The Ice Queen: A Novel (7 page)

“He knows the right people in the right places. You know how these things work.”

Nierhoff gave Bodenstein a skeptical look. “Did you inform the next of kin yesterday?”

“No. I presume Goldberg’s housekeeper did that.”

“They want the autopsy report.” Nierhoff nervously rubbed his chin. Inside him the policeman was struggling with the politician. “Can you imagine what might come of this, Bodenstein?”

“Yes, I can,” he said with a nod. Nierhoff jumped up and resumed silently pacing back and forth in his office.

“What am I supposed to do now?” he finally mused out loud. “I’ll be fired if that detail gets out to the public. Not to mention what the press will do with it if anything leaks out!”

Bodenstein grimaced at this self-pitying utterance. Apparently, solving a homicide case didn’t interest his boss in the slightest.

“It’s not a matter of the public,” he replied. “Since nobody’s interested in shouting that particular detail from the rooftops, nothing is going to happen.”

“That’s easy for you to say.… What’s the deal with the autopsy report?”

“You’re going to run it through the shredder.”

Nierhoff went over to the window, his hands clasped behind his back, and stared outside for a moment. Then he turned abruptly.

“I’ve given my word that for our part no further investigations will be conducted in the Goldberg case,” he said in a lowered voice. “I trust that you will comply.”

“That goes without saying,” Bodenstein replied. He didn’t care who the chief commissioner had given his word to, but it didn’t take any particularly clairvoyant abilities to know what that meant. On directions from on high, Goldberg’s murder was to be swept under the rug.

Monday, April 30

“I could have danced all night! I could have danced all night!…”

It was just past seven when Bodenstein stopped short in the doorway of the conference room, watching his colleague, who was warbling away and dancing with an imaginary partner between the table and the flip chart. He cleared his throat. “Was your zoo director nice to you? You seem to be in a great mood.”

“I feel fantastic!” Pia Kirchhoff did one last pirouette, then dropped her arms and gave the hint of a bow with a big grin. “And he’s always nice to me. Shall I get you some coffee, boss?”

“Did something happen?” Bodenstein raised his eyebrows. “Are you trying to get me to sign off on a vacation?”

“My God, how suspicious you are. No, I’m just in a good mood,” Pia replied. “Saturday night, I ran into an old friend who used to know Goldberg, and—”

“Goldberg is ancient history,” Bodenstein said, interrupting her. “I’ll tell you why later. Would you be so kind as to call in the rest of the team?”

A little later, everyone at K-11 in Hofheim was sitting around the conference table, listening in amazement to Bodenstein’s curt announcement that the Goldberg case had been dropped. Detective Inspector Andreas Hasse—who today was wearing a golden yellow shirt and an argyle sweater vest with corduroy pants instead of his usual brown suit—showed no emotion upon hearing the news. He had no spirit whatsoever, and although he was only in his mid-fifties, for years he’d been counting the days to his retirement. Even Behnke just went on indifferently chewing his gum, obviously lost in thought. Since there was nothing urgent pending, Bodenstein had agreed that his team would help out their colleagues in K-10 in investigating an eastern European auto-theft gang that had been making trouble in the Rhein-Main area for months. Ostermann and Pia Kirchhoff were to concentrate on an unsolved carjacking. Bodenstein waited until he was alone with the two to relate the details of what he knew about Goldberg’s past and the strange events of Sunday morning, which had led to K-11 being taken off the Goldberg case.

“So that means we’re really out of it?” Ostermann asked in disbelief.

Bodenstein nodded. “Officially, yes. Neither the Americans nor the NCP show any interest in solving the case, and Nierhoff is simply relieved to have the matter off his back.”

“What about the lab evaluation of the evidence that was collected?” Pia asked.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve forgotten all about it,” Bodenstein replied. “Ostermann, get in touch with the crime lab right away and do some snooping around. If they’ve already got test results back, go to Wiesbaden and pick them up in person.”

Ostermann nodded.

“The housekeeper told me that Goldberg had a visit on Thursday afternoon from a bald man and a dark-haired woman,” Pia said. “On Tuesday, a man she didn’t know was there in the early evening as she was getting ready to leave. He had parked his car right in front of the gate, a sports car with Frankfurt plates.”

“Well, that’s something anyway. Anything else?”

“Yes,” said Pia, looking through her notes. “Twice last week, fresh flowers were delivered to Goldberg. On Wednesday, they weren’t brought by the florist as usual, but by a rather unkempt man in his early forties. The housekeeper let him in. The man went straight up to Goldberg and spoke to him in a familiar way, as if they knew each other. She couldn’t hear the conversation because the man had closed the door to the living room, but this visit apparently left the old man quite upset. He ordered the housekeeper to take delivery of the flowers at the front door from now on and not let anyone into the house.”

“Good.” Bodenstein nodded. “I’m still wondering what those numbers on the mirror meant.”

“Could be a phone number,” Ostermann opined. “Or the number of a locker, a password, a Swiss bank account, or a membership number—”

Kirchhoff interrupted him. “A membership number! If the motive for the murder was actually something in Goldberg’s past, the one one six four five might have been his membership number in the SS.”

“Goldberg was ninety-two,” Ostermann mused. “Somebody who knew his number from back then would have to be almost that old, too.”

“Not necessarily,” said Bodenstein pensively. “It would be enough to know about Goldberg’s past.”

He recalled cases of murderers who had left obvious messages at the scene or on their victims as macabre calling cards. Perps who were playing a little game with the police to show off their intelligence and cunning. Could that be what was going on here? Was the number on the mirror in Goldberg’s hallway a sign? If so, what did it mean? Was it a reference to something? Or was it meant to deliberately mislead them? Like his colleagues, Bodenstein couldn’t see any rhyme or reason to it, and he was afraid that the murder of David Josua Goldberg would remain unsolved.

*   *   *

Marcus Nowak was sitting at his desk in his small office and carefully sorting the documents that he needed for the consultation the day after tomorrow. Finally, there seemed to be some movement in the project in which he had invested so much time. Recently, the city of Frankfurt had repurchased the Technical Courthouse, which was supposed to be torn down in the course of an extensive urban-renewal project in the Old Town. As early as two years ago, the Frankfurt city council had debated vigorously over what sort of architecture should be commissioned to replace the ugly concrete monstrosity. Renovation was planned for parts of the Old Town between the cathedral and Römerberg Square. Seven of the half-timbered structures of historical significance that had been destroyed during the war were supposed to be reconstructed, making them as true to the originals as possible. For a gifted but still mostly unknown restorer like Marcus Nowak, a commission like this meant more than merely an incredible professional challenge and full employment for his firm for years to come. He was being offered a once-in-a-lifetime chance to make his name known far and wide, because the ambitious project would undoubtedly attract a lot of attention.

His cell phone rang, tearing him from his ruminations. He searched for it under the piles of plans, sketches, tables, and photos, and his heart beat faster when he recognized the number on the display. He’d been waiting for this call, longingly and yet with a terribly guilty conscience. He hesitated a moment. He had actually made Tina a firm promise to go to the soccer field where the Fischbach Sports Club had set up a tent, as they did each year, hosting a big dance to celebrate the first of May. Nowak paused as he looked at his cell and bit his lip, but the temptation was too strong.

“Damn,” he muttered softly, and took the call.

*   *   *

He hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol all day; well, only a little. He’d washed down the two Prozacs an hour ago with a gulp of vodka; nobody would smell it. He’d promised Kurti not to drink, and now he was feeling good and his head was clear as glass. His hands weren’t shaking. Robert Watkowiak grinned at himself in the mirror. What a difference a decent haircut and a respectable outfit made. His dear Uncle Herrmann was a real German bureaucrat and set great store by a clean, proper appearance. So it was better to show up at his office dressed neatly and clean-shaven, without booze on his breath or bloodshot eyes. Sure, he would get the money no matter what, but it seemed better to present his request politely.

It was pure chance that he had happened upon the dark secret of the old man—the secret that he assiduously concealed from the whole world—and since then they had been the best of friends. He wondered what Uncle Jossi and his stepmother would say when they found out what dear Uncle Herrmann was doing in his basement. Watkowiak chortled and turned away from the mirror. He wasn’t so stupid that he’d ever tell them, because then his source of income would dry up for good. He just hoped the old bugger would live a long time! He rubbed a cloth over his black patent-leather shoes, which he’d bought specially for the occasion, along with the gray suit, the shirt, and tie. He’d spent almost half of Uncle Jossi’s money on the clothes, but his investment was sure to pay off. In a splendid mood, Watkowiak set off shortly before eight o’clock. Kurti had said he’d pick him up at the train station at eight on the dot.

*   *   *

Auguste Nowak was sitting on the wooden bench behind her little house, enjoying the evening calm and the fragrant scent of the nearby woods. Although the weather forecast had predicted a marked drop in temperature along with rain, the air was mild, and the first stars were appearing in the cloudless evening sky. In the rhododendron bush, two blackbirds were squabbling, and a dove was cooing on the roof. It was already quarter past ten, and everyone in the family was having fun up at the soccer field, dancing to welcome the first of May. Except for Marcus, her grandson, who was still sitting at his desk. But they didn’t see that—all those jealous people who’d been bad-mouthing the young man ever since his company had become successful. None of them was prepared to work sixteen hours a day, with no weekends and no vacation.

Auguste Nowak clasped her hands in her lap and crossed her ankles. If she stopped to think about it, she’d never had it so good in her whole long life full of work and worries. Her husband, Helmut, had been irreparably traumatized by the war, had never held a job longer than four weeks, and had hardly set foot out the front door in the last twenty years of his life. Two years ago, he had died. Auguste had then given in to the urgings of their son and moved into the little house on the company property in Fischbach. After Helmut’s death, she could no longer endure living in the village in Sauerland. Finally she had her peace and quiet. She no longer had to put up with a TV that was always on and the infirmities of her husband, for whom, in the best moments of their marriage, she had felt only indifference. Auguste heard the clatter of the garden gate, turned her head, and smiled in delight when she recognized her grandson.

“Hello, Oma,” said Marcus. “Am I bothering you?”

“You never bother me,” Auguste Nowak replied. “Would you like something to eat? I have some goulash and noodles in the fridge.”

“No thanks.”

He didn’t look good. He seemed stressed-out, and for weeks she’d had the impression that something was weighing on him.

“Come here and sit with me.” Auguste patted the cushion next to her, but he remained standing. She watched the play of emotions on his face. She could still read him like a book.

“The others are at the May Day dance,” she said. “Why don’t you go over there, too?”

“I will. I’m on my way up to the soccer field now. I just wanted to—” He broke off, pondered for a moment, and then looked mutely at the floor.

“What’s the matter, hmm?” Auguste asked. “Does it have something to do with the company? Are you in a financial bind?”

He shook his head, and when he finally raised his head to look at her, his gaze cut her to the quick. The expression of torment and despair in his brown eyes made her heart ache. He hesitated a moment longer, then sat down next to her on the bench and heaved a deep sigh.

Auguste loved the boy as if he were her own child. Maybe it was because his parents had always been busy with work and the company and had never had time for their youngest son; that’s why he had spent large parts of his childhood with her. But maybe it was also because he was so like her older brother Ulrich, who was incredibly good with his hands, a true artist. He could have gone far if the war hadn’t thwarted his plans and ruined all his dreams. He fell in France in June 1944, three days before his twenty-third birthday. In appearance, Marcus also reminded her a lot of her beloved brother. He had the same fine, expressive facial features, the smooth dark blond hair that was always falling into his dark eyes, and a beautiful mouth with full lips. But although he was only thirty-four, deep furrows of worry were etched on his face, and he often seemed to Auguste like a boy who had been forced to take on the burdens of a grown man much too soon. Suddenly, Marcus laid his head in her lap, the way he’d always done as a little boy when he needed consolation. Auguste stroked his hair and hummed softly to herself.

“I’ve done something really, really bad, Oma,” he said in a strained voice. “And I’m going to go to hell for it.”

She could feel him shudder. The sun had disappeared behind the hills of the Taunus and it was getting cool. After a while, he began to speak, faltering at first, then more and more rapidly, obviously glad to be able to share with someone at last the dark secret that was weighing on his soul.