“Twenty. Four dog handlers.”
“They should start with the fields around the Behrens farm.”
Steeg places little flags in the starting locations and takes a step back. He shakes his head. “She suspects something, boss. I swear she knows we’re hard on her heels. She’d be crazy to stay in the area with Jansen.”
Böhm positions himself next to Van Oss, who is leaning silently against the desk. And then it is suddenly there. The unprojected slide in his head shows a few initial outlines.
It was Lena Koberg who took Gietmann’s body away, along with Jansen. She had been listening to music. The tiny screen in his head slowly reveals the whole scene. She had done her work as if it were routine, with stoical indifference.
But there was something there.
He bangs his hand against his forehead.
She had untied the knots binding Gietmann in order to put him in the coffin. She had undone them without a moment’s fumbling or hesitation, the way you would undo knots you had tied yourself. He had seen it. He had watched her do it. He hadn’t thought about it, and had then forgotten it.
He looks at Steeg. “But that’s exactly what we’re dealing with. A psychopath. She is carrying out a task, and she has to finish it. It doesn’t matter whether she has a real chance anymore. She has to finish.”
Van Oss shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “She’s on drugs, I’m sure.”
Steeg picks up the phone and gives the order for which area to start searching first. They reach for their jackets. Böhm picks up his car keys from the table and runs out. Lembach raises his hand. “I hope you won’t need me.” He stays behind.
They won’t need Lembach unless Jansen is dead.
Chapter 58
Steeg takes his own car, hoping they’ll find her quickly and he’ll be able to go straight from Merklen to soccer practice. He has called in all the boys who were absent for Sunday’s match. He wants to give them a pep talk. Team spirit and all that stuff. Get your priorities straight. And now this crap.
Van Oss climbs in with Böhm. They are barely out of the yard before he blurts out, “This is my fault.” He buckles his seat belt.
Böhm clicks on the turn signal. “Nonsense, Joop. It’s not your fault.”
“I didn’t do a good job, Peter. I shouldn’t have let Jansen out of my sight.”
Böhm steers the car onto the main road and engages fourth gear. The sky is lying so low that the houses on both sides of the road are swallowed up in it. Lit-up windows loom out of the shadow world like short-lived flames. “You can’t think like that, Joop.” He glances over at him. “You can’t do this job if you think like that, understand? None of us suspected Lena Koberg, and if Jansen just disappears through the back door without telling you, it really isn’t your fault.”
“But I didn’t keep an eye on him. I just quietly guzzled my coffee.”
Böhm shakes his head. “Yes, Joop, you did. And I would probably have done the same. We had a clear agreement with Jansen. He wanted to talk. There was no risk of him making a run for it.” Böhm lifts his hand and lets it drop back onto the steering wheel. “God knows why he didn’t let you know. You were there, after all.” He takes a deep breath. “Jansen isn’t a child, Joop. It was his decision, not yours.” He knows this is the truth, but he also knows how Van Oss feels, and he profoundly hopes they will find Jansen alive.
His phone rings when they are nearly at Merklen. It is Lembach. “Peter, the empty cottage behind the Behrens farm. Jörg Lüders just called. There’s a light on.”
Böhm hands Van Oss the phone and accelerates. “The cottage. They’re in that cottage behind the Behrens farm. Call Steeg. Tell him and the others to go there, but without a lot of noise.” He turns left at the statue of the Madonna, into the narrow lane down to the Behrens farm. The left fork leads to the cottage. He takes the right fork, toward the farm. “We’ll try from behind, through the woods. Let them know. And tell them not to shoot at us.”
Chapter 59
She drags his limp body onto the chair. Holding him in position with one hand, she fishes for the noose and places it around his neck with the other. She grabs the long end of the rope and pulls it taut. Jansen is sitting upright now, like a marionette held up by a thread at its neck.
She goes into the kitchen and gets another chair and a glass of water. Holding the end of the rope, she sits down in front of him and throws the water in his face.
He lifts his head. He looks at her as if from a great distance. His eyes are dull, resigned. Gietmann looked at her like that when most of his blood had flowed out of him.
“Listen to me. I want you to stand up on the chair.”
His expression does not change. Nothing moves in his eyes. No panic, no glimmer of hope.
She leaps to her feet, knocking over her chair. Holding him firmly, she pulls him to his feet, following up with the rope so that it is tight around his neck. He goes up on tiptoe to loosen the noose. He doesn’t have the stamina to keep it up for long. His heels drop, again and again, and he has to go back up on tiptoe. In order to maintain this position, his body rotates in tiny triple steps, like a dancer unable to execute his pirouettes.
“If you stand on the chair it will be easier for you.”
Tears are pouring down his face. Again and again, the little man attempts those tiny leaps. His legs begin to tremble. Suddenly he stops, raises his left leg, and thrusts it forward over and over. She looks at him in astonishment, then smiles with satisfaction. Cramp!
The noose is tight now. He is gurgling. Then, to her amazement, he turns and climbs onto the chair. She pulls the rope tight, but leaves enough play for him to stand and breathe comfortably.
“There you go. Why do you make it so hard for yourself?” She grabs his face and tears the gaffer tape off his mouth with a single movement. He gasps, coughs.
“No point screaming. No one can hear you.”
He does not react. His lower lip starts quivering. Fascinated, she watches this vibration in the old man’s face. This she had not seen in the other two. This was more pathetic than Lüders’s prodigious final piss as she laid the blade against his prick.
“Look, I know the truth about what happened to Magdalena Behrens. But I want to hear it from you.” She goes around him with the rope, climbs onto the sideboard, and ties the loose end to a beam.
He says nothing.
She jumps back onto the floor, grabs the back of the chair, and tips it back a little.
He screams.
She lets the chair fall forward again. “Talk, damn you.”
“We were drunk. I didn’t do anything to her. I just happened to be there.”
His voice has that shrill, hysterical overtone. The tone that seems to repeat everything a fraction of a second later, like a cannon fired early.
She blocks her ears and shouts at him. “I don’t want to hear your fucking excuses; I want the truth!” Her hands are shaking. She feels her strength ebbing away, the effect of the amphetamine weakening. It has been like that for a while. She needs a top-up earlier and earlier. But soon it will be over. Soon she won’t need it anymore.
“She was sitting on the ground. Johann had really done a number on her.”
Jansen stares at the clock on the wall over the sofa. Half past nine. The clock is not moving. The silence, the motionless hand of the clock, the stale, musty air. Everything around him seems to be waiting. He starts sobbing again. The trembling in his legs has taken hold of his entire body. “Lena, I didn’t do anything to her, you have to believe me. I’ve always treated you well. Why are you doing this to me?” The quivering of his lips blurs the words.
She can barely understand him, but she hears that he is not telling her what she wants to hear. She stands in front of him. “Stop whining. It’s fucking pathetic.” She looks at him hard.
His washed-out gray eyes are far away. They are not looking at her. They are searching the wall, as if hoping to find salvation there. Jesus is dying
on the cross over the door.
He starts hesitantly. “Gietmann and Lüders were all over her, but she started blaming us all for the state she was in, telling us to”—he sobs, speaking more quietly now, as if from a great distance—“get lost. Lüders said she really turned him on when she was angry, and then he went at her again. She stood up and tried to get away from him.” He peers into the distance, as if trying to extract these long-ago images from behind the crucifix. “There was a plank of wood on the floor. She tripped with her slipper and fell backward. She started screaming, flinging her legs around. We couldn’t see she was hurt, that she’d fallen on that nail, and . . .” He closes his eyes. Shakes his head in the noose, which he hardly seems to notice anymore.
Her fingers are writhing, shaking more and more; she runs her fingernails across her arm, leaving red marks behind. “Go on. That’s not the whole story.” She glares at him furiously.
“She screamed and struggled with her arms and legs, but she didn’t get up. It looked grotesque. Gietmann held her mouth shut. He just wanted her to stop screaming. Then she went quiet all of a sudden.” Jansen was breathing hard. “Lüders said, ‘Well, if that isn’t an invitation.’ He pulled down her panties and . . .” He starts sobbing.
She blocks her ears. Screams at him: “And what?”
“He raped her. First Lüders, then Gietmann. I said, ‘Let’s go. If Johann comes back . . .’” He hesitates, seeing her turn down the corners of her mouth in disgust. “Lüders egged Gietmann on. ‘Come on, take her from behind.’ It wasn’t until Gietmann tried to turn her over that we saw all the blood. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ Lüders shouted, so we made ourselves scarce.”
She is standing in front of him, arms crossed over her chest. Her elbows point downward and her hands clasp her shoulders, like a bird holding its wings close to its body just before it launches into flight.
His words are bringing together the pieces of the puzzle in her mind, making pictures. Pictures Mama drew in her head for years, using different words.
He looks down at her. He speaks softly. She can hardly make out what he is saying. “We thought she was dead.” His eyes are glassy, like worn marble. His voice turns into a sob. “Let me go, Lena. Please. I called the police this morning. It was too late, I know. But there was no way I could have known she was still alive.”
Her shoulders relax, and her arms fall limply to her sides. She looks up at him, fixes her narrowed eyes on him. She speaks slowly, dragging the syllables apart. “Oh yes. Your love of the truth. I’d almost forgotten about that.” Her voice rises, and she hurls the words up at him. “When they arrested my grandfather, you could have told the truth, couldn’t you? And what about that tombstone? Your generous offer to pay for the funeral?”
He nods submissively. “Yes.” He lets his head drop forward and wipes the spittle and snot away on his shoulder. He notices that the noose is hanging quite loosely around his neck. “Please, Lena. I’ve told you everything. Let me down.”
Chapter 60
There are no leaves on the trees. They run through the woods toward the small, low house. The outdoor light at the back door gives them something to aim for. The ground is sodden and uneven. It is dusk, and the somber trees and the diffuse gloom of the day are merging into a uniform darkness. Böhm and Van Oss stumble forward. By the time they reach the back garden, they are covered with mud up to their knees. They can hear several cars stopping on the road below, a good five hundred yards away. They cannot see any headlights: their colleagues have driven up the lane without their lights on. Böhm inwardly praises Steeg’s caution. When they cannot hear any more engines, and everything is quiet in the house, they climb over the crude chain-link fence. The garden is overgrown; it is impossible to make out any paths. They approach the house, ducking down low.
The silence unsettles Böhm, and so does Van Oss’s reckless determination. He is paying little attention to his cover, having eyes only for his destination.
Now they have reached the cone of light beneath the lamp. Böhm grabs Van Oss’s arm. He puts all the authority he has into his expression. He reaches for his holster and takes out his weapon. Van Oss nods, reaches into his jacket pocket, and does likewise. With his free hand, Böhm gestures at Van Oss to take it slow.
Van Oss takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment, and nods. He points to his right. They both walk away at the same time. Böhm reaches the wall on the left side of the steps, Van Oss the one on the right.
Inside the house, it is still dark. The silence bothers Böhm. It is the same silence he heard when Gietmann was lying in the track. The same silence he heard when Lüders was leaning against the tree trunk.
Van Oss runs up the steps and leans back in the door frame, his gun upright in front of his face. Böhm follows him and grips the door handle. It makes a short screeching sound, like a crow’s call. The door gives, then swings slowly inward. The hinges protest in the darkness of the corridor. They look at each other, startled.
They run forward together. With a single movement, Van Oss turns the handle on the first door and throws it open.
Jansen is hanging in the middle of the room. Van Oss cries out in shock, grabs his legs, and lifts him up. Böhm covers the room. He glances at Jansen’s face. His tongue is hanging out unnaturally: the bone underneath must be broken.
She is sitting on the floor behind the sideboard. With her knees pulled up to her chin and her arms around her shins, she is staring at the stained dark-green carpet. The room stinks of urine, vomit, and sweating terror.
Böhm throws open a window and yells, “Okay, we’re in!”
Steeg must have been just outside. He runs toward Van Oss and removes the noose from Jansen’s neck. Together, they lower him to the floor. Böhm now knows his first instinct was correct: Jansen is dead.
Böhm crouches in front of Lena. His voice sounds strange even to him. “Frau Koberg, you’re under arrest. Anything you say may be used against you. You have the right . . .” He pauses. “Frau Koberg, can you hear me?”
She lifts her head and looks past him. “He said it. Finally, he told the truth.” She nods her satisfaction.
Böhm sees the pretty, young face. No older than his younger son. Cautiously, he takes her arm.
“Frau Koberg?”
She looks directly at him. “There’s still Mahler.”
His stomach tightens painfully. He pushes a finger beneath his glasses and rubs his eyes. “You need to come with me now, please.”
She gets up wordlessly. She takes a wide step over Jansen. “Mahler is missing,” she repeats in a monotone.
Steeg is crouching beside the body. He jumps to his feet. “You monster! Do you—”
Böhm stops him with a sharp hand gesture. “There’s no point, Achim.” He leads Lena out and hands her over to a uniformed officer. “Take her to the station.”
Lembach and Bongartz have arrived. The unexpressed bewilderment that hangs over the house like a fog will now turn into efficient activity.
Böhm looks around for Van Oss. He goes back in, down the corridor, past the room, and out into the back garden. Van Oss is sitting on the steps, elbows resting on his thighs and hands dangling between his knees. The steps are wet. He does not seem to notice. Böhm sits down beside him.
The evening has brought its own shadows and at last plunged the small wood into deep darkness. Behind it, there is just a hint of a light in the window of the Behrens farm.
“We did our best, Joop. All of us.”
Van Oss clasps his fingers together and nods. “Yes, I’m sure you’re right. It’s just . . . like poison. You know what I mean?” He stands up, goes down the couple of steps to the bottom of the staircase, and stands in front of Böhm. “We couldn’t save Jansen, and that hurts, but then I just look at that girl for a moment and I get angry. Angry about these dead old men and all their secrecy and their lies and their sick circle of friends. What happened back then, Peter?” Van Oss has worked himself up into a fury. �
��I can’t just leave it at that, don’t you see? I want to know.”
Steeg is standing in the doorway. “Stop it, Joop.” He leans his shoulder in the door frame. “You’ll drive yourself crazy. We did our job, and that’s all there is to it. If you’re going to keep on it, you won’t last long.”
Böhm is surprised. He hears concern in Steeg’s voice. Concern for Van Oss. He takes a few steps toward the garden. He is freezing. His watch says seven forty-five. He wants to go home. He wants to talk with Brigitte, be near her.
You have to attack once the truth is too weak to defend itself. Who said that?
“We’re going to Mahler. Mahler and Ruth Holter. Maybe someone should drive over to Cologne tomorrow and talk to Anna Behrens.” He runs up the steps to the house.
“We need to be quick. And not a word about having the girl.”
Once the truth is too weak . . . Brecht. Yes, it was Bertolt Brecht.
Chapter 61
Ruth Holter pulls the cloths off the big tables, folds them together loosely, and throws them into the laundry basket.
Jansen, they’re saying. Jansen too, now. Up at the cottage, they’re saying. Dead in the cottage.
She shakes her head. When all those police cars came past and headed off toward the Behrens farm, the room had emptied in a few minutes.
“What are you going to do there?” she asked. “Help or something?”
Now the first ones are back, and they told her. Jansen, they said. He got to Jansen. And they had seen poor Lena come out. The killer dragged that poor child into it. She must have seen the whole thing.
She tosses the last tablecloth into the basket and sits down on a chair at the end of the line of tables. Mahler and some other men are sitting in the front, in the bar, but she’ll throw them out soon. She wants to be alone, get some peace. She wants to think. No, she doesn’t want to think anymore. She’s decided. Tomorrow morning she’ll go to the police and tell them what she knows. Mahler can do what he likes, but she can’t go on like this.
To Clear the Air Page 17
