‘No, don’t, please, I’ll do everything. OK. Confession. And now I’m just supposed to write how I—’
He snarled at her. He had an enormous amount of adrenalin in his system. ‘No,’ he yelled, ‘you only write what I say! No tricks! So write: It was all exactly as you, Mr Heide, described in your book. You were right on every single point. Unfortunately the judges and prosecutors didn’t recognise you and your criminal work. Instead, it was torn to pieces in court by splitting hairs. The trial was a triumph of lies. Like a Nuremberg Rally of evil. I’m writing ‘unfortunately’ because—’ He came very close to the bars. With his piercing gaze, he tried to read what she had written so far. His whole body seemed to vibrate. A sour smell came from his mouth. ‘Because otherwise I would be sitting in one of your nice prisons, with a recreational programme, educational classes, televisions in cells, visiting hours and medical care. Here in this makeshift prison it’s just me and,’ he took a deep breath because he had difficulty saying the words, ‘just me and the executioner.’
‘Executioner?’
‘Yes, damn it, write executioner.’
She looked at him. He was serious. A tear fell on the paper.
She wrote: ‘The executioner.’
His words were like the hoarse barks of a vicious dog. ‘And now sign with your own name.’
For a moment she feared he would demand that she sign with blood. But he didn’t. He’d abandoned that idea as too dramatic. No one at the police station would doubt the authenticity of the letter. It was full of fingerprints, and one of Svenja Moers’ tears had even fallen on it.
He’d actually wanted to force her to clean the kitchen, but he couldn’t wait to post the letter. It was supposed to be waiting on Ubbo Heide’s desk tomorrow morning.
He passed her an envelope and instead of sending it to Ubbo’s private address, had it addressed to the police station in Aurich: Aurich Police Station, Mr Ubbo Heide, Fischteichweg 1–5, 26603 Aurich. He did not want to give Ubbo the chance to make it simply disappear.
*
It wasn’t worth it anymore for Odysseus. Back then, Detective Wilhelm Kaufmann had investigated Heymann and Stern because he’d recognised himself in them. His unrealised yearnings. Hadn’t closet homosexuals been particularly stringent haters and pursuers of gays under Fascism because they were always fighting against an isolated part of themselves? At least that’s how history had explained the connection back then. He himself was gay and had come out after twenty years of marriage.
Odysseus had adored that man because he had stood up for himself and he knew that he could never publicly reveal his fantasies without being locked up forever.
Back then, before he had snatched little Steffi on Langeoog, he had been about to talk to his old history teacher. If he had been able to reveal himself to anyone to ask for help, then it was him.
But in the end he hadn’t done it for fear of rejection, shame and because he wasn’t sure that his teacher wouldn’t have called the police. Instead, he’d taken Steffi and lived out his fantasies.
He shook himself. He had to get rid of those thoughts and focus on Wilhelm Kaufmann. He’d watched him back then, after the crime on Langeoog. He’d studied the papers in Café Leis, eaten delicious cake and drunk his tea. The police had been searching everywhere for little Steffi Heymann, every ferry to Bensersiel was trawled with a fine-toothed comb. By the second day after Steffi’s disappearance, every passenger had been traced. He simply waited it out, read the newspaper and watched the police carry out their search.
He had noticed Wilhelm Kaufmann at the time because Kaufmann had stared at the children, rather than the women with their long, tanned legs in those short, swishing skirts.
He’s like me, Odysseus had thought back then. It was amusing that someone like him would become a detective and not a teacher at a school or daycare centre so as to be close to the objects of his desire.
Did he recognise me too, back then on Langeoog, when I looked deep into his dark soul? Had he been carrying around that secret ever since?
They had let him go. He had lived in seclusion for a while. People like them could live inconspicuously. Our disguise it our greatest weapon: normality.
It felt like he were talking to Kaufmann now. Only in his head, of course, but that’s the way it often was.
You tried to be like them. But you never succeeded. It doesn’t make any difference if you put on a uniform or a tailored suit, Wilhelm. You can shed your skin as often as you want, you’ll still remain a predator. People will never accept you because you lay hands on their spawn. There came a point where you couldn’t take it anymore and started to kill people like you. At first only in your dreams. Sure. A brief fantasy during the day. Then later, when the desire got stronger and stronger, you started planning, and then when the first one died from your blade, you felt some relief. Was it as if you’d chopped off a part of yourself?
Perhaps I’ll ask you all these questions myself. Before I kill you. I know that you’ll come for me, too. Back then there were a couple of hundred male tourists on the island. How many minutes did you have to check each of us? And you didn’t even have the child’s body. Just the idea that the father could have kidnapped his own child with the help of his friend.
But you already sensed that something different had taken place. When you were looking for Steffi with your ridiculous Boy Scout methods, the two of us exchanged words. You gave me the flyer with Steffi’s picture.
The police are requesting your assistance. Little Steffi Heymann is missing.
I took a flyer. As if I was too stupid to read, you asked me, ‘Have you seen this child anywhere? She’s been missing for two days.’
‘I know,’ I answered, ‘I know.’
Your flyers did nothing. They were all show. As if there weren’t any papers, no TV. I don’t want to even get started on the Internet.
Then we met again, near the Melkhörn dunes – or was it between the Pirola dunes on the way to the dairy? At any rate, you were riding a bicycle and were surrounded by a flock of children. You looked happy and I bet you didn’t even notice me.
And then that night by the sea, that was you too. Right? It couldn’t be a coincidence. Did you follow me? Did you already know everything back then?
I was out for a stroll near Flinthörn. There wasn’t a soul for miles around. I wanted to be close to the dead body. I sat on that wonderful spot in the sand and meditated. Carried out a dialogue with the dead child. Perhaps the sea had already claimed it, but the presence of a soul that hadn’t had the chance to lose its innocence was easy to sense.
Are you sensitive enough to feel something like that, Kaufmann? You acted more like a tough guy in life generally, and in your career. For a moment I even suspected you had come to steal the body.
Are you like that? Do you trust yourself around the little ones who are alive?
I bet you used to sneak around mortuaries. Sure you did. You can’t fool me. And now you want to get rid of me because it wasn’t enough to kill Stern and Heymann. But even if you slaughter all of our kind – and believe me, there are lots of us – even then, Wilhelm, you’ll still be what you are: one of us.
*
The young woman who stormed into the police station on Fischteichweg seemed upset and belligerent.
Marion Wolters stepped out of the way and was – perhaps for the first time in her life – happy that Rupert was standing close to her. She knew she was too fat for his taste, but he still roved her body with his eyes, as if he would like nothing more than to tear off her clothes. Perhaps she should get involved.
Rupert registered how Marion Wolters quickly retreated. As it happened, he did quite enjoy conversing with beautiful young women, but the narrow-hipped blonde was positively surrounded by a cloud. For the first time, Rupert understood to some extent what his wife Beate meant when she said that a person had a dark aura. Perhaps there really was such a thinig, and he had recognised it.
‘Can I help?’
he asked in a manner that was quite friendly for him.
She screamed at him. ‘You criticised Joachim Faust unfairly! None of you gave him even the slightest chance! You bullied him, humiliated him and ultimately killed him!’
Rupert pointed to himself. ‘Me?’
She waved her hands in the air. ‘You! All of you! You pigheaded East Frisians!’
Rupert suggested with arm movements that she should calm down. ‘I understand that you’re upset. It’s obviously been a difficult loss for you.’
‘You have no idea!’ she yelled.
Rupert had learned that in order to calm the torrent of emotions from an agitated, aggressive person, he first had to establish an objective relationship with them.
‘My name is Rupert. Chief Inspector Rupert. And who are you?’
‘Rupert?’ Now she really got going. ‘You called him a pussy and an arrogant twit!’ She gasped for breath like someone who was drowning. ‘Did you revel in his death? Did you protect the killer? Intentionally let them go?’
‘Now listen up, young lady! Just because you had a thing with Faust, which I assume you did, it doesn’t mean you can come in here making a fuss!’
Rupert’s words hit hard. The air the woman had just inhaled with so much effort slipped away. It seemed like she was shrinking.
Rieke Gersema had wanted to walk past Rupert into the hallway. Now she stayed behind him, leaning against the wall and listening.
‘I mean,’ Rupert said, ‘he probably promised you everything under the sun to get you into bed. But believe me, nothing would have come of it. That Faust guy was so . . . he talked everyone he wanted right into bed.’
Tears welled up in Rieke Gersema’s eyes. She turned around and ran back into her office. Irritated, Rupert turned around.
The young woman in front of Rupert took advantage of the fact that he was temporarily distracted. Her right hand shot out without warning, fingers spread wide, and she hit him across the face. He took a second to process what had happened as she was digging frantically through her handbag.
Was she looking to pull out a weapon? Would she try to shoot him here, in the entrance to the police station? Maybe she was planning a mass shooting to avenge her murdered lover. As Rupert jumped the woman and ripped her bag away from her he believed he was saving the lives of his clueless colleagues. He flung the thing across the hallway, twisting the young woman’s right arm behind her back and then they fell to the floor together.
Marion Wolters hurried over.
‘The purse!’ Rupert called. ‘She tried to pull out a weapon!’
Marion Wolters reached into the bag and checked. ‘There’s no weapon inside. Only this.’ She held up a Dictaphone and some cosmetics.
Rupert released the woman. She kicked his shin and scratched his face.
‘My daddy recorded everything and sent it to me! He said that you’re all in on something and there are skeletons in your closet. That’s why you destroyed him. He was on to you!’
Rupert straightened up with some effort. ‘Your daddy?’ he asked, dumbfounded.
‘Yes, you fool! I’m his daughter. He was a better father than you’ll ever be, you . . . you . . .’
She couldn’t think of a swearword word bad enough.
Then she barked, ‘You East Frisian idiot, you!’ but looked disappointed at her own choice of words. She ripped the Dictaphone out of Marion Wolters’ hands and held it up in the air. ‘I’m going to offer this to the radio or the television – whoever wants it. I’m going to destroy you! My daddy had a lot of friends in the media. You have his life on your conscience! I’ll destroy you, you filthy animals!’
Rupert wanted to take the Dictaphone away from her again, but as he moved forward far too quickly, his sacroiliac joint shot a bolt of pain through his body, as if someone had jammed a hot knife in his back.
He remained bent over, not even managing to reach out his arm, and said in a distorted voice, ‘That . . . that is . . . possibly evidence. A piece of evidence in a homicide! You can’t just—’
‘Yes,’ she crowed, ‘and it’s evidence against you, you jerks!’
She strode to the exit.
Rupert tried to get Marion Wolters moving to follow the young woman, but Wolters stayed put and looked stoically at Rupert.
‘If that tape is what I think it is, Rupert,’ Marion Wolters said, ‘then you’re not going to come across very well to the media, my dear.’
Accusingly, Rupert hissed. ‘Yeah, thanks! And you’re letting her get away with it, fat arse!’
Marion Wolters turned her back to Rupert. Walking away, she not only showed him her wide, child-bearing hips, she also gave him the finger.
Rupert held on to the wall. He urgently needed Ibuprofen, or at least a double vodka.
Rieke Gersema, the press spokeswoman, saw dark clouds approaching. She ran after Faust’s daughter to try and prevent the worst. But when she got outside the young woman was nowhere to be found.
*
The morning couldn’t have been busier. For Rieke Gersema it seemed as if her phone was ringing louder than usual. She had already dissolved and drunk two aspirin to ward off a headache, and was starting to develop stomach pains. Journalists had seldom posed such hard questions and been so persistent. As press spokeswoman, she felt as though she were the one in the dock.
Büscher didn’t have any time for her concerns. He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
If he’d had his way, he would have simply opened the letter. But Ann Kathrin insisted on bringing in Ubbo Heide. She tried to reach him by phone. After all, the letter was addressed to him.
It was lying on the otherwise empty conference table, illuminated by an office lamp. Büscher had only touched it with tweezers.
‘Postmarked Emden,’ he said, ‘I’d bet a month’s pay it’s from our perpetrator.’
‘Well, that can’t be very much,’ Weller needled him. He didn’t like the way Büscher looked at Ann Kathrin. Even the way the two talked was too intimate for Weller’s taste.
Weller had slept poorly and had dreamed that he was still married to his ex, Renate, who had cheated on him multiple times while he was babysitting or working nights. He was still furious with her and wasn’t planning to let anyone pull the wool over his eyes again.
Ann Kathrin stood, her back turned to the others, whispering on the phone with Ubbo Heide. Büscher considered this a real affront. He addressed the other members of the team loudly, looking into each of their eyes. ‘The letter was sent to our police station but addressed to Ubbo Heide. What does the culprit mean by that?’
Sylvia Hoppe shrugged her shoulders, preferring not to say anything, but Weller couldn’t keep his mouth shut. ‘He wants to imply that he doesn’t accept you as our boss, Martin.’
The way he said Martin implied that only an idiot could have that name.
Her phone pressed to her ear, Ann Kathrin looked at her husband, rebuking him.
Büscher looked rattled. ‘Well, this case puts us all to the test. If the killer really is someone from our ranks, then—’
Rupert limped into the room, bent over. ‘Apologies, colleagues, but . . . my sacroiliac joint—’
Sylvia Hoppe interrupted him. ‘Yeah, sure, OK. Don’t bore us with your medical history.’
Ann Kathrin spoke into her phone. ‘Thanks, Ubbo,’ and hung up. She nodded at Büscher. ‘Ubbo is already on his way over here. But we’re supposed to open the letter right away and not lose any time. He’ll be here as soon as possible.’
‘How kind,’ Büscher scoffed and carefully went to work with the letter opener.
It was so still in the room that the cutting of the paper sounded like a viper’s hiss.
They huddled round. Although everyone was reading the text for themselves, Büscher read aloud:
‘This is my confession . . . It was all exactly as you, Mr Heide, described in your book. You were right on every single point.’
Welle
r murmured, ‘Most of us know how read!’
But Büscher continued:
Unfortunately the judges and prosecutors didn’t recognise you and your criminal work. Instead, it was torn to pieces in court by splitting hairs. The trial was a triumph of lies. Like a Nuremberg Rally of evil. I’m writing ‘unfortunately’ because otherwise I would be sitting in one of your nice prisons, with a recreational programme, educational classes, televisions in cells, visiting hours and medical care. Here in this makeshift prison it’s just me and the executioner.
Rupert groaned, and it was unclear if this was triggered by the letter or by his sacroiliac joint.
Rieke Gersema put into words what was going through her head without thinking. ‘So Ubbo was right. It really was her.’
Ann Kathrin reacted unusually stridently to Rieke. ‘I don’t want to hear anything like that again! This here,’ she pointed to the letter, ‘is a disgusting document. A confession possibly produced under torture. Luckily we’re living in a country where no judge would ever recognise something like this.’
Weller placed a hand between his wife’s shoulder blades. But as if his touch had been a starting signal, she now began to pace back and forth like a caged animal. Loudly, she questioned her colleagues. ‘What does this letter tell us about the perpetrator?’
‘He’s read Ubbo Heide’s book,’ Weller said.
‘He hasn’t killed her yet,’ Rupert chimed in.
Ann Kathrin looked at Büscher. He passed, as did Rieke and Sylvia.
Then Ann Kathrin ticked off what she thought she knew. ‘He’s clearly from our world. Perhaps he even works in this building. He feels as if he’s been treated unfairly. He thinks that he’s better than most of us and—’
‘He’s upset about the justice system. He considers the judges and laws too lax,’ Weller said.
Ann Kathrin continued. ‘Even worse. He thinks the justice system dances to the criminals’ tune.’
Büscher cleared his throat. As the boss, he needed to say something. ‘From his perspective, he’s doing good—’
The Oath Page 24
