The Oath

by Klaus-Peter Wolf

  ‘And what did you do?’

  ‘Well, we hired a company that dealt with the whole thing—’

  ‘Which company?’

  The publishing director didn’t know. He looked at his editor, who shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘Well, I had a nice young man come to me. He didn’t need very long, and then everything was back up and running.’

  ‘Well,’ Weller said, ‘there must be an order, an invoice, or—’

  ‘Yes, there must be,’ the publishing director agreed, and punched a button on his telephone. An intern came through the door with excessive enthusiasm, as if she’d only been waiting for this all day. ACB was printed on her T-shirt.

  Weller immediately liked her. He wished he had an intern like her too.

  ‘You helped us when all the computers went on strike.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she beamed, ‘my boyfriend works for a computer repair shop and—’

  ‘Can I have the address?’ Weller asked.

  ‘Well, that’s the funny thing,’ she said.

  Ubbo Heide looked like he was about to jump out of his wheelchair. It was exactly words like that made the alarms go off in his head. If something was odd or different from normal, then something monstrous could be hidden behind the apparent coincidences.

  That’s exactly what Weller was thinking as well. Now they were getting very close. Weller’s skin was practically crawling, as if the culprit was within reach.

  ‘My boyfriend came here to do the job himself – to sur-prise me.’

  ‘And?’ Weller asked. This conversation couldn’t move fast enough for him.

  ‘Well, everything was fine by the time he got here. Someone else from the company had been here first. But he couldn’t say who it had been. There’s only four people who work there. But sometimes, when they’re really busy – which is all the time – they use freelancers. Schoolkids who are good at that sort of thing or—’

  Weller couldn’t stay in his seat anymore. He stood up. ‘Wait a second. That means some random person was messing with the IT system here and you don’t know who it was?’

  ‘He was tall and skinny,’ the editor remembered. It sounded like an apology.

  ‘Did you have him show his ID?’ Weller asked.

  ‘No. I was happy that someone had come. He was competent, had everything fixed right away and—’

  ‘And stole your data,’ Weller declared. ‘Good God, it’s that simple, he makes your system crash, in other words, creating the problem. Then he offers himself as the solution. You probably even gave him a coffee while he stole everything he needed.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. With milk and sugar.’

  ‘Data theft,’ the publishing director groaned. ‘That’s one of those awful things. Nothing’s missing, and still something was stolen.’

  ‘Yep,’ Weller said. ‘Welcome to the new millennium. Are there any surveillance systems here? Are there videos saved of people who park outside or come into the building, or—’

  The publishing director showed his open palms like a sign of his innocence. ‘Good Lord, we’re not dealing with people like that! We’re a publishing house. We publish crime novels. We normally don’t deal with criminals, just with—’ he waved them away and stopped talking.

  ‘Yes,’ Weller declared, ‘maybe not normally. But you made it damn easy for them.’

  ‘Now that sounds like an accusation,’ the publishing director groaned, taken aback.

  Well it is, damn it, Weller wanted to say, but Ubbo Heide stopped him with a glance.

  ‘You’re good people,’ Ubbo said. ‘No one’s making accusations. But we’re dealing with a cunning, evil person. He’s exploiting our weaknesses. Not only yours, mine as well. And he knows us damn well.’

  *

  The formal way Ann Kathrin Klaasen addressed Wilhelm Kaufman was markedly different from the way she treated other suspects. He imagined there was a little more deference, even respect in her voice, although he realised that he was sitting there as a suspect.

  ‘I’ll answer all of your questions, Ms. Klaasen. I know whom I’m dealing with. You’re considered the interrogation expert for the East Frisian police. What am I saying? For the whole state of Lower Saxony, if not the entire country. It’s said about you that—’

  ‘Yes, it’s said that I’m even able to get a chair or a case of beer to talk. I know. Now don’t try to flatter me. You’re above cheap tricks like that, Mr Kaufmann. For me there are only two possibilities: either you’re an extremely cunning psychopath, who is trying to dispense his own kind of justice, or you’re our best option for catching the killer. In either case, we have plenty of work ahead of us.’

  ‘You’re right about that, Ms. Klaasen,’ he said. ‘Let’s get started.’

  She paced three steps, turned, three steps. Glanced at him every time she took the last step.

  He registered exactly what she was doing. Lies seemed almost absurd in the context. She would know straightaway if he wasn’t telling the truth. She wants me to realise the hopelessness of his situation, he thought. Everything she does is planned. She has positioned me here so that I’m sitting with my back to the door. I’m supposed to believe that there is no way out and that this conversation is my last chance. She’s presenting herself as the only person who can understand me. With her body language, her looks and gestures. She believes she can get everything out of me, and she wants me to believe that too.

  ‘Then let’s start with the lies first,’ she said.

  ‘Which lies?’

  ‘You were in Uslar. We have video footage.’

  He laughed. ‘Pictures from surveillance cameras? From the sauna?’

  ‘No, cameras aren’t permitted in places like that, as you know. But there are plenty in the city. We spotted you three times. But if we looked long enough there would surely be more sightings. And believe me, we’ll check every surveillance camera in Uslar for the time in question, second by second.’

  He applauded her. ‘Bravo,’ he said, ‘bravo. As a former detective, I can only say great job. But if I had been in Uslar, I would admit to it now. I’ve never been there in my whole life. I even doubt that I would have made it from there in time to meet Birger Holthusen in Langeoog.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that’s a big deal,’ she said.

  ‘High tide and low tide cannot be shifted.’

  ‘Thanks for the information,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Have to remember that one.’

  Suddenly she stared at him as though trying to look deep in his soul.

  ‘What do you want? To read my thoughts?’

  ‘Good plan.’

  ‘Ms. Klaasen, I went to Langeoog. I’d been planning to for ages. I always reserve the holiday flat a year in advance. It’d be easy to check.’

  ‘And when did Birger Holthusen find out that you were there?’

  He lifted both hands and then let them slap back to the table.

  Ann Kathrin thought it sounded like butcher tossing chops onto the scales, but she didn’t say so.

  ‘It certainly wouldn’t be hard for him to work it out. If someone has gone on holiday to the same small island at exactly the same time for ten years, then . . . But I have to be honest with you, Ms. Klaasen. I don’t think he found out in any kind of intelligent way.’

  ‘What do you mean by that? That he was stupid?’

  ‘No, he certainly wasn’t stupid. I want to say that he—’ He gulped and didn’t continue. His gaze seemed to pass through the wall and end up somewhere completely different.

  ‘Yes?’ Shouted Ann Kathrin.

  ‘He just seemed to know. You should understand that. The instincts that you have, Ms. Klaasen.’

  ‘Instincts? I do my homework, and then—’ she began to scold. ‘Don’t you dare tell me it was a coincidence. I don’t believe in them.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t a coincidence. He was waiting for me.’

  She looked at him, disbelieving.

  He tried to explain
it with an example. ‘Ms. Klaasen, if you go to a party, you know exactly who – besides yourself – is with the police, right?’

  She nodded. ‘Sure. But I couldn’t tell you beforehand who would be at the party.’

  He argued. ‘I don’t believe that. If you know that there’s going to be free beer and scantily clad girls dancing on a pole, then you could tell me exactly which of your colleagues would likely show up.’

  ‘Rupert,’ she laughed. ‘But this thing with you and Holthusen doesn’t seem that simple.’

  Kaufmann took a deep breath. ‘He thought I was like him . . . Which is ridiculous, of course. Although I’ve not always dealt very well with adults, I truly am not attracted to little children.’ He looked at her apologetically. ‘Yes, many of my relationships have failed. I either avoided women or tried to dominate them, for fear of being inferior or becoming submissive.

  ‘Please!’ He pointed to the recorder. ‘Can we turn that off? Is Ubbo Heide behind the window? Is my old friend listening to everything I’m telling you here?’

  She didn’t answer his question, but in her face he thought he sensed that Ubbo wasn’t there.

  She bent forward and pressed the stop button. ‘If you’re not the killer, then help me catch him.’

  ‘Good God, of course I’m not. I’ve got a temper! I never wanted to be like this but I didn’t get to decide! Sometimes things happen, and then I lose it. I react in a way that I shouldn’t. I’ve got into fights and punched people before – more than once – and Ubbo and my other colleagues didn’t want to cover up what I’d done anymore. You can understand that.’

  ‘You’re not a bad person,’ Ann Kathrin said. ‘All your life you’ve struggled to be one of the good guys. Right?’

  He gulped and nodded. He wiped away a tear. ‘Yes, damn it, I have. But to truly be one of the good guys you have to be able to control your feelings and I couldn’t do that.’

  ‘But a person with just a bad temper,’ Ann Kathrin said, ‘doesn’t calmly plan a murder, get the tools, and—’

  Kaufmann raised his hands. ‘No! For heaven’s sake, of course not! I lose it sometimes, but I’m not a calculating killer!’

  *

  He felt omnipotent. He had got back into the zone.

  Oh yes, he was pulling the strings in this puppet show.

  You know that I know your most secret desires and burn with truth. Yes, I realise what you want but don’t dare to say out loud.

  It gets to you too! You’re not stupid! You read the papers and see the reports as I do, right?

  Gravito is due to be released in Columbia, if he’s not already been out for a while. He abused and killed one hundred and sixty children! But his confession led to his prison sentence being cut in half – to just twenty-four years – one month and seven days per victim. That is assuming we know about all of the victims.

  In Columbia, people are often released after three-fifths of their sentence has been served. Which would mean only fourteen years for Gravito. If I have calculated correctly, that means the punishment per child was reduced to less than a month. And then he’s free to do it all again.

  Do you remember Degowski? He’ll be getting out soon. No one could forget the pictures of him holding the gun to Silke Bischoff’s head. In the end, three people were dead after that bank robbery went wrong. One of those was Silke Bischoff. And a five-year-old Italian boy.

  Degowski will presumably be freed under a new name. That is usual; after all, you can’t let famous criminals loose in public with their own names. Who would want to live near to them? So of course, he gets a new name and identity.

  Degowski was prepared for his release gradually. He was allowed to go out for the day by himself. And we’re all supposed to be happy for him!

  Something is wrong in our society, friends. Cancerous tissue has to be cut out before it metastasises and kills the body that fed it. If you looked deep into your souls, you’d agree with me. You just don’t yet dare say it out loud.

  You’re still thinking about the way in which I got my hands on Ubbo Heide’s manuscript. If I grab one of those Jansen brothers now, then you’ll know that I have an insight into your thoughts.

  I’m a part of you. If you could finally think clearly and leave behind your blinkers, then I would no longer need to be the executioner. You could create order and free this country from all of the filth.

  This feeling was better than any drug. Being completely in the zone. There was a chance for him to play his game and everything work out to his advantage.

  Michael Jansen worked for the big CEWE Colour company in Oldenburg. He enjoyed jogging in the castle gardens after work. He openly shared information about his running schedule on his Facebook page. He had illustrated his routes with wonderful photos.

  He appeared to have some knowledge of trees and wood because he included explanations under the photos: redwood, black walnut, red oak. Jansen was probably looking for fellow joggers to connect with. The whole Facebook page seemed like it was aimed this way. He had also posted numerous pictures of himself, of his firm calves, his fine-tuned body. His six-pack was especially prominent. You are probably accompanied by love-struck ladies with bouncing bosoms on your jogging route, he thought.

  It should be easy to catch you in the gardens. I’ll park my car next to yours, and when you return all sweaty at the end of your own macho Olympics, there are just two possibilities: if you’ve landed a chick and are accompanied to the car, then you’re in luck and I’ll let you go. If the ladies have lost interest in you, and you slowly climb into your flashy car all alone, then your time has come, Jansen.

  He considered the disadvantages of putting Michael Jansen in the second cell. Strictly speaking, he hadn’t actually committed a crime. He only needed him to retract his false statement, take back the alibi he’d provided, and then he could be released. There was nothing more at stake.

  But anyone who’d seen that space couldn’t be returned to freedom, regardless of whether he had accepted his punishment or not. The danger of blowing his cover was simply too great.

  It’d be more effective, he thought, if they receive the confession and see that he is in a cell like Svenja Moers. Or would it frighten them even more to find a lying witness with his throat slit? And to top it off – as they suggested themselves – with a playing card in his mouth.

  Everything pointed towards him killing Michael Jansen. The effect would be great, especially on his brother Werner. He would know exactly why his brother had died, and it would be clear that he was going after him next. Then Werner Jansen would confess, and not at the threat of prison. Instead, he would run to the police, or make a statement directly to the prosecutor’s office. He’d say how sorry he was about everything and that he had acted under pressure. That he’d thought his friend was innocent and had only made the statement to help him. That would make the whole house of cards collapse and Volker Janssen would end up in prison. Probably even voluntarily, for fear of being beheaded.

  He smiled. He was satisfied with himself. It was as if the blood was being pumped more swiftly through his veins, giving him a jittery, hot feeling.

  He looked at the screen. Svenja Moers was staring at the bars lethargically and stubbornly – like a grounded pubescent teenager.

  He needed to take her some more exercise equipment. He wanted to get her fit. He wished he could chase her around the house again and again, but that, unfortunately, wasn’t possible. I simply have too much to do for a single person, he thought. If I focus on training Svenja now, then I’ll lose too much time. I have to take care of Michael Jansen first. The faster I wave the truth in front of your noses, the sooner you’ll come to my side and play by my rules. It has been your game for too long. Your brains are clogged by notions of legality.

  *

  He pulled on his tracksuit, blue with three white stripes. He felt like he looked boring, adhering to society’s dress codes. And that’s exactly the way he wanted to look. He would blend in an
d not look suspicious to another jogger.

  When he left his home in Emden, the worry of being watched crept up on him. Had snipers already taken up position on the surrounding houses? Where they more intelligent than he thought? Had they found out Yves Stern’s real name?

  He wanted to drive to Oldenburg via the A31 and A28 autobahns, but decided to take a detour to see if he was being followed. He drove towards Aurich via Ihlow. The silver-grey VW Golf looked suspicious to him. Its number plate showed NOR, so a driver from Norden and not Aurich. There was a young, long-haired woman with a hooked nose sitting behind the wheel. She was talking non-stop and gesticulating wildly.

  Was she having an argument with a partner? Was she gossiping with a friend? Or did she have a direct line to Ann Kathrin Klaasen, Büscher and Ubbo Heide? Was she part of their team?

  Her face didn’t look familiar. He decided to test her.

  He pulled over in a spot between the trees and acted as if he urgently had to pee.

  The VW whizzed past him.

  If they’re really following me, he thought, she’ll turn around and come back. Then it’s your turn, girl. Before I deal with Michael Jansen.

  But there was no sign of the VW. Maybe she had changed cars, or passed the baton to her colleagues.

  He drove from Aurich to Wiesmoor. From there he drove towards Sande, then to Varel, and finally towards Westerstede and Bad Zwischenahn.

  It had started to rain.

  Shit, he thought, could it be that he was a wimp and wouldn’t go jogging in the rain? Was this whole trip going to be in vain?

  *

  Michael Jansen was doing overtime in the office. A little shower became steady rain.

  He sat in the car and smoked. He didn’t take his eyes off the CEWE Colour entrance.

  He had wound down the side windows slightly and turned up the fan, but the windows still steamed up.

  If I’m in the zone, he thought, everything comes round in my favour. I have to have faith.

  And that’s exactly what happened. Michael Jansen didn’t let the rain hold him back after such a long day at work. He was already wearing a tracksuit when he left the office. It was one of those ridiculous suits with water repellent microfibres and bright colours on the turned–down collar, colour coordinated with his salmon-pink running shoes.