The Ice Queen: A Novel (8 page)

*   *   *

After her grandson left, Auguste Nowak remained sitting in the dark for a while, thinking. His confession had shaken her, although not so much for moral reasons. In this family of small-minded people, Marcus was as out of place as a kingfisher among crows, and he had married a woman who couldn’t muster the slightest understanding for an artist like him. Auguste had been skeptical and concerned that the marriage might not be in her grandson’s best interest, but she had never asked him about it.

He visited her every day, telling her about his worries both great and small, about new assignments, about successes and setbacks; in short, about everything that concerned him. Things that a man should actually be discussing with his wife. Even Auguste was not very fond of the family; although they lived under one roof, they were bound not by affection or respect, but by mere convenience. For Auguste, they had remained strangers who said nothing when they spoke and were steadfastly determined to maintain the facade of harmonious family life.

After Marcus had left for the athletic field half an hour later, she went in the house, tied a scarf around her head, grabbed her dark windbreaker and a flashlight, and took the key to Marcus’s office from its hook. Although he kept telling her not to, she cleaned his office regularly. She hated to be idle, and work kept a person young. Her eyes fell on the mirror next to the front door. Auguste Nowak knew what the years had done to her face, yet she was sometimes surprised to see the wrinkles, her mouth caving in because of missing teeth, and the heavy-hooded eyelids. Almost eighty-five, she thought. Unbelievable that she could be old so soon! To be honest, she never felt any older than fifty. She was tough and strong and a lot more agile than many thirty-year-olds. At sixty, she had gotten her driver’s license, and at seventy, she’d taken her first vacation. She found joy in small things and never quarreled with her fate. Besides, she still had something she needed to do, something of immense importance. Death, which she had looked in the eye for the first time over sixty years ago, would have to be patient until she had put everything in order. Auguste winked at her reflection in the mirror and left the house. She crossed the courtyard, opened the door to the office building, and went into Marcus’s office, which was in the annex to the workshop that he’d had built in the meadow down the hill from Auguste’s little cottage a few years back. The clock above the desk said 11:30. She would have to hurry if she didn’t want anyone to know about her little outing.

*   *   *

He could hear the throbbing bass of the music as soon as he walked across the jammed parking lot. The DJ was playing all the silly pop hits back to back, and the people were drunker than Marcus Nowak would have believed possible at this hour. A few kids, including his own, were playing soccer on the grass, and about three hundred people were crammed into the festival tent. Most of the adults had withdrawn to the bar at the clubhouse. Marcus was sickened by the sight of the two obviously tipsy men from the board of directors who were leering at the young girls.

“Hey, Nowak!” A hand slapped him on the back, and somebody breathed foul schnapps fumes in his face. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

“Hi, Stefan,” replied Marcus. “Have you seen Tina?”

“Nope, sorry. But come on over to our table and have a cold one with us, man.”

The man grabbed his arm as he followed reluctantly through the sweating, boisterous crowd in the rear of the festival tent.

“Hey, people!” Stefan yelled. “Look who I brought!”

Everybody turned to look at them, yelling and smirking. He was looking into familiar faces with glassy eyes, which told him the alcohol had already been flowing freely. Earlier, he’d been one of them: They were buddies from school or sports, guys from the annual fair, and had played their way from the junior league in soccer up to the first-string team. They had served with the volunteer fire department and partied at a lot of celebrations like this one. He’d known them all since they were kids, but suddenly they seemed like strangers. They shoved together to make room for him. He sat down, determined to grin and bear it. Somebody stuck a glass of May wine in his hand and gave a toast, so he drank. When had he stopped enjoying this sort of thing? Why didn’t he have as much fun as his old pals with simple pleasures like this? While the others downed their drinks within five minutes, he was still holding his glass of May wine. At that moment, he felt his cell vibrating in his pants pocket. He pulled out the phone, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw who had sent him a text. The contents made his face turn crimson.

“Hey, Marcus, I wanna give you some advice, as a good friend,” Chris Wiethölter babbled in his ear. He was one of the coaches he used to play on the team with. “Heiko is really hot for Tina. You’d better keep an eye on them.”

“Right, thanks. I will,” he replied absently. How was he going to answer the text message? Ignore it? Shut off his phone and get drunk with his old pals? He sat on the bench as if paralyzed, holding the glass with the May wine, which was now lukewarm. He just couldn’t think straight.

“I just mean … between friends, you know,” Wiethölter muttered, then chugged the last of his beer and belched.

“You’re right.” Nowak stood up. “I’m going to go look for her.”

“Yeah, do that, man.…”

Tina would never start anything with Heiko Schmidt or any other guy, and if she did, he didn’t give a shit, but he took the opportunity to get out of there. He made his way through the crowd of sweaty bodies, nodding to people here and there, and hoped he didn’t run into his wife or any of her girlfriends. When had he realized that he didn’t love Tina anymore? He couldn’t figure out what had changed. It had to be something he’d done, because Tina was the same as always. She was content with the life they shared, but it had suddenly gotten too confining for him. He slipped unnoticed out of the tent and took the shortcut through the club bar. Too late he realized his mistake. His father was sitting with his friends at the bar, as he did almost every evening.

“Hey, Marcus!” Manfred Nowak wiped the beer foam off his mustache with the back of his hand. “Come on over here!”

Marcus Nowak felt his stomach turn over, but he obeyed. He could see that his father was already sloshed, so he steeled himself. A glance at the clock on the wall told him that it was 11:30.

“A
weizen
beer for my son!” his father bellowed. Then he turned to the other older men, who were still clad in track outfits and running shoes, even though they’d had their modest success in sports decades ago.

“My son is a real big shot now. He’s rebuilding the Old Town of Frankfurt, house by house! I bet you’re all surprised, right?”

Manfred Nowak slapped Marcus on the back, but his eyes held neither recognition nor pride, only scorn. He kept on mocking him, and Marcus didn’t say a word, which merely egged his father on. The men were smirking. They knew all about the bankruptcy of Nowak’s construction company, and Marcus’s refusal to take over the firm, because in a little town like Fischbach, nothing was ever secret, especially not such a grandiose failure. The bartender set the
weizen
beer on the bar, but Marcus didn’t touch it.

“Cheers!”
yelled his father, raising his glass. Everybody drank but Marcus.

“What’s the matter? You’re not too stuck-up to drink with us, are you?”

Marcus Nowak saw the drunken anger in his father’s eyes.

“I don’t feel like listening to any more of your stupid pronouncements,” he said. “Talk to your friends, if you want. Maybe one of them will believe you.”

His father tried to release his pent-up fury by slapping his youngest son’s face, as he’d done so often in the past. But the alcohol slowed down his reflexes, and Marcus easily avoided the blow. He looked on without sympathy as his father lost his balance and crashed to the floor, along with the bar stool. Then he escaped before his old man could get back on his feet. At the door of the clubhouse, he caught his breath and hurried across the parking lot. He got into the car and peeled out of the lot. Not two hundred yards farther on, the police stopped him.

“So,” said the first officer, shining his flashlight in Marcus’s face, “finished celebrating May Day at the dance?”

The cop sounded nasty. Marcus recognized his voice. Siggi Nitschke had played on the first-string team in the Ruppertshain club when Marcus had been the top goal scorer for years in the circuit league.

“Hello, Siggi,” he said.

“Well, lookee here. It’s Nowak. The big
entrepreneur.
Driver’s license and registration, please.”

“I don’t have them with me.”

“Now, isn’t that a shame,” Nitschke mocked him. “Then please exit the vehicle.”

Marcus sighed and obeyed. Nitschke had never been able to stand him, mainly because he’d always been a step below Marcus as a soccer player. For Nitschke, pulling him over for a traffic violation must be like having a field day, he realized. Marcus submitted without protest to being treated like a felon. They made him blow into the Breathalyzer and were clearly pissed off when zero popped up on the display.

“Drugs?” Nitschke wasn’t going to let him off that easy. “Been smoking anything? Or snorting it?”

“Nonsense,” replied Marcus, who didn’t want any trouble. “I’ve never done anything like that, and you know it, Nitschke.”

“Don’t get so familiar. I’m on duty.
Officer
Nitschke to you, understand?”

“Oh, let him go, Siggi,” said his colleague in a low voice. Officer Nitschke gave Marcus a fierce stare, wracking his brain to think up something he could run him in for. In his whole life, he’d never get another chance like this.

“Present your driver’s license and registration to my colleagues at the station in Kelkheim no later than ten in the morning,” he said at last. “Now get your ass out of here. You were lucky.”

Without a word, Marcus got into his car, started it up, put on his seat belt, and drove off. All his good intentions were gone. He grabbed his cell and texted a brief reply: ON THE WAY. SEE YOU SOON.

Tuesday, May 1

Bodenstein drummed his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. The body of a man had been discovered in Eppenhain, but the only road that led to the remote district of Kelkheim had been blocked off by police. The contestants in the “Round the Henninger Tower” bicycle race were struggling for the second time this morning up the steep hill from Schlossborn to Ruppertshain. Hundreds of spectators lined the sidewalks and waited in front of big video screens at the sharp curve at Zauberberg. Finally, the first riders came into view. The advance guard zoomed past like a magenta cloud, followed closely by the main field in all colors of the rainbow. In between, next to them, and close behind them came the supply vehicles, and in the air circled the helicopters from Hesse TV, which was broadcasting the whole event live.

“I can’t imagine that this is a healthy sport,” Pia Kirchhoff said from the passenger seat. “They’re riding right in the middle of the exhaust from the escort vehicles.”

“Sports kill,” said Bodenstein, to whom competitive athletes were almost as suspect as religious fanatics.

“Cycling, at least. Especially for men. I read recently somewhere that men who ride bikes often become impotent,” said Pia, adding without segue, “By the way, our colleague Behnke rides with the amateurs. At least the one-hundred-kilometer hill section.”

“How am I supposed to take what you just said? Have you got inside information about the state of Behnke’s health that you’re keeping from me?” Bodenstein couldn’t refrain from an amused grin. The relationship between Kirchhoff and Behnke was still not smooth sailing, even though the open animosity had gradually evolved to collegial acceptance since last summer. Pia suddenly realized what she’d just said.

“For God’s sake, no.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “The road’s clear now.”

Nobody who got to know Detective Superintendent Oliver von Bodenstein would have guessed how crazy he was about any sort of gossip. Pia’s boss, who always dressed in a suit and tie, outwardly gave the impression of a man in full command of every situation—someone who ignored the private lives of other people with aristocratic courtesy. But that impression was deceptive. In reality, his curiosity was virtually insatiable and his memory shockingly good. Maybe it was the combination of these two characteristics that made Bodenstein the brilliant detective he undoubtedly was.

“Please don’t tell Behnke about this,” Pia said. “He might misunderstand it entirely.”

“I’ll have to give that some thought,” replied Bodenstein with a smirk, steering his BMW in the direction of Eppenhain.

*   *   *

Marcus Nowak waited in the car until his family had left the house and driven off; first his parents, then his brother with his family, and finally Tina with the children. He knew them all so well—they would drive over to watch the bicycle race and be gone quite a while, and that was fine with him. They never missed the race, even if they’d been partying until the wee hours—it was important to keep up appearances. This morning, he had already run twelve kilometers, his usual course along the Reis to the Bodenstein estate, up to Ruppertshain, and through the woods in a big loop all the way back. Normally running relaxed Marcus and cleared his head, but today he hadn’t been able to escape the sting of conscience and strong feelings of guilt. He had done it again, even though he was well aware that he would roast in deepest hell. He got out of his car, opened the front door of his house, and ran straight upstairs to his apartment. For a moment, he stood in the middle of the living room with his arms hanging limply at his sides. Everything looked the same as always in the early morning: The breakfast table had not been cleared off yet, and toys were scattered all over. The sight of this familiar and normal scene brought tears to his eyes. This was no longer his world, and it never would be again! Where had this dark urge come from, this desire for the forbidden? Tina, the kids, friends and family—why did he want to put all that at risk? Didn’t it mean anything to him anymore?