Black Ice (3 page)

Scholten shook his head. “Poor health in general. It's her nerves. A funeral like this upsets her too much.”

“It upsets us all,” said Sauerborn.

Silence fell. After a while von der Heydt said: “Perhaps the steps were slippery? After a frost, maybe? We had that sort of weather last week. Or was it different up by the lake?”

“No, you're right,” said Sauerborn. “The steps must have been slippery. Timber like that can get very icy in
frost. She wasn't expecting it, she slipped, and she couldn't catch hold of anything to stop herself falling.”

The Government Surveyor nodded. “That's perfectly possible. Yes, very likely.”

Wallmann rose to his feet. “Would you excuse me a moment?” He went out.

Sauerborn pushed his own chair back. “You must excuse me too. It's the beer.”

3

That morning Scholten had planned to leave the funeral party early and go to the brothel on the way home. It was a good opportunity. He could leave the wake on the pretext of Hilde's poor health, and Hilde wouldn't be able to work out when he ought to be home.

But in the end it was almost three in the afternoon when he left the restaurant bar. One of the bowling club members had already stumbled over a chair leg and brought a tablecloth down with him as he fell; two others had taken him out and loaded him into his wife's car. Before that Rosa Thelen had been overcome by a fit of weeping, and Herr Büttgenbach was still sitting in the tearoom with her, trying to comfort her. And von der Heydt, who had moved from his seat beside Scholten after coffee and gone to sit next to Fräulein Faust, had exchanged words with Wallmann and gone off uttering threats. By now the Government Surveyor was dozing off in his chair.

Scholten ate two peppermints when he got into his car. He put the hollow of his hand in front of his mouth, breathed into it and sniffed. Not too bad, he thought.

He joined the motorway. The forest was left behind, there were factories to right and left, suburban gardens, apartment buildings. Blue-grey clouds covered the March sky. It wasn't as sunny as last week, but not as cold either.

Scholten thought of the woman he planned to pick. He had definite ideas about her. He'd find someone with black stockings. Black stockings look terrible on thin legs, but on a nice plump pair, who can resist them? Scholten smiled. He'd never yet seen a girl with thin legs in the knocking-shop.

He tried to paint a clear mental picture of his imagined girl, as he always did on the way to the brothel. But this time he didn't succeed. Scraps of the conversation around the table at the wake kept getting in the way.

The alibi, oh yes. Herr Wallmann had thought it all out very neatly. And what about those files? He'd forgotten about them, or else he'd thought Scholten was so stupid he'd never notice. The hell with that.

So he has no idea why Erika was going down to the boat? What a laugh! He knows perfectly well what Erika was looking for on that boat. So does his bit of fluff Fräulein Faust. You bet your bottom dollar she does.

Then that fool van der Heydt comes out with some tale about slippery steps. And of course Sauerborn takes the bait at once, positively falling over himself to provide an alibi. A watertight alibi. He had to be joking! Maybe Sauerborn's actually in cahoots with Wallmann.

Slippery steps after a frost. Rubbish.

Scholten rubbed his eyes. He felt there was something missing from his chain of thought. Something didn't fit. He shook his head, took his hand off the steering wheel, muttered to himself: “Just a moment! No point trying to think now, Jupp Scholten. You've had too much to drink. Let's go and have it off with a girl, and then take a good nap. And hope to heaven Hilde doesn't make a scene again. Then we'll sit down
and think about it at leisure. It'll be an odd thing if we can't work out what that fellow was up to.”

He still had to pass two more motorway junctions before reaching the exit road that would take him to the brothel when his foot suddenly slipped off the accelerator. The car swerved slightly before Scholten was back in control and concentrating on his driving. He swore, looked in the rear mirror, got into the right lane. Here came the next exit. He took it. He looked at the time. “Hell. All the Wops will be there at four.”

He hesitated a moment at the traffic lights. If he rejoined the urban motorway now he could be at the brothel before it had its rush hour.

However, he turned off to the city centre instead and looked for a phone box. He looked up the number of the local paper in the phone book and dialled it.

“Daily News, how can I help you?”

“My name's Scholten. I'd like to speak to the person responsible for the weather.”

“Responsible for the weather?”

“Well, not like that – I mean whoever writes the weather page in the paper. The weather forecasts.”

“I'll put you through to Miscellaneous.”

“Just a moment, miss, I only want . . .” He listened. Nothing. She'd broken the connection. “How stupid.” He looked out at the traffic, and a nasty idea occurred to him. It had been a mistake to give his name. You never knew. Better to give a false name. As he was still thinking, a man's voice came on the line.

“Frings here.”

“Er, good afternoon, this is – this is Höffner speaking.”

“Good afternoon, Herr Höffner.”

“I'd like some information, please. I always read your paper. I take it every day.”

“Yes? So what can I do for you?”

“I wanted to ask if you can tell me whether there was a frost last week. In this region.”

“A frost?”

“Yes, if it froze. Slippery roads and so on, understand? Last Friday. In this region. Did you get that?”

“Yes, of course, but I can't tell you off the cuff.”

“Why not? I was told you're responsible for the weather reports.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Well then, you must know. I mean, there can't have been a frost, can there? We had bright sun all week. On Friday too. Even on Saturday.”

“Just a moment, Herr Höffner. That was the name, wasn't it – Höffner?”

“Yes.”

“Let's make sure we understand each other, Herr Höffner. You want to know whether the roads can be slippery with frost in weather conditions such as we had last week, is that correct?”

“Yes, exactly. Particularly on Friday evening.”

“Okay, okay. I'll make some enquiries.”

“What do you mean, make some enquiries? Don't you know?”

“Herr Höffner, I'm not a meteorologist. I'm a reporter, understand?”

“Yes, yes, I understand.”

“I'll ask the Meteorological Office for you, Herr Höffner.”

“How long will that take?”

“You want to know today?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Okay. Call me back in half an hour.”

“Can't it be any sooner? I have some other urgent business. I'm in a phone box.”

“Okay, let's say fifteen minutes. Till then, Herr Höffner.”

“Wait a minute! What was your name again?”

“Frings, Herr Höffner.”

“Yes, yes, fine.”

Scholten hung up and looked at the time. Damn it, the brothel would be bursting at the seams. And Hilde would kick up a fuss. She was never going to believe the wake had gone on this long.

He left the phone box and walked up and down. He tried imagining the girl in black stockings. They usually wore boots with them. He stared at the pavement, but the picture refused to take shape. That reporter had got him all muddled up. What was the man's name again? Frings. What a useless idiot! Had to call the Met Office for the answer to such a simple question.

But the Met Office wasn't a bad idea. They'd come up with cut-and-dried evidence. Frosty roads in bright sunshine. Total nonsense. They were probably laughing themselves sick at the Met Office.

Suddenly he saw the woman clearly in his mind's eye. She wore black stockings and black boots. Her basque was tightly laced, everything spilling out above it. Scholten slowly walked on, looking at the ground. He went as far as the corner, stopped. He stood there for some time. Suddenly he looked at his watch. He swore, hurried back to the phone box. An old woman was just reaching out for the door handle. He opened the door and pushed past the old lady. “Just a moment, I was here first.”

Someone had been turning the pages of the phone book. Scholten cursed, found the number of the newspaper. Through the glass, he could indistinctly hear the old woman's voice.

“Daily News, how can I help you?”

“This is Höffner, I'd like to speak to Herr Scholten. No, I mean Herr Frings. Herr Frings!”

“Which Herr Frings? We have two of them.”

“The one on the weather page. The one who does the weather forecasts for you.”

“I'll put you through.”

Scholten did not turn round. He could still hear the old lady's voice.

“Frings.”

“Höffner here. I'm calling back about the weather.”

“Yes, Herr Höffner, here we are. Right, listen: in weather such as we had last week – high pressure, no cloud, sunny by day but very cold by night – in weather like that there can easily be frost. Particularly close to water. The atmospheric humidity sinks by night, you see. In temperatures above zero it forms dew, and if the temperature drops below zero it forms frost instead. Is that clear, Herr Höffner?”

“Are you telling me that's what the Met Office said?”

“Oh, come on, Herr Höffner. I feel this conversation is getting a little difficult. I told you I called the Met Office in Essen especially on your behalf.”

“Yes, yes, all right. Thanks.” Scholten hung up and said: “Bastard.”

He pushed past the old lady, who was standing close to the door of the phone box as if she intended to bar his way. Raising her voice, the old lady said, “What rudeness, what impertinence! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you ought!”

“Go boil your head,” said Scholten.

He got into his car and sat there indecisively. He looked at the time. “Oh, hell, oh, bloody hell!” But still he did not drive off. He rubbed his forehead.

Frost on the roads.

He didn't believe it.

Perhaps this Frings hadn't called the Met Office at all. Too much bother for him. He only said he had. He simply made it up. Scholten had got on his nerves, so he'd done it to pay him out.

Scholten hit the dashboard with his fist. “I'll stop taking that paper! They're not going to fool around with me!” He leaned over to the glove compartment and fished a peppermint out of the roll. It tasted horrible. He wound the window down and spat the peppermint out into the road. A beer would be good now.

He still didn't start the car. He stared through the windscreen. It began to dawn on him that von der Heydt's idea hadn't been so bad. And probably the police had thought of it too by now.

Frost on the steps.

Erika had driven up to their weekend house from the village. That was around seven. The sun had already set. Erika had gone down the steps at once. He knew why, and Wallmann knew why, and Wallmann's bit of fluff knew why too.

Perhaps she hadn't even switched on the light at the top of the steps, so as not to be seen too soon. And then she'd slipped and failed to catch hold of the handrail, found nothing to break her fall, and plunged from the steps to the steep bank and from the steep bank into the lake. Broken bones, head injuries. She was probably unconscious by the time she went into the water.

Scholten cursed. He started the engine and drove away. He rejoined the urban motorway and left it again at the next exit.

There were not as many cars outside the brothel as he'd feared. He hurried into the contact area where you viewed the girls, slowed his pace, looked around.

A girl approached him and took his arm. “Hi, darling! How about it, then?” She was wearing red boots and flesh-coloured tights.

Scholten smiled and shook off her hand, went on.

One of the girls sitting on a sofa in the dim, reddish light said, “Leave the man in peace. He's just buried his old lady, he's still in mourning.”

The women laughed. Scholten smiled.

He went on again, rather faster. In the final corner before the exit he found what he was looking for. Even the basque was right, tightly laced. A foreigner was standing beside her, black hair, black moustache, a small, stocky man in pullover and jacket. She was talking to him.

Scholten stopped three paces behind the couple. He half turned, pretended to be inspecting the other women again. He straightened his tie, cleared his throat. It felt tight. He looked at the couple again. The foreigner took a step towards the exit. The girl held him back by his arm. The foreigner smiled.

Scholten stepped up to the woman and tapped her on the shoulder. “How much?”

The foreigner took a step forward and looked at Scholten. “You get out.”

Scholten said: “What's the matter with you? I can stand here as long as I like.”

The foreigner said: “When I speak to woman, you no business here. You get out.”

“Hey, what's with the pair of you?” said the woman. “Let's cool it here. Well, what about it, Mustafa? Coming?”

“I not Mustafa.”

“Makes no difference. How about it?”

“Him get out first.”

Scholten said: “Him not want to.”

“You not know nothing. When I with woman go, it not your business.”

The woman looked at Scholten. “Can't you wait ten minutes? I'll be back in ten minutes.”