To Clear the Air Page 7

  “My son told me about the death notice. I don’t read them myself. My wife does. Who does a thing like that?” He picks up the notices section and holds it out to Böhm.

  “I know about the announcement, Herr Lüders. Actually, I wanted to ask you who might do something like that. It certainly seems as if we’re looking at revenge for something in the past.”

  A man, presumably Jörg Lüders, is leaning in the doorway, arms crossed. It occurs to Böhm that the brothers are not very alike. Jörg is blond too, but his hair is thick and full, and he is slim. Even at this time of year, his skin is healthily tanned.

  Ludwig Lüders cannot take his eyes off the announcement. He shakes his head. Böhm’s question has not seemed to penetrate until now. “I don’t know anything. It’s some nutcase. You don’t know what goes on in a mind like that.”

  Böhm punts. “You had a quarrel with Gietmann. It was about a loan.” He sits down in the armchair opposite Lüders without waiting for an invitation.

  Jörg is now standing behind him. Böhm sees the father exchange a glance with his son.

  Lüders snorts contemptuously. “Yes, we quarreled over a loan, but I paid it back, down to the last pfennig, with interest, and interest on the interest. And if anyone says otherwise, let him come here and show some proof, in black and white.” He has talked himself into a rage. His face is flushed. He waits defiantly.

  Böhm changes tack. “You purchased the farm with a hereditary lease. Didn’t Frau Behrens have any heirs?”

  “Yes, she does. Anna Behrens inherited the cottage, the woods, and the land to the west. But she doesn’t care. Didn’t even come to the funeral, and she’s only set foot in the cottage once. It’s empty now.”

  Böhm leans forward, elbows resting on his thighs. “You know what I don’t understand? Gietmann lent you money, and you paid it back. So what was there to quarrel about?”

  Lüders glances toward his son, then looks at the table as if searching for something. “The usual: interest, the term, you know.” He looks at Böhm trustingly, like a dog. “I couldn’t pay right away. I asked for some extra time.” He exhales, having got over the worst. “And I tried to push him a bit on the interest, but he stood firm.” He nods complacently.

  Böhm looks him in the eye. “Your son says you cheated him and Gietmann. You offered collateral you didn’t own.”

  For several seconds, the only sound is the distant clattering in the kitchen.

  Lüders pulls himself together. He leans back in the big armchair. “My own son slanders me.” Profound disappointment makes his voice quieter. “Gerhard blames me for his being thrown out of the bank and for his marriage failing. He didn’t ask for any collateral at the time. It was his mistake.” His baritone voice rises again. “Gerhard knows nothing about what Gietmann and I agreed. In any case, that ran perfectly smoothly and, as I said, there are no loose ends.”

  Böhm hears the door close behind him. Jörg has left the room. “Can you give me Anna Behrens’s address?” Böhm looks over his glasses at the man opposite him.

  Lüders turns pale. “Anna Behrens?” His jaw drops. He looks over at the door again, as if his son were still there and could leap to his aid. “No. She lives in Cologne, but as for an address . . .” He shakes his head.

  “The lease contract. Who was the notary for that?”

  Lüders becomes alert. He stands up and leans forward threateningly. “What do you mean? What does this farm have to do with Gietmann? Wouldn’t it be better if you looked for his killer?”

  Böhm stands up too. He pushes his glasses up his nose and looks at Lüders. “That’s what I’m doing, Herr Lüders. I’m gathering information. I’d like the notary’s address, please.”

  Chapter 24

  The market square collects light like a funnel. The brick houses that surround it glow in the warm red light. Böhm drives his car around the station and parks beside Steeg’s Golf. As he is getting out, the driver’s door of the Golf opens.

  “Why are you sitting in your car in this beautiful weather?”

  Steeg locks his car. “I was waiting for you and listening to the soccer scores.”

  Van Oss is sitting at his computer. They settle down behind him and look at the screen.

  “Found anything?” Böhm puts his hand on Van Oss’s shoulder.

  “There hasn’t been an MO like this for twenty years, anywhere. Our killer has a unique signature.”

  Böhm leans forward. “Let’s put our latest findings together now. After that, it would be good if you could gather every murder in the last forty years. Only the ones here in the Lower Rhine region, I mean.”

  Van Oss lifts his head slowly and stares at him in disbelief. “Peter! The last forty years aren’t stored in here. The computer records begin in 1975. I’ll have to dig out the other fifteen years down in the basement.”

  Böhm pushes up his glasses. “Yes, I know, but . . . could you maybe do that for me?”

  Steeg can’t resist. “Ha! I think the basement is the perfect place for you to work.”

  “For both of you.” Böhm nods at him. “You can help him. It’ll go faster.” He turns away. “And now let’s put our findings together so that you can get started as soon as possible.”

  Steeg starts with the postmortem. His report is structured, his notes minimal. He has an excellent memory for factual information. Interrogations are another matter. There his emotions play tricks on him. “He was knocked out with a blunt instrument, probably a heavy branch. The arteries at his wrists were cut open with a sharp, unserrated knife. A perfectly ordinary kitchen knife, maybe. The abrasions at the wrists and ankles are deep. Bongartz thinks Gietmann tried desperately to free himself. In addition, his mouth was covered with adhesive tape. The killer removed it after he was dead and apparently took it away with him; in any case, we haven’t found it. Time of death: between two thirty and three thirty in the morning. Given the size of the cuts, Bongartz thinks the arteries were opened before midnight. He says it took the man at least three hours to bleed to death. We’ll have the written report on Tuesday.” He looks from Van Oss to Böhm. “Questions?”

  “The branch? Has it been found?”

  “No.”

  Van Oss gets his revenge. “Did it take you half a day to get that? We knew most of it yesterday.”

  Steeg takes off his jacket and hangs it over the back of his chair. “You’ve only gotten as far back as 1975 with your case comparisons, and now I have to help you out. We’re about to go into the basement together, so watch out, okay?”

  Van Oss ducks his head with a grin. “I went to see Lembach too. He’s at the end of his tether. According to his calculations, the killer weighed between about a hundred and thirty and a hundred and forty pounds. Sounds unlikely, but he checked carefully. He’s going to put it down as an unconfirmed result in the file. The early-morning rain ruined everything. He treated me as if I’d arranged it.”

  Böhm looks at him expectantly. “What about the hair?”

  Steeg folds his arms across his chest. “Red herring. Dog hairs.”

  Böhm’s disappointment is obvious. “Dog hairs?” His eyes narrow. He can see the Gietmann farm in front of him. What was it he thought as he stood in the yard? Suddenly he remembers. “No furious barking!”

  Van Oss looks up anxiously. “What?”

  “Gietmann doesn’t have a dog. I’ll check it later, but I’m sure. Is Lembach still there?”

  “No, he was going to watch the Schalke match on satellite TV.” Steeg shakes his head in envy.

  Van Oss sticks his thumbs under his red suspenders. “Oh, Achim. A Schalke match. Tonight you should put on a Dutch channel and watch some decent soccer.”

  “You’re playing with fire, Van Oss.” Steeg is still sitting with his arms folded over his chest, glaring at him.

  Böhm opens up more documents on the computer. “Let’s carry on. What about the cell phone and the call, Joop? Were you able to check that out?”

  Van Oss p
icks up his files. “Yes, partly.” He spreads out the sheets of paper and pulls one of them out.

  Steeg purses his lips and puffs audibly.

  Van Oss pays no attention. He reads: “First, the cell phone is turned off but is still active. Second, the call to the Gietmann family on the evening of March 9 came from a pay phone in the village. Lembach has sent two of his people there. Third—but the third thing you know already—there have been no similar MOs in the last twenty years.” He rubs his face. “But I think we need to remember that Gietmann’s slow death may not have been intentional.”

  Böhm stands up, and Van Oss takes his place at the keyboard. He summarizes his visits to Frau Gietmann, Frederike Gietmann, and Ruth Holter. He takes a little more time over his visit to Lüders. “This inheritance business sure is an unpopular subject. The notary who handled it is Martin Kley. I’ll take care of him first thing tomorrow.”

  It is six o’clock by the time they are finished.

  “Seriously, Peter, you can’t send us into the basement now. It’s Sunday. Maybe one of the young cops could take it on tomorrow.” Van Oss looks at Böhm as if he has condemned him to a lifetime of slavery.

  “Okay, let’s call it a day.”

  Chapter 25

  There are two nice steaks waiting in the fridge. And . . . maybe she’s back? He sits at his computer and shakes his head. Nonsense. A few days, she said.

  He has to think about Gerhard Lüders, the sense of resignation that flowed out of him. His father’s betrayal had made him angry. That brought him to life. He had not tolerated the question about his wife. His laughter had been hollow; afterward he had turned away and left, walked into that darkness. He didn’t present a particularly sophisticated appearance, but nor was he out of touch with reality. And yet Böhm finds himself toying with that idea.

  He opens the file Case notes: Gerhard Lüders. Perhaps emotionally lost.

  He had sensed a deep sadness as the man kept moving away from him with his head bowed. He had also known he wouldn’t come back.

  He had given up. Yes, Gerhard Lüders had given up.

  I’m a police officer, not a social worker! How many times had he had the same thought during his career? How many times had he failed to live up to that thought over the years? There must be a priest in the village. I’ll have to speak to him anyway.

  He closes the file and takes a last look at his in-box. Lembach has sent in his preliminary report, Blind and Payphone.

  The grass. Lembach thinks the killer, when he wasn’t wearing Gietmann’s shoes, stuck to the grass in the middle of the track. Crushed blades suggest a stride of just over two feet. Both people came from the hunting blind, crossed the main road, and went up the track on which Gietmann died.

  Böhm breathes out loudly and rubs his bald spot.

  What did you do with the stick? You didn’t take the stick with you, or did you? Did you plan it this way? Did you have a big bag with you? The stick, the shoes, the cell phone, the car keys: Did you take them all away with you? Where? Did you have a car parked nearby?

  The team found any number of fingerprints on the payphone but a clinically clean telephone and handset.

  Van Oss knocks on the open door. “Hey, are you going to stay here overnight?”

  “No. Why are you still here? Weren’t you going to call it a day four hours ago?”

  Van Oss grins. “No, I just didn’t want to go into the basement.”

  Böhm looks at him reproachfully over his glasses. “Joop, I really think there’s an old story behind this.”

  “It’s at least a possibility.” Van Oss comes over to the desk. “But you know what I’ve been chewing over? Why do we assume there’s only one killer?”

  Böhm rolls his chair over to the wall, leans back, and rests his feet on the open drawer at the bottom of his desk. He holds out his hand, giving his younger colleague the floor.

  “Look. The announcement was placed in Duisburg. The call from the payphone. There was only one car at the blind, Gietmann’s.” Van Oss goes over to the map. “It’s at least two miles from the pay phone to the blind.”

  “He might have parked his car somewhere nearby. On one of those paved access roads across the drainage ditches into the fields. But in principle, of course, you’re right. He calls Gietmann. His wife said he headed out immediately after the call. That means, if there’s only one killer, he must—”

  Van Oss breaks in. “It was a bit farther for Gietmann, but no more than half a mile. If the killer was at the blind before Gietmann, he can’t have gotten there on foot.” Van Oss thrusts his hands into the deep pockets of his corduroys. “Just thinking . . . maybe he was on two wheels?”

  Böhm looks up. “A bike?” He picks his feet up off the drawer and sits up straight. “Not a bad idea, Joop. A bike at the side of the road. Nobody would pay any attention to that.”

  Van Oss leans on the door frame. “I’m hungry. Shall we go get something to eat?”

  “Joop.” Böhm leans forward. “I really appreciate the offer, but you don’t need to worry about me.”

  “I know, but food doesn’t taste as good if I have to eat alone.”

  “Where’s Janine?”

  “She’s with her parents in Bonn. It’s Daddy’s birthday.”

  Böhm stands up and puts on his jacket. “You know what? I’ve got two fine rump steaks at home; everything you need for a tomato and mozzarella salad, including fresh basil; and beer for you and wine for me.” He powers down the computer.

  Yes, now he wants to go home.

  Chapter 26

  Monday, March 12, 2001

  The publisher sends her assignments by e-mail. She delivers her work in the same way. Wagner knows about her problems. “I appreciate your work,” he said to her, as he offered her this chance.

  She pushes the cigarette back into the pack. Five o’clock in the morning and half a pack gone already.

  Margret’s coming at nine. Margret comes once a week, to go shopping with her. She can’t manage it on her own. And even with Margret she’ll be dripping with sweat by the time it’s over.

  Again she reaches for the cigarettes.

  No!

  In the bathroom she rinses her armpits with cold water. If only it would freeze. If only it would freeze on her skin and cover her whole body with a thin layer of ice. Then the heat would go away. This heat, which pulses and crackles like a pair of electric cables short-circuiting and spraying sparks.

  She must air the place out. Margret doesn’t like it when she goes days on end without airing it. She goes to the bathroom window, armpits still wet, opens it, walks out into the hallway, shuts the door behind her. She puts the key in her pocket. Into the bedroom. Around the rumpled bed to the window. Curtains aside, sash window up, back into the hallway. Turn the key; that too in her pocket. She goes into the kitchen, with its direct access to the neighboring living room and study.

  Wait an hour. Open the doors, close the windows, and open the ones in the living room and kitchen. Then wait in the bedroom for an hour.

  She chooses the kitchen chair opposite the clock on the wall and follows the second hand. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Sixty seconds; sixty minutes. Three thousand, six hundred seconds.

  She draws her feet up onto the chair and wraps her arms around her knees. The thighs of her jeans are stained. Her sweatshirt hangs like a sack over her bony frame. Margret will want her to take a shower and get dressed.

  Grandma remembered me.

  Her hatred has made me an heiress.

  The clock face clouds over in front of her eyes.

  She’s dead.

  She blinks.

  Don’t talk nonsense. There’s nothing wrong with her.

  She jumps to her feet. There are still ten minutes to go before the hour is up. She runs, flies, into the hallway, turns the key in the bathroom door, shuts the window, pulls the blinds down tight. Then the bedroom. Window shut, curtains drawn. Her whole body trembling, she collapses onto the bed. />
  No! She can’t air the kitchen and living room as well. Not today. Her heart is pounding, her head throbs. When her heart is pounding, she can’t think straight.

  She opens a drawer in the bedside table and takes out one of the letters. The group photo used to be there too. No longer. That had disappeared while she was in the clinic.

  They were here. They took it away.

  She holds the sheet of paper between her hands, together as if in prayer. Pushing the bedclothes aside, she curls up into a ball, clamping her hands, and the letter, between her thighs.

  She doesn’t need to take it out of the envelope. She doesn’t need to unfold it and read it. She knows it by heart:

  August 1966

  Dear Margret,

  My last letter was two months ago now, and still no answer from you.

  It’s hot here, and Anna is enjoying every bit of summer.

  Johann gave her a pony. You should see her. If she could, she would spend all night in the meadow. Anna is my happiness, Margret. Without Anna I would have nothing to hold on to here at all.

  When he’s sober, Johann is a good husband, but when he drinks he stops being the man I married. He drinks with the men who harass me, and then they tell him I led them on. Johann believes them, at least he does when he’s drunk. Then he comes home and beats me. He forbids me from going into the village. I can only leave the farm if he’s with me. His mother takes care of the shopping now.

  When he goes out and isn’t back by seven, I know what’s coming. I put the child to bed quickly. I always pray that she will sleep through it and not find out what goes on here. But more and more often she’s suddenly standing in the door, crying. That hurts much more than all the blows.

  Frau Lüders was here on Friday. She had killed some chickens and brought us one. She saw my black eye, but she looked away while she was talking to me, and then I told her. I said her husband was spreading lies about me, and could she talk to him? She laid the chicken on the garden bench and said there was nothing she could do. And then she ran away, as if I had chased her off the farm.