of them too?”

  Steeg is behind Van Oss. They both sigh with relief. They go out to the car. The rain has let up. They wave to their fellow officer, who has taken on night duty at the cemetery, and drive to the station.

  Van Oss calls the officer at reception. No, a Herr Jansen has not shown up.

  Chapter 55

  They have already been waiting for more than an hour. Steeg calls Ruth and asks for Jansen’s cell phone number.

  “Cell phone?” She snorts contemptuously. “I’m sure Jansen doesn’t have a cell phone, and if he does I don’t know his number.” Then she relaxes a little. “Lena! Lena has a cell phone, and I can give you her number.”

  Steeg tries it several times. The phone is turned off.

  Van Oss paces agitatedly up and down the room. “He should have been back long ago. Should we send out a search party . . . ?”

  When the phone rings, both men reach for it at the same time. Steeg gets there first. Van Oss puts it on speaker. It is a fellow officer in Cologne. He quickly tells them how they found Anna Behrens.

  Van Oss stares out the window. The rain has stopped, but the wind is still driving dense clouds across the sky. They look as if they are fleeing something.

  How did they get themselves into this position? Everything seems intertwined, and yet all they have is loose ends that don’t match up. Why did she do it? Was she the killer? Had she given up after Böhm’s phone call? If so, Jansen is safe. He can’t bring the ends into a logical order. He hopes Böhm will show up soon.

  “She’ll survive, but she’s unconscious.” Steeg can hear papers being shuffled on the other end of the line. “Look, we’ve traced an aunt here, but there’s also a daughter. Frau Margarete Lech gave us an address, but it’s no longer valid. She’s probably moved. You have good contacts with your Dutch counterparts down there. The address is in Nijmegen.”

  Steeg takes a sheet of paper from the printer and places a pencil on top of it, then slides them both across the table to Van Oss. He covers the microphone with his hand. “You do it, to make up for losing Jansen.” He points at his watch and grins. “I’ve got to go to practice.” He speaks into the mic. “Okay, shoot. Our Dutch colleague is here to write it down.” He grins broadly at Van Oss again.

  “The daughter’s name is Magdalena Koberg. Her address is a student residence hall.”

  Van Oss drops the pencil on the paper, turns the computer screen to face him, and opens the file containing the interview notes. Böhm had entered something. The waitress: Lena.

  Steeg ends the conversation and hangs up. “What are you looking for?”

  “This Lena. Böhm had . . .” And there it is: Lena Koberg. Van Oss turns the screen toward Steeg. “Lena Koberg, goddammit! Anna Behrens’s daughter!” He bangs his forehead with his hand. “Send out a search party. She’s got Jansen!” He runs into his office. While still in the corridor, he calls back, “I’ll try to reach Peter.”

  Chapter 56

  There is a smell of dust, of upholstery that has absorbed damp and is quietly rotting in the darkness, of drains through which no water has flowed for a long time. She’d had to act. It would have been Mahler’s turn tomorrow. Everything was ready, but now . . . ?

  The police have been asking the right questions, much sooner than she expected. At lunchtime today, while Ruth was talking with Mahler, everything became clear. She would have to change her plans if she wanted to complete her task.

  She had knocked back two pills. An hour later, she was awake, wide awake, and her mind was crystal clear. She had felt her power immediately, and waited patiently.

  Rubbing with the sleeve of her white blouse, she tries to create a clear patch in the filthy window of the kitchen. Her effort is in vain. The dirt that has clung to the window for more than a year blocks her view. Cautiously, she turns the handle on the old wooden window and opens it with a firm shove. Fresh air, cleansed by the rain, pours into the room. She sucks it in greedily.

  From here she can see the road and part of the front yard. From here she can even see the spot where Gietmann’s blood flowed into the lane.

  So far, it has all gone perfectly.

  Jansen had unexpectedly appeared beside her in the big room and asked her, concerned, if she was unwell. She had reacted immediately. They had walked together to the caretaker’s yard in the cemetery. He had taken his car keys from the house, and she had taken a wooden post from the shed and placed it beside the garage. She had helped to lift the heavy steel door. When he was about to unlock the car doors, she hit him over the head and heaved him into the trunk. He was considerably lighter than Gietmann or Lüders.

  She had driven here, brought him inside the house, tied him up carefully, and left him lying in the living room. Then she had driven the car back to the garage, lowered the steel door, and come back here by bicycle.

  She looks down the street with satisfaction. She had not encountered anyone; everyone was at the Dorfkrug. The only person to come near her had been the man with the Golf, the one who had bought a newspaper at the gas station. A cop, she was sure. The thought makes her smile. It’s like a game. They see me, they know me, and yet they have no idea who I am.

  She closes the window carefully, goes down the hallway to the back door of the house, and turns the long, old-fashioned key in the lock. It turns with difficulty, making a noise, like teeth grinding, that echoes in her head. The door screeches on its hinges. She goes out onto the top step, reaches down, and pulls out the rope from behind the water tank.

  Everything is ready for Jansen too.

  He will hang, like her grandfather.

  When Mama was unwell, she used to tell her the story. Our Behrens farm story, she called it. It’s not a nice story, little one, but you must never forget it. You’re like her, she used to say at the end. That’s why you have the same name, my little Magdalena. They were very close then.

  At the time, the story frightened her. It wasn’t until later, when Mama found the letters and the photo of those men, that the suspicion first came alive in her. For a long time it was just an idea, a fantasy in her mind. But then Mama sent her away. To study, she said, but she, Lena, knew better. When she got a place at Nijmegen, of all places, only five miles away from this place, she understood her duty.

  She goes into the living room. Jansen is lying on the floor. He stares at her, wide eyed. She returns his gaze, fascinated. She sits on the edge of the damp sofa and ties a noose in the end of the rope.

  “You’re all the same, you know.”

  His expression changes. She sees his hope. She sees what he is thinking. If she talks to me, there’s still hope. It was the same with the others.

  “Yes, you’re all the same, you really are.” She bursts out laughing. “Do you want to talk to me? Do you want to explain?”

  He nods vigorously.

  “Should I take the tape off?”

  He nods again.

  “Later.”

  She places a chair on the shiny brown end table and climbs onto it. The ceiling, wooden planks painted white, is suspended from massive beams. She lifts the plank above her head, the one she loosened a week ago. She slips the rope over the beam and pulls the noose up until the knot hits the beam. The other end drops to the ground. She climbs down, pushes the chair to one side, and slides the end table over to the wall. Jansen groans. She unties his legs and pulls him to his feet by the lapels of his jacket. He whimpers with pain.

  She pulls the chair back under the rope. “Up you go.”

  Tears are running down his face, snot from his nose. He shakes his head in panic, screaming through his taped-up mouth like a terrified ox.

  “You don’t want to?” She nods understandingly. She climbs onto the chair and pulls the noose down about a yard. The rope hisses over the beam.

  He runs headlong
out the door and down the hall.

  “Shit!”

  She catches up with him in a few strides, shoves him up against the wall. He crashes into the light switch by the back door. Outside, the little lamp on the wall flickers on and illuminates the stone steps. She pushes him along the hall and back into the living room. A dark patch appears on his crotch. Urine trickles onto his shoes. He collapses.

  “Shit! Shit!” She gives him a kick. “Fucking weakling.”

  Chapter 57

  Böhm gets his phone from his jacket and sees, from the display, that it is his office. “If I answer this, I may have to leave.”

  Brigitte nods. “I have to go back to the office too. They need some files, and I need to get things organized so they can replace me.” She goes up to him and strokes his face. “Let’s talk tonight.”

  Van Oss is beside himself. He gives Böhm a short update. Lena Koberg! That unprojected slide in his head has to do with her, he’s certain. What did he see and fail to notice?

  “I’m on my way.” Böhm hangs up. He hugs Brigitte. “I have to go.”

  “I know.”

  He puts on a dry jacket in the hall and runs to his car. On the way, a thought pushes its way into the foreground, repeating like a mantra without any intervention on his part: Please God, don’t let her die. Rather another man than that. He thinks it at least twenty times before he becomes conscious of it. He says it out loud. He shakes his head in disbelief.

  Half a day, and everything has changed.

  He has almost reached the station, when he realizes it has stopped raining. Thick clouds have sucked up the daylight. He notices for the first time that he can scarcely see the road, and turns on his headlights.

  Steeg, Lembach, and Van Oss are already in his office. They are standing in front of a local map, discussing which areas should be searched first.

  Böhm acknowledges Lembach with a curt nod. “How many people do we have out there?”