Is she after me? Rupert asked himself. Surely not. Now Marion Wolters raised her hands over her head, snapped her fingers, turned around, and stomped out a fiery rhythm on the floor with her orthopaedic shoes.
He could understand why a woman like Marion Wolters would secretly fancy him. Maybe that’s why the others were constantly making fun of him. In reality these feminist sympathisers who talked their way into women’s beds weren’t real men.
Rupert crossed his arms behind his head and looked at Marion Wolters. Suddenly he no longer found her as ugly or too fat. Quite the reverse. She had a fabulous Rubenesque figure. That’s what his Beate called overweight women, if he remembered correctly. Rubens – he must have been some painter who couldn’t afford real models, Rupert assumed, and for that reason used overweight women from his town.
She messed up a verse or had forgotten the lyrics. At any rate, she now clapped her hands and invited him to join in with her swinging hips.
‘Whether blond or brown
Super-duper Rupert!’
She almost got him to sing along.
‘Super-duper Rupert!’
He pictured the entire women’s choir of the East Frisian Kripo serenading him with the song.
How much they must like me, he thought, that they’d make the effort to sing a song to impress me.
But then there was something in Marion’s eye. A twinkle.
Perhaps, Rupert thought, they’re pulling my leg. Are they making fun of me? Or does Wolters actually want to jump into bed with me? That fat arse, of all people. Who’d have thought it?
*
‘Stop that singing!’ he yelled. That voice was taking him completely out of the zone. It was terrible. Instead of being there with the homicide team as they discussed his plans, he was listening to this caterwauling! What the hell?
He imitated Sylvia Hope’s voice. ‘Ubbo says you like them and too many mints make him fat.’
‘Typical boss!’ he complained. ‘Passing something on to his minions as soon as he gets tired of it. You’re no better than the others, Ubbo!’
This ‘Super-duper Rupert’ really drove him crazy. He felt anger rising inside himself and wanted to do something destructive and unfair without any plan or goal, only to vent his own rage. Completely different from the executioner who had acted with precision and approached life like a game of chess.
He hoped that someone would take the bugged tin back to the right meeting. How could fate be so cruel to him?
He turned down the receiver and turned on the radio instead. Local news.
‘Jean-Claude Juncker, EU Commission head, expressly warned Hungary against reintroducing the death penalty. This is prohibited by EU agreements. Juncker claimed the country could no longer remain in the EU if Prime Minister Viktor Orbán continued to insist on his plan.’
He didn’t know what to do with his rage. Wherever he turned, the wind was in his face. He had to think of the old East Frisian adage: the wind always comes from in from the front.
At least the topic was back on the table. People were even starting to rethink the death penalty in Old Europe. A tumour had to be excised, a bacterial infection was treated with antibiotics, and not by reasoning with the bacteria.
They needed an outfit like the Navy Seal Team 6. The elite unit was so secret that the Pentagon wouldn’t confirm its name. It was responsible for the killing of Osama bin Laden. It was used to hunt down criminals all across the world. It operated in war zones, tracked down suspects and neutralised them.
The New York Times wrote that killing had become routine for them. Some nights they had liquidated twenty-five or more people. The press had repeatedly accused them of killing innocent people, even children. But no member of the team had ever been indicted. At most the elite fighters had been moved to different positions.
That’s exactly what we need, he thought. A Team 6. First for East Frisia. Then for the state of Lower Saxony. And ultimately for the entire country. We could be used as an example of the first crime-free region. Here no criminal would escape their fate.
He turned on the radio again. For a moment the air was still. Even the wind in Emden wasn’t blowing around the house. There appeared to be no traffic on the streets, as if the world paused briefly to give him the time to breathe deeply and reorient himsel.
Was all this with the tin a stupid coincidence or were they doing it on purpose? Had they cottoned on to what he was doing? Did they want to provoke him?
Everything went his way when he was in the zone. Then there were only fortunate coincidences and twists of fate. Everything in the right place at the right time.
Was fate no longer on his side? When he was in the zone, it seemed as if an entire army of guardian angels had been ordered to help him, support him, clear the way for him. Why hadn’t any of these spiritual helpers made sure that the tin of mints was in the conference room? Were his guardian angels revolting against him now?
Suddenly he didn’t know what to do with his feelings. A shaking that began in the middle of his body took hold of him and he was immediately soaked with sweat. He was familiar with the feeling from his childhood. So much fear, overshadowed by a monstrous, murderous rage.
Should he go downstairs, tie Svenja Moers to the bars and whip her? Would her screams get him back in the zone? Or should he drop her off at the police station with dynamite in her bag? She’d run inside looking for help and then he could blow the whole place to pieces.
Yeah, that’s what he felt like doing. They didn’t have any right to exclude him from their meeting. He didn’t want to have songs like that sung to him.
The shakes receded. He became calmer, and his brain turned back on.
If you blow the police station to smithereens, you’ll just harm your cause and do the criminals in East Frisia a big favour, he told himself. They’d be free to move around at will and no one would stand between them and their crimes.
Regardless of how inadequate, even pitiful the police were in their indecisiveness, there was only one way: he had to make them his allies. And he was really close to doing that.
Once I have the chief, then they’ll all follow me.
One more time, he ran through how he could kidnap Ubbo Heide to show him how true justice worked and make him into a collaborator. Better still, as the special ops leader for Team 6.
Something had always held him back from doing that. Fear of not being able to match up to this man of being defeated by his charisma and his arguments.
He laughed at himself. What kind of a wimp am I? I’m afraid of a retired, wheelchair-bound police officer.
He turned the receiver back on in the hope of good news.
He heard Rupert. ‘You know I’m not really fond of beanpoles. I mean, as a man you want to be able to get hold of something. I prefer love handles to bumping against hip bones.’
His laughter sounded like a rooster crowing.
*
Is he really hitting on me? Marion Wolters asked herself. Is he really so dense that he can’t see how much we’re making fun of him? Or is he so desperate for sex that he doesn’t care?
She began to find the situation increasingly enjoyable. This is how actresses must feel, she thought. Playing a role, and playing it well. Her audience believed her. She hoped this was the case with those listening in as well, not just with Rupert. That they hadn’t realised that the police were on to them.
As long as the killer’s listening to me, then he’s not doing anything else, and our people have time to think up a plan.
But maybe Rupert was also just playing a game. Did he want the killer to think that he was witness to a ham-fisted attempt at a pick-up? The start of an unsuccessful flirtation? Did Rupert think he could keep the stranger listening in that way? Or was he serious about all this?
It wasn’t possible to confer with Rupert to find out. With anyone else it would have been easy to communicate with glances and gestures, but with Rupert you never knew where you stood.
&n
bsp; Will this make me the laughing stock of the team later on, she asked herself. Are we both making fools of ourselves? Will the recordings be played in court? Would the press be there? Maybe it would be spread all over social media. You have to be prepared for anything these days.
‘Are you actually hitting on me?’ she asked in a strident voice that would have been a turnoff for anyone who wasn’t a fan of BDSM.
‘Sure, I can understand why you’d hope for that,’ Rupert replied.
‘You think I don’t know that you call me fat arse?’ she scolded, and was immediately upset with herself for spreading the nickname further.
‘I feel bad about that,’ Rupert said, ‘but anyone can see it.’
‘What?’
‘Well, that you’ve never had good sex.’
She was so incensed that she couldn’t breathe. She would have liked to punch him, but she kept herself under control, still searching for the right words, while Rupert continued, ‘You can see it in your face, there, the corners of your mouth. Although, I, for one, prefer to look at people’s behinds. They tell me the unvarnished truth. You know a face can be kept under control, people have their expressions in check. Then they smile at you nicely and think: burn in hell, you piece of shit. But a bottom, it tells you the whole truth.’
He drew circles in the air with his fingers.
‘A really good arse tells you whether someone is happy or sexually frustrated.’
Marion Wolters turned around so she wouldn’t have to look at Rupert any longer. But in doing so, she was putting her backside on display, which she didn’t like either. She couldn’t really hide behind the curtains, though. She had a job to do. She hoped she would be relieved soon because she didn’t know how much longer she could stand to be in the same room as Rupert.
‘A behind,’ Rupert continued, waxing philosophical, ‘reveals much about one’s character. For example, the pear-shaped ones are usually fairly phony. This is true for men as well as women. Although it’s much more accentuated with women. The very round, firm half-spheres,’ he used his hands to form such a bottom in the air, ‘belong to the honest. You can trust them. Those with the small, pert, boyish behinds are usually uncomplicated and cheerful. But,’ Rupert raised a finger, ‘beware of those who are well-exercised. There’s been a lot of work put into them. They’re egocentric, training the whole day, want to be the best at everything.’ Rupert waved her away. ‘I always say: keep your hands off, it won’t be any fun with them. The ones with a really expansive derriere, one of those ample, soft cushions, are often sensual, drawn towards enjoyment and—’
She stood up in front of him, arms out. He still persisted. ‘But be careful with those who are saggy here.’ He pointed to her thighs. ‘They can be damn moody.’
‘Shut your trap, Rupert! I can’t listen to any more of this!’
‘You see, that’s what I mean. First nice and friendly, sweet, making you feel desired, then if not everything goes exactly as they hope, they immediately get aggressive. That’s typical for your butt shape. That’s also why you can’t land a man. You scare them away.’
She groaned. ‘What kind of idiot are you?’
She couldn’t explain even to herself what she did next. She took the tin of mints, opened it, grabbed a white sweet, and popped it into her mouth. She crunched loudly.
She couldn’t handle being in the same room as Rupert anymore. Either I choke him, or I get out of here, she thought.
She stormed past him to the door, stopped in front of it, and took a deep breath.
Rupert called to her from inside the room. ‘Well, what’s the story? Can’t you take the truth? A big behind like yours is something beautiful! You just have to own it!’
She opened the door, went outside and wrote with a red marker before sticking it on the outside of the door: This room is bugged by the perpetrator. Please no conversations related to the case.
Then she walked down the stairs. She wanted to go to Café Ten Cate. She was craving apple cake with whipped cream on top.
*
Weller had received the message from Ann Kathrin via WhatsApp: Meeting in The Galley.
Weller liked that. On the way from Oldenburg to Norden he was looking forward to beef roulade, or perhaps he should have the dyke lamb? Just before reaching Norden he decided to have the daily special.
He parked behind The Galley. Because he had turned from the narrow street into the courtyard too quickly a couple of pebbles flew into Peter Grendel’s yellow van, which was also parked at the back. Peter was just getting out. He patted the top of Weller’s roof with his large mason’s hands and laughed, ‘Well, the cops are in a hurry! Do we need to save the world?’
‘Even worse,’ Weller said, ‘all of East Frisia.’
Peter Grendel watched Weller go, disappearing into The Galley with large strides. ‘As long as the dyke holds!’ Peter called, but Frank Weller didn’t hear him.
He quickly placed an order for the daily special with Melanie Weiss: stuffed bell peppers. Then he raced up into the breakfast room.
He briefly nodded to his colleagues so as not to interrupt the flow of the meeting, pulled up a chair and sat down close to the old radio. His parents used to have one like that. It was one of his better childhood memories. He’d sat in front of the device and listened to his first radio show, watching the green and yellow lights.
‘I’m up for it,’ Ubbo Heide said, ‘having Ann Kathrin talk with Willy Kaufmann and proposing our offer.’
‘Wouldn’t you prefer to do it?’ Ann Kathrin asked. ‘You’re old comrades in arms.’
‘That’s precisely why I don’t want to,’ Ubbo Heide explained. ‘He’d always feel obligated towards me. I think it’s better if you talk to him, Ann. You interrogated him. It’s your case. I, dear friends, am only your adviser.’ He pointed to Büscher. ‘That’s your new boss, and I think that he’s a good catch.’
Büscher appeared to grow as he stood leaning against the wall, rocking back and forth, the soles of his shoes squeaking.
‘Now we’re going to make a plan for how we can make sure that Kowalski is interested in only one possible victim. And then we’ll construct a trap that will snap shut on him. We’re being provided with a special command next week. After that we’ll make it quick and push our man to strike quickly.’
Melanie Weiss brought Weller the fragrant stuffed bell peppers. He sat down at the breakfast table, but only then realised that no one else had ordered anything to eat.
‘Your fellow officers,’ Melanie Weiss said, ‘didn’t want anything. But I’m sure you’ll enjoy it, Frank.’
‘Oh yes,’ he smiled, ‘I love stuffed bell peppers. Give my best to the chef.’
Elke Sommer pursed her lips and said, ‘Enjoy your meal.’
Büscher felt that it was no longer necessary to keep quiet. He spoke calmly. ‘I think that we’ll leave the tin upstairs and lock down the room. Then our culprit can listen in for a couple of hours. Later, we can hold a fake meeting upstairs so we can make Wilhelm Kaufmann our—’ Büscher didn’t continue because the word ‘target’ didn’t seem appropriate. Instead, he gestured to Elke Sommer and interjected, ‘Naturally only if Mr Kaufmann is in agreement.’
‘Then we’ll have to get Ubbo up the stairs. There’s no lift,’ Sylvia Hoppe added.
‘Normally,’ Ubbo Heide said, ‘former police officers don’t participate in meetings.’
Büscher looked at him gratefully; he really is handing over the reins, he thought.
Weller spoke with his mouth full. ‘Why? We could just as well bring the tin downstairs and hold the meeting in the conference room. A little tin is lighter than Ubbo, after all.’ He laughed at his own joke, but Ubbo waved him away. ‘I’m too old for this nonsense, kids. We just need to put this behind us.’
‘You’re not leaving us in the lurch, Ubbo?’ Rieke Gersema asked, but Ann Kathrin knew that he couldn’t keep on going the way he was.
‘I only have one wish: I want to
sit on Wangerooge and look at the sea and know that everything’s all right,’ Ubbo said.
‘You can do that again soon, Ubbo,’ said Ann Kathrin. ‘I believe we can now show our culprit a door that he’ll gladly run through. And we’ll be waiting on the other side.’
‘With handcuffs,’ Weller grinned, chewing.
*
Why can’t I hear anything anymore, damn it? Just a second ago it was very clear, that stupid singsong. It’s not because of the battery. They must be meeting in another room, damn it!
He would have liked to go to the Norden police station disguised as an old woman. He could go inside, reposition the tin and add another surveillance device. He still had half a dozen of them. They were dirt cheap on the Internet.
But that move was too dangerous. He didn’t want to take any risks now.
He watched Svenja Moers on the screen. At least he still had her under control.
He hated losing control, not knowing what others were doing. It returned him to the impotence of his childhood, when he didn’t know where his father was, when the old man would come home, or what would happen then.
Helpless, powerless, defenceless, he never wanted to be that again.
He went down to Svenja Moers. She sat on the bike and pedalled away. By now, she could tell from the small light signals on the side when the camera moved or when he zoomed in on her. But it was completely different when he entered the room. The adrenaline immediately shot through her veins, and she pedalled even faster.
She called out to him obediently. ‘I’m making an effort!. I’m exercising all day long! I’m already in much better shape!’
‘Give me your notebook,’ he demanded.
She jumped off her bike. The pedals kept on spinning without her. She fetched her notebook and passed it to him through the bars. He leafed through it but didn’t look closely at the numbers.
‘I’m wondering,’ he said, as if to himself, ‘whether you can help me to take care of a small job. If you’re worthy.’
The Oath Page 37
