Pondering, he said, ‘I think it was at the Reichshof restaurant. We were having dinner there. I’d just come out of hospital and was starting to adjust to the fact that my life had been turned upside down. I slammed the key on the table and said, ‘From now on you’ll have to drive us home from parties, Carola. And not only when I want to have a drink!’’
He looked up at Ann Kathrin, who had the sun behind her. She moved over a bit.
‘It was supposed to be a joke,’ he explained, ‘but I was in no mood to laugh. Have you ever felt like that? You want to scream but you’re still cracking jokes?’
Ann Kathrin could see from Ubbo’s expression that in his mind he was going down the list of guests who were also at the Reichshof that evening. In the past he’d had an almost photographic memory for people, but that was a long time ago.
Now he was trying to remember who’d been sitting at the next table. Who was over by the cloakroom? Who had said hello or looked away in embarrassment?
She was hoping he’d suddenly come up with a name. But then Weller suggested moving out of the midday sun, which was beating down on them so mercilessly. There was nowhere shady to sit.
Ubbo went on as if Weller hadn’t spoken, ‘But I don’t think my key was taken at the Reichshof. If I even thought the murderer could have been right there, two tables away, calmly eating a filet mignon.’
‘Do you remember using the car key again after that?’ Ann Kathrin asked.
Before Ubbo could reply, Weller repeated his suggestion. ‘We really ought to get out of the sun, people.’
Jens Warfsmann moaned, ‘If you knew how much I’d love to come with you. These damned overalls are going to kill me.’
Weller made a move to push the wheelchair, but Ubbo insisted on propelling it himself. Weller and Ann Kathrin had a hard time keeping up with him, he was zooming so fast across the bumpy field. He ploughed right over several big molehills instead of going round them. His wheelchair rocked alarmingly.
Weller mused, ‘You seem to like to go to Wangerooge quite often, Ubbo.’
‘Yes, I do. Recovery is an island. Mine is named Wangerooge.’
Weller asked, ‘Do you ever park your car at the outer harbour?’
Ubbo braked his wheelchair, and Weller banged into it. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, everybody has to leave their car key there so that in case of flooding the cars can be moved to higher ground.’
‘And you think,’ Ann Kathrin interjected, ‘that someone took the opportunity to get the key copied? We could easily check to see if a break-in was ever reported. I can’t recall anything happening out there.’
Ubbo quickly quashed the idea. ‘I’ve never parked at the outer harbour. Always near the airport, even though I hate to fly.’ Without pausing he continued, ‘I know what you’re thinking. The perpetrator knows me.’
Ann Kathrin agreed. ‘Yes. He knows where and when you go on holiday and where you park your car.’
Ubbo qualified that statement. ‘Everyone going to Wangerooge parks here.’
‘But he has your car key,’ Ann Kathrin insisted.
Ubbo stopped and yelled at her, ‘Yes, damn it! And he’s trying to scare me!’
‘No, Ubbo, I don’t think so. He admires you. He sent a package to your summer cabin, beautifully wrapped like a birthday present.’
Ubbo crossed his arms stubbornly. ‘But it wasn’t my birthday.’
Weller looked at his wife quizzically. He asked himself where she was going with this.
She went on, ‘And he deposited a second head, neatly packed, in your boot, without damaging the car in any way. Then he locked it up. Admit it, Ubbo. He likes you.’
Ann Kathrin’s provocative statement rang true.
Ubbo sat up straight in the wheelchair and said, ‘You’re saying this is all some kind of love letter? Well, thanks a lot! I can definitely do without it. My wife has had a nervous breakdown, and the car is full of maggots.’ He pointed to his vehicle at the end of the last row of cars. ‘You can forget about that old heap. Who’d want to drive it now?’
‘First the perpetrator deposited one head in the boot and then posted the other one. Why? He could have put both heads in the car at the same time. That way he wouldn’t have run any risk.’
Weller asked, ‘How long were you planning to stay on the island?’
‘Three weeks,’ Ubbo said.
‘Obviously that was too long for the perpetrator. He wanted you to come home early. But why?’
They continued on, past the rows of cars, towards the cashier and the exit. A group of tourists was discussing what had happened. One young woman wanted nothing more than to go back to Sauerland. The calves of her legs and the backs of her knees were terribly sunburned.
‘I wasn’t going to stay on the island the whole time. I’ve got readings coming up in Gelsenkirchen and Delmenhorst.’
‘How were you going to get there? Was Carola going to drive you?’ Ann Kathrin asked.
‘No,’ said Ubbo, ‘Insa was going to pick me up and take me there. Carola was supposed to stay on Wangerooge.’
Ann Kathrin said, mainly to herself, ‘So you weren’t even going to use your car.’
‘No.’
‘The perpetrator must have known that too. He didn’t want the first head to sit in the boot for three weeks. That’s why he posted the second one to you at the cabin. Apparently he could hardly wait for the game to begin.’
Weller sought eye contact with Ann Kathrin before he spoke. They hadn’t agreed on what he now proposed. ‘You should definitely do these readings, Ubbo.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I think this man will cross paths with you.’
Ann Kathrin agreed. ‘Frank is probably right about that.’
‘So now you can take me over to forensic. I want to examine the heads in peace and quiet,’ Ubbo ordered.
‘Do you think you can identify them?’ Weller asked. He wasn’t sure he thought this was a good idea. Ubbo looked terrible.
Ubbo gave Frank a reproachful glare. ‘This must have something to do with me. And if I can’t do it, who can?’
‘One of the heads is at Pathology in Oldenburg, and the other one is on the way here,’ Ann Kathrin told him.
‘Then we’ll go to Oldenburg first,’ Ubbo said, using the same tone of voice as when he was still the chief in East Frisia. Friendly but firm.
Ann Kathrin and Weller were both wary of the idea.
She said, ‘Wouldn’t it be better if you stop by the house to see Carola first? She must be worried, and she needs you. We can bring you photos later, then you can examine them at your leisure.’
Ubbo sighed. ‘I’m sure I don’t have to explain this to you. Photos of corpses usually provide only a poor representation of reality. No, I have to see the heads for myself.’
Later, in the car on the way to Taubenstrasse in Oldenburg, Ubbo said, ‘I’ve been through this before. Sometimes it really tore me apart. Part of me felt that I should stay with Carola and my young daughter. But another, stronger part told me that postponing the forensic examination would mean having to wade through mountains of paperwork or even redoing the examination.’
Ann Kathrin was driving. The windscreen was covered with dead insects. The windows were closed, and the air conditioning was running full blast. Ann Kathrin understood what Ubbo was saying. She felt the same way. ‘How many times did my son have to realise that some criminal or murderer was more important to his mother than he was. I still hate myself when I think about that time I missed his first big birthday party because I was chasing some damn—’
She broke off and fell silent. Weller reached over to stroke her neck. ‘It was the same with my daughter and me. It goes with the territory.’
‘Eventually you get used to it,’ Ubbo said from the back seat.
Ann Kathrin countered, ‘No, Ubbo, you never get used to it. At most you can learn to live with it, but that’s a long and painful process.’
*
It was humid in the cell. Svenja Moers was finding it hard to breathe. A gleaming film of sweat covered her face. Drops ran down her neck like slimy vermin creeping out of her pores. Her clothes were sticking to her body. Had he turned the heat up? Or had a feverish fear seized hold of her? She felt like tearing off her clothes. Maybe that’s what he wanted.
How many cameras were watching her? Was everything being recorded for the Internet by a couple of sick guys?
Outside the bars, beyond her reach, was a steel door that now opened slowly with a humming sound. Illuminated by spotlights like a pop singer at a gala evening, he strode in.
She almost didn’t recognise him. The red locks were gone. The full beard too. His face had an angular look. The thought that maybe the long hair and beard had been a disguise scared her. That would mean he’d been planning all this for a long time.
Of course he had. It was obvious that this prison hadn’t been built in a couple of hours. Before her stood a man who might be insane, but who planned meticulously.
He looked to be in a good mood and was carrying a white tray with a plate on it. Before she could see what it was, she smelled it: cabbage. The tip of a sausage stuck over the edge, and a piece of bacon. Next to the plate were plastic utensils. A spoon and a fork. He’d even remembered mustard.
There was a serving slot between the bars. Full of determination he went over to it and shoved the tray inside. He did it without comment, as if it were a daily routine.
The smell disgusted her, but she accepted the tray anyway. Then she heard herself yell: ‘You bring me cabbage with bacon, you sick bastard? That’s a winter dish! It’s the middle of summer. Are you trying to fatten me up so you and your idiotic friends can watch me turn into a whale?’
She threw the entire tray against the bars.
He didn’t even duck. He stood there almost at attention without even attempting to avoid the food. A serving of cabbage landed in his face and on his shirt, and a piece of bacon on his right shoe. The sausage bounced off the cage bars and fell next to the tray in her cell.
He didn’t say a word. He simply stared at her, not moving. Bits of cabbage fell from his face and plopped onto the floor.
His stillness frightened her. There was something robotic about him. Didn’t he mind the hot cabbage in his face? Didn’t he feel it? Did he not feel pain?
He just stood there. Then he left the room without a word. The steel door closed behind him with a whirr. The piece of bacon lay glistening on the floor.
His shoes had left behind spots of cabbage. The mustard was sliding down a bar of the cage like a tiny yellow snake.
The triumphant feeling inside her quickly gave way to a deep-seated fear.
*
Rupert actually wanted to order diggers to plough up the beach at Norddeich to search for the missing body. However, Sylvia Hoppe had requested tracker dogs instead and Büscher had ordered that everything should take place calmly, sensibly and without attracting a lot of attention. In a popular tourist resort in high season, ice cream stands looked far more appropriate than ‘search and rescue dogs’, as he called them. However, Büscher still believed that he’d made a wise choice by putting Rupert in charge of operations. It was important to delegate responsibility to his subordinates.
Büscher had misinterpreted Sylvia Hoppe’s spiteful smirk. He assumed that she felt passed over, so he intended to give her an important assignment next time.
The dogs had to come from Aurich, so Rupert, Hoppe and four uniformed officers got to Norddeich shortly before the actual search and rescue team. They strolled from the guest house to the Diekster Kitchen and back before the canine unit arrived .
The queue at the ATMs by the beach was longer than on any other day. Even a few of the locals from Norden, who had always steadfastly refused to pay to use the beach, hurried to buy tickets from the meter when they saw all the police arriving. Everyone wanted to find out what was happening.
For years Wolfgang Mix from Bottrop had spent every summer holiday in East Frisia with his family, even as a child. His parents had always dreamed of being able to buy a house so they could spend their golden years here. They never managed to do that, but Wolfgang was hoping that he’d be able to realise that dream. He had two savings accounts and was a frugal man.
He had to laugh at the beach fees. ‘The East Frisians are the descendants of pirates and robbers. Nowadays they no longer attack or kill people. They simply put up meters and expect us to rob ourselves. That’s the modern form of piracy. Parking fees and beach meters!’
As the canine unit started the search of Dragon Beach, a dachshund from Oberhausen caught the scent of the body they were looking for, just beyond the blocked-off dog area of the beach. He began barking and digging excitedly outside the dog area so his owner, the bakery clerk Irina Schanz, came and got him. She took the dachshund, named Bello, back to the area reserved for dogs.
Now Bello was sniffing Joachim Faust’s shoes. The journalist looked a lot like the man who had caused trouble in Irina’s life many times. Someone who was vain, selfish and superficially cultured. But Faust wasn’t interested in her or her dog. He was watching the police.
Ann Kathrin Klaasen wasn’t there, but he thought maybe he’d be able to find someone who was willing to criticise the legendary hunter of serial killers.
When the headless corpse was finally found not far from the dog area of the beach, Faust watched as it was excavated. Wolfgang Mix from Bottrop recognised him and asked for his autograph. Faust always carried a few photos in his breast pocket just for this purpose.
At the very moment that he was signing his name on the photo, an exciting idea came to him. Another serial killer had struck right here once again. He would confront Ann Kathrin Klaasen with the theory that she attracted such individuals like moths to a flame. Yes! That would be the basis for his new article. She was dangerous for East Frisia, because she was like a magnet for dangerous felons.
Sylvia Hoppe was talking to the forensics team on the phone. Although Rupert was in charge of the operation, it was not beneath him to keep the rubberneckers at a distance and secure the crime scene with police tape.
Joachim Faust was taking pictures, and Rupert tried to stop him.
‘It’s a free country,’ Faust lectured Rupert. ‘I can stand around on a public beach as long as I want, and I can take pictures too. I don’t need a permit for that.’
‘Precisely,’ said Mix, ‘and we shouldn’t need to pay a beach-use fee. What a rip-off!’
Rupert ignored Mix, but Faust knew that he’d hit home. Even as a kid Rupert had never been able to tolerate being lectured. Faust glanced over at Sylvia Hoppe. She should watch how her colleague Rupert dealt with these types of situations.
‘Now just listen to me! If you’d like to spend the night in the drunk tank, you don’t necessarily need to have a drink first. We can make certain arrangements, understand?’
Faust had already turned on his recorder. ‘That’s very interesting,’ he said. ‘You work with Ann Kathrin Klaasen and you’re threatening to throw me in the drunk tank even though I haven’t had anything to drink? Is that common practice here in East Frisia?’
Sylvia Hoppe was now standing next to Rupert. She’d recognised Faust from his very distinctive voice.
‘My colleague didn’t mean it like that,’ she said. ‘Anyway, right now we’re digging up a corpse. The beach is full of people and it’s quite a stressful situation.’
Rupert didn’t understand the world anymore. Why was Sylvia being so nice to this windbag?
She whispered to Rupert, ‘Apologise to him, Rupi. He’s an important journalist, goddamn it. I’ve seen him on TV.’
Rupert scrutinised Faust. ‘Journalist, eh? One of these blood-sucking reporters like Bloem?’
He couldn’t stand reporters. If he was ever appointed the press spokesman for the East Frisian police it would be the worst conceivable disciplinary transfer for him.
‘A
pologise, Rupi!’ Sylvia admonished him.
Lately the female officers had taken to calling him ‘Rupi,’ and he had no idea why.
Faust stood there with his arms crossed. In one hand he held a camera, and in the other a digital sound recorder.
Sylvia gave Rupert a nudge. ‘This’ll stress you out, Rupi. I promise you. You’re picking a fight with the wrong person.’
‘OK,’ Rupert said and turned to Faust. ‘Well, I . . . I didn’t really mean it like that. I’d like to apologise.’
Faust smiled. ‘That’s not much of an apology.’
He was making it hard for Rupert. ‘I’m not usually like this. Maybe I was a bit too brusque.’ Rupert held out his hand to Faust. ‘Are we OK?’
Faust kept his arms crossed.
‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ Rupert now said. ‘I offered a sincere apology. And that’s not something I usually do. Only when I have to confront an arrogant idiot like you, then I occasionally behave out of character and—’
Faust glanced at the red button. His recorder was running.
Rupert waved his arms in the air. ‘As my wife always says, this only happens when the arsehole in front of me reminds me of the arsehole inside me.’
Sylvia drew Rupert away. ‘Are you nuts?’
Irina Schanz, the bakery clerk from Oberhausen, could no longer hold on to her dachshund Bello. He seemed to consider the body he’d discovered to be his private property. Now he slipped underneath Kripo’s crime-scene tape and sank his teeth into the corpse’s left forearm.
Two uniformed police jumped into the sand pit and tried to pull the dog away.
Irina shrieked, ‘Don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt him! He just wants to play!’
Faust kept taking pictures.
*
Maybe, Svenja Moers thought, the second cell isn’t intended as punishment for me. Maybe he’s going to bring in someone else. Maybe someone from our cooking class.
She almost wished there was another prisoner. For some reason she thought a man in the other cell would be preferable to a woman. She didn’t know why, but she wished he’d capture a man.
She imagined holding hands between the bars. No, not with her Ingo. She couldn’t imagine him being in the next cell.
The Oath Page 6
