The Oath

by Klaus-Peter Wolf

  He smiled to himself. They would describe him as a friendly hippy. He was already looking forward to it. With his long red hair.

  Again he felt that buzz of anticipation. He was in the zone now. This feeling was better than anything else. Being completely immersed in the moment.

  His sense of smell seemed more intense than normal. He could hear the faintest sound in the room. If he listened hard enough, here in the kitchen he could even hear the whispering in the women’s bathroom clear as a bell, as if there were no walls at all.

  When he was in this state of mind, everything was good. Even the most impossible things went smoothly. If there were such things as lucky hormones, that’s what his body emitted when he was in the zone. It wasn’t some form of intoxication, but a state of clarity in which he had absolute control of everything. His senses were so alert and sensitive that he made no mistakes. He moved completely in the here and now and was totally aware of himself at every second.

  He was fortunate. When he was in the zone, everything turned out in his favour, as if a higher power were arranging things so that nothing could thwart his plans.

  Svenja Moers and Agneta Meyerhoff were standing around chatting outside the door after class. He took his leave with a curt nod to the two women and did not react to Agneta’s loud remark, ‘Right now a cool white wine spritzer is just what I need.’ She stretched as she said it and yawned, as if she were both tired and looking for adventure at the same time.

  Svenja didn’t pick up on the hint. Maybe because she knew that Agneta Meyerhoff was looking for men and had no interest in women, whom she regarded as competitors.

  When Agneta realised that the last man had come out of the college, she lost interest in chatting with Svenja and set off to have a drink somewhere.

  Svenja looked for her bike. At first she thought she had just forgotten where she’d left it and was being scatterbrained again. Only last week she’d considered reporting her bike stolen, but then found it in front of a bakery where she’d never left it before. She was so often wrapped up in her own thoughts.

  Every time she left the house after breakfast she would ask herself: ‘Did I turn off the coffee maker? Is the candle on the table still burning? Did I turn off the cooker after I fried my eggs?’

  How often had she gone back to check? And everything was always in perfect order. She did these things unconsciously and then never remembered. Also she was sure she’d left her bike securely locked somewhere. But where?

  He spoke to her. ‘Is there something I can help with?’

  ‘I’m looking for my bike.’

  He gave her a friendly smile. ‘That’s a coincidence. I came back because I forgot my glasses.’

  She pointed to his face. ‘They’re right there on your face.’

  He reached up and laughed. ‘Oh! My old maths teacher must have been right.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He called me a forgetful fool. He said I’d never amount to anything except an absentminded professor, who shows up in class in the morning in his dressing gown and puts on his suit jacket to take a shower.’

  She liked that. Anyone who could tell jokes about himself had to be a nice, harmless person.

  He helped her look for her bike. It wasn’t as easy to find as his glasses, he joked, scratching his thick, shaggy beard, as if there might be an animal hiding inside it.

  After a while, when she realised that her bike must have been stolen, Svenja wanted to call the police, but he suggested he give her a lift home and she could call them the next morning. These days you could even post a police report on the Internet and wait for someone to respond. Or so he claimed.

  She knew that filing a report never worked. Dozens of bikes disappeared and were never found.

  She had already lost three bikes and considered it a waste of time even to report the theft. The important thing was to have theft insurance but the last time her bike was stolen the insurance company had refused to pay, so she no longer had a policy.

  She complained loudly about the situation as she got into his car.

  As he drove out of the car park, the radio came on automatically. It was set to Radio East Frisia, a non-profit station that had a studio upstairs in the college building. They hadn’t buckled their seat belts and the car beeped annoyingly while a red light flashed on the dashboard.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ll be a good girl,’ she said, as if the car could understand her, and clicked the seat belt.

  Then she asked him whether he’d ever visited the radio station’s studio. She knew one of the DJs.

  He didn’t answer and when she glanced at him she saw his expression had changed. Suddenly he looked very tense.

  The next instant his fist struck her on the temple, knocking her out cold.

  Using the same hand, he pushed her hair out of her face and shoved her back in the seat so that anyone seeing the car would think they were just an ordinary couple. She looked as if she’d dozed off next to him.

  *

  When Ann Kathrin arrived at her house on Distelkamp in Norden, she went out onto the terrace barefoot. She deliberately headed for an area of the back yard that was covered with pebbles. Slowly, she placed her feet on the pebbles feeling the smooth stones underfoot.

  Frank Weller called it ‘her parcours therapy’. She liked to walk on the stones in order to calm down after a stressful day.

  The carpet in the living room. The flagstones. The floor of the terrace. The pebbled area. And then the soft, closely cropped lawn. At the end of her route were pine boards that led to the sauna building.

  There was room for six people, but so far only the two of them had been inside together.

  She grounded herself with every step. Behind the sauna leaves and branches lay on the ground. A pair of hedgehogs lived back there, and her tomcat Willy liked to eat the cat food she put out for them. Here the bare earth under her feet felt much different from the lawn. Damper, and yet it made a crunching sound.

  No, she didn’t feel like a sauna today. She just wanted to get out of her head somehow, back into her own body. Above her feet she felt pretty good, but she was too tired to go for a walk along the dyke.

  In the moonlight she looked over at Weller, both needy and terribly lonely. What he actually wanted to do was read a new mystery. He had bought two, and still hadn’t decided which one to start first. Shadow Oath by Nané Lénard. The dedication in the front of the book was to those who bear the sadness for crimes that were never solved. That appealed to Weller. And he also had a copy of Murderous Monaco by Julie Gölsdorf.

  Now he decided to let both books wait a while. When Ann Kathrin came back to the house he said: ‘You’re tired. Lie down and I’ll massage your feet, then you can fall asleep.’

  She agreed at once, and they promised each other not to talk shop. Instead she put on a CD of Ulrich Maske’s Thrill & Chill. The music helped them both to leave behind the stresses of the day.

  Weller sat on a cushion at the foot of the bed. That way he could massage her feet in a relaxed position. She stretched out her feet and moaned blissfully.

  After less than ten minutes the pressure of Weller’s fingertips on her soles began to fade. His massaging movements slowed, and finally he nodded off.

  For a while both of them slept like that. Ann Kathrin stretched out on the bed, Weller half sitting and half reclining on the floor. Then he began to snore softly. She called his name and he grunted.

  Not wanting to wake him, she slipped a pillow under his head and put a blanket over him. He rolled onto his side and grunted again.

  The music of Ulrich Maske had long since come to an end when Ann Kathrin woke up with a start from a bad dream. She had seen Ubbo Heide and his wife, both looking shocked. Before them stood an open carton with a severed head inside. Carola Heide was clutching at her heart and gasping for breath.

  Ann Kathrin sat up in bed. She reached out to the side of the bed where Weller usually lay.

  ‘Frank!’ she call
ed. ‘Frank!’

  Like a ghost he got up from the floor. In the dark he couldn’t tell whether he’d been out cold or had dozed off for a brief nap. He shook himself and felt for the light switch.

  The glow from the bedside lamp spotlighted the bed like a stage. In the middle sat Ann Kathrin, surrounded by pillows.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  Ann Kathrin burst out: ‘He’s going to send the second head to Ubbo too!’

  ‘Damn it, you’re right,’ said Weller, his mouth dry. It seemed inappropriate, but right now he felt a strong desire for a doppio espresso.

  Ann Kathrin urged him to hurry. ‘We have to stop that from happening. We need to search through the mail going to Wangerooge. Ubbo won’t be able to cope with another shock like that.’

  ‘Nor will Carola,’ said Weller. ‘But we’ll need a court order to search the post office.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s 5.11 now. We’ll never make it in time for the first ferry. See about getting hold of a form to fill out.’

  Ann Kathrin agreed with him. ‘Right.’ She looked determined as she combed her fingers through her hair. ‘But we can’t do both, Frank. Let’s just intercept the mail before they put it on the ferry. We’ll find the package and—’

  Feeling muddle-headed and still half asleep, he muttered: ‘But we need a court order.’

  ‘It’s too late for that, Frank!’

  ‘OK, screw it,’ he said, finally awake.

  She nodded. ‘Sometimes you’ve just got to do what you’ve got to do.’

  *

  Büscher had lain awake half the night. When he’d more or less been forced to accept the transfer to East Frisia, he’d had no idea how hard it would be to find a place to rent. Although there were plenty of people along the coast who lived in their own houses, if they had extra space, such as in the attic, they liked to rent out rooms to holidaymakers.

  A widow asked him, ‘Why should I rent the room for a monthly pittance to a surly working person when I can get the same amount per week from a happy tourist who even gives me flowers when he leaves?’

  Finally, he found a lovely furnished holiday let in Esens that he could move into temporarily. It belonged to the East Frisian writer Manfred C. Schmidt. The cabin was fully equipped of course, so Büscher didn’t need to bring anything but his clothes from Bremerhaven.

  For the first time he realised what an mess he had lived in since his divorce. It was easier than he had thought to leave everything behind. So East Frisia became a real new beginning for him.

  Unable to sleep any longer and worrying feverishly about what the workday would bring, he drove around the neighbourhood a bit to orient himself. He then parked the car and went for a walk by the sea, witnessing a wonderful sunrise from the top of the dyke.

  Actually, he thought, every day that I miss this performance by Nature is a sin of omission. Maybe I should live like this . . . get up at dawn to greet the sun, watch it set after work and then go to bed.

  Did you have to be retired in order to do this he wondered. Briefly, he felt depressed as he calculated how many more years he would have to keep chasing criminals. Then he decided to shorten the time until retirement by observing as many sunrises and sunsets as humanly possible.

  He didn’t even know exactly where he was. In front of him he saw a gigantic field full of wind turbines sprouting up from the ground like huge stalks of white asparagus. From here on top of the dyke the view of the rising sun seemed like a welcome respite for the soul. A way of recharging his batteries.

  And mine were almost empty, he thought.

  *

  Frank Weller and Ann Kathrin drove from their house on Distelkamp to the town of Harlesiel. It took less than fifty minutes on the C4.

  It was much easier and less complicated than they’d imagined. The mail was already loaded onto the ferry, but since everyone knew about the gruesome package somebody on Wangerooge had received, they all understood why the police needed to examine the mail, especially since Weller and Ann Kathrin weren’t interested in letters or postcards.

  There was no package of a suspicious size, and none addressed to Ubbo Heide. Despite this, Weller and Ann Kathrin did not consider their morning action futile. Rather, they felt relieved. They had done the right thing in protecting Ubbo Heide.

  They had a cup of coffee and watched the ferry until it left the dock, heading for Wangerooge.

  ‘Now we have more questions to answer,’ said Weller. ‘Where is the missing head that belongs to the body found in Cuxhaven? And where, damn it all, is the body that belongs to the head sent to Wangerooge?’

  *

  Obviously some people considered it amusing to call the police and report they’d found body parts. Right now Rupert had the third joker of the morning on the line.

  ‘I found a piece of the principal’s head in front of Ulrich High School.’

  When Rupert heard the young, joking voice and the giggling in the background, he was instantly on guard. ‘A piece of his head? What part? Nose? Ears?’

  ‘No, a block.’

  ‘A block?’

  ‘Yes, he always went around with a mental block.’

  ‘Listen here, you little shit. Do you realise that you’re obstructing an official investigation of the homicide division? And now I have your phone number, your name, and your address.’

  ‘B-but I – I’m not even calling from my mobile!’

  Rupert was pleased that he’d landed a punch, and his opponent was already staggering.

  ‘Thanks to our modern technology, all calls are recorded, analysed graphically and sonically, and instantly tracked geographically. Don’t move from your present location. Two officers will be there shortly to bring you to the station.’

  ‘Uh? What? Can you see me?’

  ‘This guy’s making a fool of you, Christian. Just hang up!’ an adolescent female voice said. Either she had a summer cold or she definitely smoked too much.

  Rupert laughed. ‘So, Christian, didn’t you know? That’s the newest spyware that’s been developed for us. Don’t you ever watch CSI? As soon as you dial 911 or the police, the camera on your mobile turns on. That’s an enormous help to us, and it saves a lot of lives. Didn’t Mr Ulrich at your school tell you about it?’

  ‘No, I . . ., um. Hey, that’s bullshit.’

  Rupert’s voice took on a stern tone: ‘How stupid can you be? If you don’t want to be the only one charged, then do exactly what I’m going to tell you. Take your goddamn mobile phone and hold it so I can see the stupid faces of your friends too. Stretch out your arm, film the others, and then turn around slowly so I can get a shot of all of them.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘That’s a police order! This is the last time I’m going to tell you!’

  ‘OK, OK. Fine.’

  ‘Hey, Christian, what are you doing? Are you nuts? Shit, now you’re filming me!’

  Rupert had propped his feet up on the edge of his desk and was wiping away tears of laughter when Sylvia Hoppe entered the room.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ she asked, then answered her own question. ‘Did your wife finally tell you that it’s not the size that matters?’

  Rupert’s good mood vanished at once.

  *

  Ubbo Heide and his wife Carola had decided to leave Wangerooge. They had actually reserved the summer cabin for more than three weeks, but since it was high season, and with this wonderful weather, they were sure other renters could be found. Ubbo hoped that the gossip hadn’t specified exactly where on Upper Strand promenade the severed head had been delivered. He was afraid the news might attract morbid curiosity from tourists, while his wife was more worried that the house with the fantastic sea view would no longer be rented at all.

  Ubbo had two engagements lined up to give readings from his book. One in Gelsenkirchen at the city library, and another two weeks later, at the market hall in Delmenhorst. Both events had been sold out for weeks, but Ubbo was contemplating not going. Woul
d anyone be interested in his book? Or would they only want to hear about the head? Could he leave Carola alone? She still seemed quite shaken.

  Actually his daughter Insa had promised to meet him on Wangerooge and accompany him to the readings. She had planned to drive him back to the ferry as well and then stay with them for a couple of days. But she hadn’t called back, and Ubbo assumed that her plans had changed. He didn’t really mind. She’d recently fallen in love and was probably rolling around with her lover somewhere with no idea of the nightmare her parents were dealing with.

  He could no longer manage to travel for readings alone. Since he’d been in a wheelchair, these trips had turned into burdensome adventures.

  On a ship or ferry he felt fine but he didn’t like to talk about the fact that he was afraid to fly.

  The Heides took the first ferry back to the mainland. They left the island on a sunny day that promised to be glorious. Cloudless, with a northwest breeze just strong enough to clear out the humidity.

  Their car was parked in Harle in the long-stay car park near the airport, in row 18 way in the back, where the sheep pasture began. The sun was reflecting off the roof of the car, and Carola imagined with trepidation how hot it must be inside. She didn’t tolerate heat well, and she had always appreciated efficient air conditioning. For her that was more important than the car’s appearance or horsepower.

  Ubbo could have waited at the entrance and had the car brought up, but he didn’t like that sort of service. It made him feel useless. He’d rather bump across the meadow in his wheelchair.

  A strong smell reached them on the wind, as if an animal had died somewhere nearby. The stench intensified the closer they got to their car. Flies were buzzing around the boot lid.

  Ubbo knew right away what was going on. He clutched his wife’s arm. ‘Don’t get in,’ he said. ‘I’ll call Ann Kathrin.’

  Carola refused to believe what they were both thinking. ‘It could be a dead rat under the car,’ she said, but Ubbo said sternly: ‘Don’t move, Carola. You might destroy evidence. He must have crossed the meadow here.’