The Oath

by Klaus-Peter Wolf

  ‘Sure, that’s not a problem. There are attendance lists. But we can also ask the class teacher. According to my information, they have both attended every class so far. Most recently on Wednesday.’

  ‘Did you hear that, Ann?’ Weller asked.

  ‘Yeah, Wednesday. But Yves Stern was long dead. Unless the man whose head was lying in Ubbo’s boot wasn’t Yves Stern.’

  ‘I think that’s out of the question. We have his DNA and—’

  ‘Someone,’ Ann Kathrin, ‘is giving us the runaround.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ Weller ranted. ‘What does that bastard have planned?’

  ‘He wants to take us somewhere, but I have no idea where.’

  The printer rattled and Mr Feier handed Weller a piece of paper.

  Weller took a deep breath. He waved to Feier and went into the hallway so he could talk to Ann Kathrin without being disturbed. She had taught him not to hold his breath in moments of shock. He was supposed to do the exact opposite: exhale and then take a deep breath. ‘That way you can best separate yourself from the bad vibes, instead of letting them inside your body,’ she had said.

  He fared well with that. Even bad cases didn’t take away his breath anymore. He’d learned strange things from her in the past few years. Sometimes she seemed like a creature from another planet, one that had only taken on a human body so she could move freely among people.

  ‘Guess where Yves Stern lives, according to the information he provided?’

  ‘Frank, this isn’t a quiz,’ she warned him.

  ‘In Hude, on Ruwschstrasse,’ he crowed.

  ‘The sender of the package,’ said Ann Kathrin. ‘That’s him. The killer definitely attended that class and now he has Svenja Moers in his power.’

  ‘And why does the scumbag call himself Yves Stern?’

  ‘He wants to point out a connection. He wants us to connect the dots.’

  ‘Yeah. Or he just wants to confuse us.’

  ‘A street in Hude that doesn’t even exist,’ Ann Kathrin murmured, as if talking to herself. ‘Why?’

  Then she ended the conversation with Weller and he went back into the room with Mr Feier.

  *

  Ingo Sutter had taken the time to pack a few things he wanted to take. He looked at Ann Kathrin guiltily. He was clearly more afraid that his wife would find out about the affair than he was worried about Svenja Moers. Ann Katrin was sure that he was telling the truth and would have liked nothing better than to turn the clock back.

  What kind of sissy are you, she thought, and hoped that Svenja Moers, should she survive this nightmare, would dump him. In her experience, life crises ultimately led to more clarity or at least to insights. This man loved himself and his affluent position much more than anything else in this world. Svenja Moers didn’t stand a chance, regardless of how good the sex was with her.

  ‘From countless crime shows you probably know that you can’t change anything about a crime scene,’ she said, and pointed to the bag with his things. ‘It could be interpreted as you wanting to cover your tracks.’

  He went pale, opened his mouth, but couldn’t say anything.

  ‘Yep, you’re basically erasing all traces. Traces of adultery. Go back to your wife. Try to become what you now wish in the depths of your soul you’d stayed: a faithful husband and . . .’ She handed him her card. ‘Give me a call if you think of anything else. Most of all, whether Mrs Moers spoke about acquaintances, men or exes.’

  Cringing, he took the card and said. ‘Her ex-husbands are both deceased.’

  ‘Yes, I know. Tell me something new.’

  ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘Yes and take your roses with you. They’ll certainly make your wife happy.’

  *

  After so many years together, Carola Heide could see that her husband had changed. The smart decision-maker, who always tried to at least give the impression that he had everything under control, seemed unsure of himself, even in need of some muscle. The athlete who had got up before sunrise on holiday to do his stretches on the balcony, his push-ups and knee-bends to stay fit, was now in a wheelchair and had trouble dressing and undressing by himself.

  On the one hand, he had become a popular writer, in demand for discussions and interviews, but on the other, his life was somehow going downhill and hers along with it.

  That night she had dreamed that he’d been decapitated and his head was on her breakfast table.

  Was that where this all was going?

  Her daughter Insa, from whom she hadn’t heard anything for far too long, was here and in need of support, advice and being mothered. But although Carola very much wanted to be there for her daughter, she couldn’t do that just now. She herself needed help and someone who could give her the feeling of being held.

  Still in the doorway, she hugged her daughter more fiercely. Insa quickly felt uncomfortable; there was something engulfing, even stifling, about the embrace. Her mother seemed so needy and Insa asked, ‘Mum, what’s the matter?’

  Her only answer was to hug even harder, clutching her.

  ‘Is something wrong with Dad?’ Just for the moment, Insa’s own concerns were wiped away. The thought that her father could die, perhaps even be buried without her finding out, flashed through her body like an electric shock. But there were telephones! Smartphones! Emails!

  No, that couldn’t be! Her father was alive or had only died a few minutes ago.

  At the same time, Insa asked herself if she’d actually given her parents her new phone number. She’d switched providers, not just because the new one was cheaper and had better coverage, but mostly to get rid of a couple of frenemies who had become a nuisance and could trace her via an app on her phone:

  ‘Hey, I noticed you’re in Düsseldorf too right now. Then let’s do something together, you crazy girl!’

  She was using a pseudonym on Facebook instead of her real name and her profile picture was of a tree, not a face.

  Had she got rid of her parents along with all those annoying people?

  She felt guilty and terrible. Her mother was stuck to her like glue and she led her inside.

  The place looked good. Clean as ever.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ Insa asked.

  The two women sat down on the sofa. There was so much to say.

  *

  Joachim Faust hoped, even expected, that the show from the Whaleseum would also make him famous in the north and Norddeich. He went off – without taking along the producer – to show himself to the astonished public. But he wasn’t recognised at Diekster Kitchen next to the dyke, where he ate a plate of fish, or on Dörper Lane, where he strolled with deliberate slowness, stopping in front of Grünhoff and looking into the display window as if he’d never seen a teapot before.

  He’d parked his car in the car park. He’d paid a one-euro fee, which seemed laughably small, but then had printed out the receipt for tax purposes. After all, he was here to work.

  He drove to Norden, parked behind the old school, and hoped to at least provoke some attention here in the shopping street.

  Before he went into the credit union headquarters, he stopped briefly in front of the big lion and admired it with effusive, large gestures, as if he had to bow down before the creature. In reality, he only hoped he would be recognised by passing tourists. That didn’t happen.

  Inside the Credit Union he printed out his bank statement, looking left and right, but even here there weren’t any screaming fans waiting for him.

  At least there were tourists sitting in front of Mittelhaus, drinking dark beer with sugary strawberries. A woman watched Faust with the corners of her mouth turned down. She was here with four men, her husband and three sons, and had promised to drive. They had all already had a round, and were cheery and a little tipsy.

  One son tried to cheer up his mother, poking her and calling, ‘Look, isn’t that the total moron from TV?’

  ‘Not so loud!’ She hissed.

  Faust
elected not to go into Mittelhaus.

  Café Ten Cate was still busy. He took a seat. The buildings were already casting long shadows, and you couldn’t sunbathe anymore. But he was here looking for compliments, not to get a tan.

  He ordered coffee and a beer. He could tell that that people were talking about him. They huddled together looking in his direction, or they consciously looked away so as not to embarrass themselves.

  He enjoyed it. He needed it, like others needed the medication prescribed by their doctor. He cheerfully ordered, ‘another cup of that excellent coffee’.

  Monika Tapper approached his table. She smiled. It strained. She swept a strand of hair out of her face. ‘You don’t need to pay.’

  He felt flattered. Now that his status as a public figure had been recognised, every café or restaurant naturally wanted to count him as one of their guests. He was pleased and beamed at Monika Tapper.

  ‘Thanks, that’s nice but I wasn’t actually planning to pay just now. Your coffee is good, and I’d like to have another.’

  Her husband Jörg appeared behind Monika Tapper.

  ‘You misunderstood my wife. We don’t care for you as a guest.’

  Faust thought he had misheard. Or was this a joke? One of those East Frisian jokes that were so hard to understand? But the way Jörg and Monika Tapper looked, the café owners weren’t pleased about something.

  Now Jörg Tapper spoke very slowly, as if he had to explain something to a child. ‘My wife has tried to tell you nicely. You’re not wanted here. Anyone who is unpleasant about our friends can drink their coffee elsewhere.’

  There was a cheerful lady with windswept hair sitting at the neighbouring table, eating strawberry cake with whipped cream. She yelled, ‘Yep, that’s East Frisia! Love it or leave it!’

  Someone clapped. ‘Bravo, Brigit!’

  Monika Tapper nodded in Brigit’s direction.

  Jörg Tapper clarified, ‘Ann Kathrin Klaasen is one of our regulars,’ and Monika emphasised, ‘And she’s my friend. A kind-hearted person. And we won’t hear anything against her.’

  Faust stood up awkwardly, as if he had difficulty getting up. He needed some time to formulate some kind of response to make a good exit. It was impossible for him to retreat so beaten. Too many people were watching and listening.

  Brigit, sitting with her granddaughter, was so happy about his defeat that she gave a thumbs up in the direction of Monika and Jörg Tapper.

  An old, bent woman was supporting herself on her walker and giggling like a witch in a fairy tale.

  ‘Well, screw you all, you ignoramuses!’ Faust cursed and stamped off in the direction of Neuer Weg. Just before he reached Weissig’s fish shop, he was stopped by a young, extremely attractive woman. She was wearing white trousers that were very wide from the knee down, but were outrageously tight on her thighs and crotch. ‘You’re Klaus Faust, right, the TV man? Can I have an autograph?’

  Although his name was Joachim, not Klaus, and he would have never called himself a television man, but rather a high-quality journalist, just now he didn’t care. He accommodated her request, eyeing her impressive bosom. There was a slogan printed on her T-shirt in large type: Shock Your Parents, and smaller below: Read a Book!

  She was pleased by his willingness and bounced up and down with excitement. ‘Please write: For Trudi.’

  ‘So your name is Trudi.’ he deduced.

  ‘No,’ she laughed, ‘my name is Danni. The autograph is for my granny, not for me. She always used to watch your talk show.’

  The series of defeats seemed to not have ended for the day. He dutifully signed the card.

  ‘Please write today’s date too, but nice and big. My granny can’t read very well anymore.’

  Faust groaned.

  In other cities when he gave autographs on the street, everyone wanted one and a crowd would form. It was different here. The people in East Frisia clearly had their heroes and stars. Ann Kathrin Klaasen was one of them and he’d insulted her. Unforgiveable.

  If I’d bought a house here, now would be the time to sell it, he thought. But luckily he hadn’t.

  But then some other people came over and stopped and stared.

  ‘Did you want an autograph?’ Faust asked and put on his irresistible smile.

  ‘No, thanks, we’re just waiting for Danni.’

  Well thanks, Faust thought, that’s enough now. But then to add insult to injury, the bricklayer Peter Grendel came up behind him and jeered. ‘Don’t take it personally. They are like that round here. If the Pope lived here and went shopping, then they’d say: Look at that, the Pope is shopping. And you’re not exactly the Pope, you’re a show-off with extremely uncomfortable shoes.’

  Faust looked at his five-hundred-euro shoes and asked himself what was wrong with them. He hurried to get to his car. In the car park, he saw the old lady with the walker close to his car. Although he couldn’t care less about her, it occurred to him to wonder how she could have come over so quickly from Ten Cate.

  She beckoned to him with her finger, reminding him even more of a witch. She was dressed completely in black, with a starched white collar.

  ‘Mr Faust, can I have an autograph too?’

  Finally, someone had got his name right.

  He whipped out his autograph cards and approached her.

  ‘Should I write your name on it? Is it for you?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she coughed.

  Then he saw the blade. It was a long knife. It reminded him of an undersized Samurai sword. He didn’t protect himself, although he saw the blade and still would have had the opportunity to jump to the side or run away. Perhaps he was too vain to admit that an old, feeble lady could present a danger for him.

  She rammed the blade in between his ribs from below.

  He slumped to his knees. His mouth was open and gurgling noises emerged.

  She grabbed his hair, pulled his head back and cut his throat. The blood spurted and although he wasn’t dead, he knew that he would die. He was already lying on the ground. He saw his blood running down the car door in long rivulets.

  Then she cut out his larynx. He was already in heaven when she placed his own larynx between his lips. Or in hell. Or wherever souls go when they leave the body.

  *

  Insa hadn’t felt so close to her mother for a long time. It felt good to be useful, and that eased her piercing pain. Romantic partners came and went or were a long time coming. But she was a daughter and would be that for the rest of her life. This warmed her like soup on a frosty winter evening.

  She held hands with her mother and listened to her. She had already brewed two cups of calming herbal tea and the apartment smelled of sage, cinnamon and coriander.

  Ubbo Heide called it ‘girly tea’. He was stubborn in only accepting real, East Frisian tea, or peppermint tea if he was feeling really bad. Best of all, he liked strong black tea with fresh peppermint leaves instead of sugar or cream. Carola mentioned that now so she could say something nice, something that didn’t trigger any fear.

  Insa was happy to be alone with her mother. There had always been frequent mother-daughter talks, without Dad. But not for a long time.

  She knew that she’d have to tell the truth now, and it was unbelievably embarrassing. ‘I think I know how the killer got the car keys, Mum.’

  Carola looked at her daughter with her crystal-clear eyes, and wiped a tear from her face. ‘What, you know?’

  ‘You lent me the car when you went you went to Wangerooge for three months in March, because my old VW—’

  Carola Heide remembered. ‘Yeah, I remember!’

  ‘I thought I had lost the car keys at a party. I probably just had one too many, and then . . . well, at any rate the keys were gone the next morning. I thought someone must have gone off with the car. But it was still exactly where I’d parked it, it was just that the keys were gone. I thought I might have lost them when I was dancing. It was so embarrassing. I didn’t want to come ac
ross like the stupid, careless daughter who gets drunk and then loses track of the keys to Daddy’s car. I had a copy made. Your authorised garage, where you buy all your cars, was very helpful; they also promised they wouldn’t rat on me. I didn’t know that—’

  Carola didn’t seem upset, but very decisive. ‘We have to tell Ubbo. We can’t keep that information from him.’

  Insa understood, but as Carola dialled Ubbo’s number and held out the phone for her daughter she felt as if she had drunk slurry rather than herbal tea.

  *

  Ubbo Heide sat at his old desk in his former office and, with Büscher, went through all the names of the car owners who had attended the reading in Gelsenkirchen. They also looked at all the pictures Weller had taken.

  Rieke Gersema was with them. She had lost so much weight that her blue glasses constantly slipped down her nose.

  ‘There is one strange thing. In keeping with Ann Kathrin’s request, everyone was asked for an alibi.’

  Büscher interrupted her. ‘Alibi? We don’t even know when the crimes occurred. What are we going to do with an alibi?’

  Rieke grinned mischievously. ‘No, that’s right. They were asked where they were when Ubbo had his reading. And everyone said they were in the city library at the event.’

  ‘Of course, where else?’ Büscher nodded. ‘Big surprise?’

  ‘Exactly. Except for one. He claimed he hadn’t been there.’

  Büscher was flabbergasted.

  Ubbo smiled. ‘Nice one, a basic but simple trick.’

  ‘Who and why?’ Büscher asked.

  Rieke found the picture. ‘This one here, next to the woman with black – almost violet – hair.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Büscher grumbled.

  ‘But unfortunately,’ Rieke said, ‘there’s a simple answer. There’s something going on between these two, and his wife isn’t supposed to know . . . classic!’

  ‘People used to take their lover out to eat,’ said Büscher, ‘even go dancing or to the cinema. Do people go to readings these days?’

  Ubbo Heide felt flattered. ‘Apparently!’

  Just then his phone buzzed. Ubbo saw his own landline number on the screen and answered. He was expecting Carola and greeted her with a, ‘We’re in the middle of a meeting, dear.’