Black Ice

Table of Contents

 

 

 

Hans Werner Kettenbach was born near Cologne. He is the author of several highly acclaimed novels, including
Black Ice
, which was made into a film in 1998. He came to writing late in life, publishing his first book at the age of fifty. Previous jobs he has held include construction worker, court stenographer, football journalist, foreign correspondent in New York and, most recently, newspaper editor. His crime novels have won the Jerry-Cotton Prize and the Deutscher-Krimi Prize; five of them were made into successful films.
Black Ice
is his first novel to be translated into English.

1

People thought it was an accident. Scholten didn't.

It wasn't suicide either. Scholten would have sworn to that. Naturally such a strange death was bound to put ideas into certain heads. And very likely scandalmongers were now going around saying Frau Wallmann hadn't had an accident at all; she'd killed herself intentionally. Don't let anyone try telling Scholten that. He'd give them a piece of his mind.

What nonsense anyway. Why would Erika Wallmann have killed herself? Because that fellow had a bit on the side? He'd been sleeping around for years, starting the moment he married her. And she'd known it as well as Scholten did. Why would she kill herself because of that, after twenty-five years?

Such a beautiful woman.

To look at her, no one would have thought she was forty-six. The way she walked, with a firm, energetic step, the way she held her head, the way she threw it back when she was displeased, always reminded Scholten of the time when her father offered him the office job. She was fifteen then, but you could already see what a fine woman she'd be.

And now it was all over. Scholten stared at the coffin. As the harmonium player began the
Ave verum
, tears came to his eyes. He covered them with his hand and tried to picture her lying there now in her coffin. But he very quickly gave that up.

She must look dreadful. The fall from the flight of
steps to the steep bank. Broken bones and head injuries, they'd said. From the sharp edges of the rocks on the bank. Then two days lying in the lake. And after that the forensic scientists took their knives to her. They probably opened her up entirely. They'd have to, with a drowned body.

Scholten gagged. Taking out his handkerchief he quietly blew his nose, wiped the corners of his eyes, pressed the fabric over his mouth. He sensed that Rothgerber, sitting beside him, was looking at him. Scholten tried to divert his mind by reading the messages on the ribbons of the wreaths.

To my beloved Erika, a last greeting from her Kurt
.

The hypocritical bastard. He'd spent a lot on that wreath, obviously, and the coffin and the whole funeral. The chapel was full of flowers and candles. He'd always been open-handed with Erika's money. And now he had it, all of it, no strings attached. The bastard.

Scholten moved slightly to one side so that he could see him. Wallmann was sitting by himself in the front row. Poor fellow, people would think. No children, no family, nothing.

No. Only Erika's money. And the firm.

Enough to drive you round the bend. Scholten stared at the broad, red neck, the dark-blond, well-cut hair, the massive shoulders in the black coat.

Rothgerber leaned over and tapped his arm. He whispered: “That's a handsome wreath you chose. Excellent.” Scholten made a dismissive gesture.

Arsehole. When they were arguing in the office about the message on the wreath Rothgerber had been on Büttgenbach's side. Of course the chief clerk is always right. What was it Büttgenbach had suggested?
In silent remembrance of Frau Erika Wallmann
. What nonsense!

But Scholten had got his way. The wreath really was a handsome one. And those not too slow on the uptake could read the real meaning of the inscription:
We will not forget our boss Frau Erika Wallmann. From the office staff of Ferd. Köttgen, Civil Engineering Contractors
. Wallmann for one would get the message.

When the coffin was lowered into the grave Scholten was in the third row. The members of Wallmann's bowling club had pushed their ostentatious way to the front. They and their wives, who were all tarted up, had ranged themselves right behind Wallmann and didn't even let Büttgenbach through. Scholten stood on tiptoe and craned his neck to see, but there was a broad-brimmed black hat in the way.

Scholten bowed his head. He moved his lips as his tears flowed. He said to himself: that's not the end of it, Frau Wallmann. I promise you. You can count on me, Erika.

Wallmann did not meet Scholten's glance as he shook hands. He kept looking fixedly down, his eyes red and damp, his chin quivering although he kept it pressed against his chest. One of his friends from the bowling club was standing beside him holding his arm, as if Wallmann might fall over any moment. Would you believe it? What a farce!

On the way back to the cemetery gate, Scholten found himself walking with a group of the Yugoslavian workmen. They had put on their dark suits and black ties. They walked along in silence beside him for a while.

One of them touched his arm. “Herr Scholten, how can such terrible thing happen? Boss's wife was strong woman, healthy. How can she fall off steps, splash, fall in water? Had been drinking, don't you think, Herr Scholten?”

Scholten stopped and grabbed the Yugoslav by the lapels of his coat. “Say a thing like that again and you'll have me to deal with, understand? And then you can pack your bags and fucking go home, get it? Because you'll be out of a job!”

The Yugoslav said: “Let go.” Scholten let go. The man was one of the plasterers, hands like shovels, and a head or more taller than Scholten. He brushed down his lapels and said: “
You
no decide when I'm out of a job.”

“We'll see about that,” said Scholten. He turned away and walked on. The Yugoslavians fell behind.

At the cemetery gate Scholten looked around. Rosa Thelen was standing there alone, wearing a black coat that was now too tight for her. Scholten said, “You can come with me, Rosie.”

She blinked her short-sighted eyes at him in the March sunlight and said: “Thanks, but Herr Büttgenbach is giving me a lift.”

“Fine. Your arse will have more room in his car.” Scholten got into his own vehicle.

“You brute,” said Rosa Thelen. “Can't get a grip on yourself even on a day like this.”

Scholten had to wait. The four minibuses were barring the road. The workmen got in, jostling each other, and now and then one of them laughed. They were looking forward to the day off and the beer and cold meats that Wallmann had ordered for them in the bar opposite the works. Scholten muttered: “Wait till it's your own wake. Then you won't be laughing.”

He followed the last bus but then turned off on the road to the Forest Café. He was sure Wallmann would rather have sent him off to the bar with the workmen, but in the end he hadn't dared to. He had invited the office staff to the Forest Café. Not just the office staff
either. Scholten was sure the whole bowling club would turn up. And the people from the Civil Engineering Inspectorate, of course. He had seen the Government Surveyor at the graveside and three or four of the inspectorate's project managers. And all at the company's expense.

Well, it belonged to the new boss now.

2

A couple of flashy cars were already parked outside the Forest Café when Scholten arrived. He was about to leave his own car beside them, hesitated, then drove into the overflow car park behind the building.

Von der Heydt, one of the project managers from the Civil Engineering Inspectorate, was standing in the doorway of the restaurant bar, holding a schnapps glass. He shook hands with Scholten and asked: “How could a thing like that happen, Herr Scholten? I mean, those steps were checked by the Building Inspection people. Surely they can't be all that dangerous?”

“There's nothing wrong with the steps,” said Scholten. “But I don't know the details. You'll have to ask Herr Wallmann.” He reached for a tray that a waiter was carrying past and took a glass of schnapps himself. Von der Heydt emptied his own in a hurry, put the empty glass down on the tray and picked up another. Placing a hand on Scholten's arm, he guided him over to the table. “Come along, let's sit down.”

Scholten said: “Not here, though. I'm sure this is for Herr Wallmann's friends. I'll sit over there.”

“No, no, you're Herr Wallmann's guest today too. Come along, sit down. We're all equal in the face of death.”

Von der Heydt made Scholten sit on the chair beside him. He raised his glass. “Let's get this down ourselves first. To help with the shock.”

Scholten gulped the schnapps down. Von der Heydt
detained the waiter, who was about to move on with his tray, saying: “Hang on a moment, we'll have another couple of those.”

He put the two glasses carefully on the table and lit a cigarette. Then he placed his arm on the back of Scholten's char, leaned towards him and said: “Tell me, Herr Scholten, is it true about Wallmann having it off with the secretary in your firm?”

Scholten looked at his schnapps glass.

“What's the girl's name? There she is, over by the fireplace.”

Scholten did not look up. He said, “You probably mean Fräulein Faust.”

“That's it. Inge, am I right? Inge Faust. Not a badlooking girl at all. I guess she's worth a mortal sin or so.” Von der Heydt laughed.

“Could be,” said Scholten.

“But listen, Herr Scholten, she must be at least twenty years younger than Wallmann, am I right? How old is Wallmann, actually?”

“Forty-eight.” Scholten twirled his glass on the tablecloth. “And Fräulein Faust is twenty-five.”

“Wow! So does Wallmann think he's up to that kind of thing? I mean, sure, he keeps fit. But wouldn't you say this is rather overdoing it?”

“It's no use asking me. Ask Herr Wallmann.”

“So it's true? They really are having it off?”

“I didn't say so. There's always gossip.”

Von der Heydt clapped him on the shoulder. “Yes, yes, Herr Scholten, I know. I quite understand you don't want to tell tales on your boss. Don't worry, no one's going to hear about it from me.”

Scholten picked up the schnapps and tossed it down his throat. Von der Heydt instantly followed his example. Then he looked around. “They're slow with
the beer.” He wiped his mouth and leaned towards Scholten again. “But you know, Herr Scholten, if it
is
true, people might get ideas. About poor Frau Wallmann, I mean.”

Scholten sat very upright and looked at von der Heydt. “What are you implying?”

Von der Heydt went “Ssh” and nodded at the doorway. Wallmann had come in with his friend from the bowling club who had been supporting him at the graveside, the Government Surveyor on his other side and the rest of them behind him. Wallmann invited the Government Surveyor to sit down. Seeing Scholten directly opposite, he frowned. Scholten was about to rise to his feet, but von der Heydt laid a hand on his shoulder and said: “Excuse me, Herr Wallmann, we sat down here just this minute, but is there a seating plan?”