Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2) (33 page)

89

Hansen leaned back in his seat and stared at the screen. He was completely stunned. Fifty thousand was not an insignificant amount. Not at all. Having or not having fifty thousand made a difference.
A big difference,
Hansen thought. He found it remarkable that it could be obtained so easily. Just like that. And to get it from a source from which there had allegedly been no contact at all—no contact at all for years. Now he knew that wasn’t true—they’d lied. There it was, just six months ago—fifty thousand.

Hansen leaned back, tapped his fingertips together, rocked a little on his chair, and thought about it.

So,
he thought,
I think fifty thousand means something happened, something very powerful!

He picked up his cell phone, typed a text, and sent it twice.

90

“He’s in his room,” Tonio said resignedly, waving a hand toward the window. “At least, he hasn’t checked out yet. We’d arranged to meet him here, but the asshole didn’t show up. Instead
. . .
”

“.
 . .
we did.” Arthur completed his sentence for him. Tonio nodded.

Herz had gone over to the window. “Over there? In his room?”

What was all this about? Some kind of distraction technique? Was this someone wanting to take the pressure off himself with vague accusations and wild speculation? But Herz had lived and seen and heard too much in his time. He wasn’t about to fall for anything easily.

“Yes,” Tonio said, “in the hotel. You can see the back from here. The Babenberger. It’s a luxury hotel for the upper class. Don’t you know it?”

Felix deliberately ignored the sarcastic undertone. The Babenberger? He thought for a moment.

The Babenberger. He knew it, of course, and he’d come across it recently, he was sure of it, but when?

There was a sudden beep from Felix’s cell phone. He opened the text. Hansen. Stating that fifty thousand had been shifted from one account to another—quietly and more or less secretly. There was no business transaction connected to it, at least not one that a quick search had shown up. Hansen found it a little strange, given that they’d claimed there’d been zero contact for years. The money had changed hands six months ago, which meant a lie or two had been told. What could be the reason for paying someone that much money?

Maybe he was mistaken and it had little—or nothing—to do with the case. Or maybe it did. And now Belitz had also disappeared—turned off his cell phone.

Felix looked again at the back of the hotel.

Belitz? Jonas Belitz? Hanna Umlauf’s worried husband?

And he suddenly remembered where he’d recently heard about the Babenberger. He turned.

“Belitz?” he asked. “Are we talking about Jonas Belitz?”

Tonio raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Yes. The very man. That’s exactly who we’re talking about.”

91

“Fifty thousand euros,” Franza said, whistling softly through her teeth as she closed the text. “That’s quite a sum of money, don’t you think, Herr Brendler?”

He glanced at her, and she could see that he knew what she was talking about. He turned away in silence.

Dorothee looked from one to the other. “What are you talking about?”

“You should ask your husband,” Franza said. “I think he could explain it better than I can.”

“What’s happening? What do you want?” Hans said. “Shouldn’t you be spending your time solving my daughter’s murder instead of speculating wildly about things that have nothing to do with you, things you don’t understand?”

He was angry, sad, bewildered—all at once.

“So can you explain it to me, please?” Franza said.

“Yes,” Dorothee said. “Explain it!”

He closed his eyes briefly and shrugged. “Jonas called me about six months ago. He wanted to meet me in Munich.”

“What? What are you saying?” Dorothee turned and faced him. “Why didn’t you tell me? What did he want? Money, it seems!”

He made to stroke her hair, but she turned her head away, and his arm hung in the air for a second as if in free fall.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” he said quietly. “And yes, he wanted money. And I gave it to him.”

“Why?” Franza asked. “Why did he want so much money?”

Dorothee laughed scornfully. “That’s nothing. We’ve paid a lot more than that before.”

“He wanted it for Hanna, as a kind of security,” Brendler said, sitting down. “He told me he was very ill and didn’t have long to live. Said he had debts from the gallery and that he could cover those debts with my money. That way, at least Hanna wouldn’t have any financial worries if he
. . .
”

“Extortion, then,” said Franza thoughtfully. “What with?”

Brendler shook his head. “No, not extortion. I gave him the money willingly. It was for Hanna, after all.”

He looked at his wife.

“But you’d already paid him a lot more?” Silence.

“It’s all come to this,” Dorothee said flatly. “It’s all come to this!” She turned to her husband. “Tell her. You tell her. I can’t do it anymore.”

He nodded, put his head in his hands.

“Jonas married Hanna and I couldn’t prevent it. I would have, if I could. But it wasn’t in my power.”

“Why did you want to prevent it?”

“Because it wasn’t right. Because
. . .
because it just wasn’t right.”

“You’ll have to explain that to me,” Franza said, leaning forward. “What do you mean by that?”

He said nothing. He simply sat there, staring at the table. Dorothee began to talk.

“My husband paid him money to pacify him. To keep quiet. Leave us alone. That was what he used to buy the gallery.”

“So much money? Enough for him to finance a gallery? So much hush money?”

Brendler raised his head. “He turned up right after Lilli was born. You could call it chance or fate. Whatever. In any case, he was suddenly standing there at the door when Hanna’s baby was three days old. Hanna was sick in her room and Gertrud had already taken the baby for herself, had already . . . become her mother. It didn’t take long for Jonas to see what was going on. He was never short of imagination. What could I do?” He laughed bitterly. “He was my best friend. From way back when we were kids. We did everything together. I met my wife through him.”

He gave her a long look. “We lived together when we were students. They were good times. Afterward, I came here and worked in my father’s law office, while he tried to establish himself as a freelance photographer. He didn’t do too well at first, but he didn’t mind. He was a survivor. He always managed somehow, living here or there. Eventually he went to London, made a name for himself, and earned a lot of money. But he always visited us, again and again during that time. We never knew when he’d come. It was always a surprise. He’d stay with us, sometimes only for a couple of days, sometimes for a few weeks. That was also OK. The house was big enough and we liked it. They were good times. We were like extended family.”

No,
Franza thought,
an illusion of it at best.

“He watched the girls grow up,” Brendler continued. “He liked them, they liked him. He didn’t have any children himself, so it was always a big deal whenever he came. They liked it when he stayed. He involved them in his photography, and that was the kick start for Hanna’s career. He was a good friend. The best a man could wish for. Really. For all of us. But then he arrived at the wrong time.”

He stood. “Anyone want a glass of wine?”

Franza shook her head. Dorothee didn’t move. He went into the kitchen and returned with a glass and an opened bottle. “Maybe I should get used to the idea of drinking more. They say it makes everything more bearable.”

“Only at the start,” Franza said. “Only at the start. It all gets harder later on.”

He nodded.

“I know,” he said. “I know. It was supposed to be a joke. But this isn’t the time for joking.”

“Carry on with the story,” Franza said.

He shrugged. “That was it, really.”

“No,” Dorothee said. “No, that wasn’t it.”

She took a deep breath. “I was so shocked when he appeared there suddenly at the door. We hadn’t heard a thing from him for three years! And suddenly
. . .
there he was. He of all people. With his usual grin on his face. His lightheartedness. And there we were
. . .
with all that going on in the house.”

She shook her head. “I didn’t want to let him in. I told him it was a bad time. He should look for somewhere else to stay. He just looked at me blankly, pushed me aside, and was in. He asked after the girls. That was always his first question: ‘How are the girls? Where are the girls?’ I didn’t know what to say. I went after him, and that was when he heard Lilli. She was hungry and crying dreadfully. Gertrud came down the stairs with her to make up a bottle. Jonas was thunderstruck. He looked at the baby, looked at me, looked at Gertrud. ‘My daughter,’ she said. ‘My daughter, Lilli.’ Jonas was shocked and said, ‘But I had no idea that you
. . .
’ And she countered with: ‘Why would you? You haven’t been here for ages.’ That floored him—at first, but then
. . .
”

She took a gulp of her husband’s wine.

“He settled in, as at home as ever. The next day it became clear that Hanna was also there, sick in bed. ‘Why don’t you take her to the hospital?’ he asked, and I said, why should I—after all, I was a doctor. He said we should anyway, since she was so unwell—a blind man could see there was something wrong. And he looked at me as though I was a criminal. And I felt like one.”

She fell silent.

“I’m pretty sure he knew by then,” Brendler continued. “That evening he came into my study, sat down, said nothing for a while. Then finally he said, ‘Nothing’s ever as it seems, is it?’ I didn’t deny it. I was angry, asked him what these insinuations meant, would he kindly drop it. But he said, ‘Enough! Don’t give me that bullshit, Hans! I know you too well.’”

He fell silent, took a deep breath. “What could I do?”

“You did the wrong thing, Hans,” Dorothee said.

He nodded. “Yes. The wrong thing.”

He looked at her. There was no warmth between them anymore.

“I told him everything. Everything. I knew even as I was telling him that it was a mistake. I looked into his eyes, saw his horror, his disbelief, but I couldn’t stop talking. And I felt such a relief to be getting it all out
. . .
to be unloading.”

He fell silent, drank his wine, and poured himself some more.

“We sat there for a long time in silence. Didn’t look at each other. Eventually he said he was broke. And that he’d had enough of roaming around the world. He’d found a woman who would stick with him and there was a gallery in Strasbourg he could take over. But that he was broke at the moment.”

Wow,
Franza thought.
Wow, so that’s where friendships can lead—up a dark one-way street. Where there’s no going back. Not a step.

“I asked him how much. He named a sum. A substantial sum. I got out my checkbook, wrote a check, and laid it on the desk. Then I went to bed. I slept like I hadn’t done for days.”

He sighed deeply. “The next morning I went into my office first thing. The check was no longer there. And Jonas
. . .
Jonas was also gone, vanished, just as he had come. Three days later the check was cashed.”

Silence.

I’ve had enough of this,
Franza thought.
I’m tired of hearing all these goddamn stories over and over.

“What happened then?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Nothing more. It was like a final blow. Our friendship was over. Neither of us tried to make contact again. He didn’t come to the house anymore. And we didn’t go to see him. We never went to that gallery in Strasbourg. It was the last time we saw one another.”

“Until six months ago,” Franza said.

He looked up, nodded. “Until six months ago. He looked bad. Ill. I hardly recognized him.”

Franza stood. “Thanks for being so open. We’ll be in touch.”

She moved to go, paused, and then turned back and looked at Dorothee. “Weren’t you ever worried that Hanna would come back to claim her daughter?”

A brief moment’s silence.

“Yes,” Dorothee said. “Yes. Always. Every second of the day.” There was a dull grayness in her voice, resignation, the end. “But things were as they were. We’d made our decision. There was no going back.”

Franza nodded. Yes, that was how some things happened. Irreversible. Some decisions were for life. Irreversible. No going back.

She was finally about to go, when Dorothee’s voice held her back. “What about Lilli?”

“Just give her a bit of time,” Franza said, pausing briefly. “And her mother.”

Tears were running down Dorothee’s cheeks, but Franza no longer saw them. Her cell phone beeped. It was a text from Sonja.
My husband’s a goddamn asshole.

92

It would have been so easy if she had just kept quiet. If she’d kept quiet like she had for all those years. Sometimes you just had to keep quiet.

But she had to talk, spill it all out. She had to accuse him—he, who, after all, had done the least wrong, who had just slipped into the story by a stupid chance.

He had only come to the house because he’d hoped she would know where Hanna was, since those incompetent police officers hadn’t gotten anywhere with finding her.

But everything had gotten out of hand. And somehow he’d seen red. As she started her threats to tell Hanna that he’d accepted vast amounts of money, which meant his wealth was ultimately based on Hanna’s misfortune, and that she’d never forgive him for it—on the contrary, she’d send him packing—he’d seen red.

“Send me packing?” he had asked. “Me?”

Suddenly, she had gone quiet, totally cold. He felt the chill as it drifted toward him. It made him think of the river, swathes of mist, frost on windowpanes.

“Are you scared now?” she had asked. “Are you scared that your precious Hanna will destroy you? That if she knows everything, she’ll crush you underfoot like a small, hideous mealworm?”

He saw himself as a small, hideous mealworm. He saw the image like he always saw images—him in the dust and Hanna standing over him—big, powerful Hanna, her red hair gleaming like a bad omen.

He had to defend himself. Not against Hanna. No, not against her. Against Gertrud. Against Gertrud’s coldness and her dreadful allegations.

“You made sure they bought your silence,” she said. “Do you really think I don’t know? You made sure my damn father bought your damn silence and you believed you could somehow make things right by marrying Hanna.”

She paused, considered, and then shook her head. He thought everything would be all right. They could still make it right.

“No.” He tried to contradict her. “I married her because I loved her. And I still do. And I wanted to be there for her, especially since she’d already lost Lilli.”

He halted, helpless. “I also wanted it for you . . . And for your parents . . . We were friends, after all. We always were.”

She had merely laughed, not loudly, not maliciously. It was a light, helpless laugh, but it was a laugh all the same.

“Friends?” she echoed. “You really believe that? No, surely you can’t believe that. Your friendship vanished into thin air the minute you accepted that check.”

“But what should I have done? Gone to the police? Denounced my best friend?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, maybe that’s what you should have done. Maybe it would have been the best thing for all of us. Perhaps then we would all have had the chance to live honestly and sincerely, to be free. Perhaps that would have been your task, the reason why fate chose to send you to our house at that very moment.”

She fell silent and folded her arms, lost in her own thoughts.

“And now?” he asked.

“And now,” she said, “now you’ll lose Hanna. Just like I’ll lose Lilli. It’s only fair.”

That was the moment when his despair got the better of him. When he knew that he would defend himself with all his might. He wouldn’t let anything else happen.

“You’ll lose her,” she repeated, her voice indicating such certainty that he began to shiver. “We’re all going to lose.”

That was what she said. She of all people. She who had benefited from it all, she who was the reason for all this
. . .
fuss.

He saw the last twenty-two years of his life pass before him. It all passed, it all faded: his longing, his concern, even the illness that was devouring him, the cancer that was destroying his insides, that had eaten its way into him over the years, like a silent animal that had recently begun to roar, leaving him ever less space.

But
. . .
it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

The glint of the knife caught his eye. The silvery blade. And then
. . .