Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2) (7 page)

11

Herz’s first thought was of Hanna Umlauf.
Maybe her husband was right to worry? Should we have taken him more seriously? Could we have done something—prevented something?

“What are you brooding about?” Franza asked as she joined him in the car.

“Nothing.” Felix smiled and patted her arm. He would tell her about Belitz later. Nothing could be done about it now anyway. “I’m sorry I called you, but I thought you’d want to be there from the start. Sold your house?”

“We didn’t finish the showing, but I don’t think she was really interested.”

He laughed. “I’m sure you managed to put a wrench in the works. Like you usually do.”

She gave him a sideways look, eyebrows raised. “Am I that bad?”

“Yes,” he said with a sly grin, “that bad.”

They arrived. With its tree-lined drive and leafy surroundings, the house reminded Franza of her own.

As they opened the front door, Franza sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”

“Damsons,” said Arthur, who was waiting for them in the hallway. “A whole load of damson jelly has been made here during the last few days.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “Where is it?”

Arthur quickly showed them the way. As soon as they entered the room, they felt the stillness they met at every homicide scene.

Franza looked around. The room was bright, spacious, with white kitchen appliances. There was a sideboard with a vast array of jars filled with dark red glistening jelly.

A table stood in the middle of the room, eight chairs placed casually around it, with newspapers, pens, and various items of general clutter at one end of it. Apart from that, it was scattered with a number of dirty dishes, water glasses, wine glasses, two coffee cups, a wooden chopping board with remnants of cheese and cold meats, and a half-finished loaf.

Between the sideboard and the table, the floor was scattered with broken glass. Recently filled jelly jars were now violently smashed, glass shards mingling with the fresh jelly and embedded in the partially congealed mass. There were dark red splashes on the white kitchen surfaces.

Franza’s eyes finally came to rest on the woman. Slowly. Carefully. She was lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood. Long brown hair, early to midforties, mouth slightly open as if she still had something to say, but death had gotten there quicker. Light summer clothing, shorts and a T-shirt, tanned skin. In the middle of the blood, touching the woman’s arm, lay an onion, as if it had not wanted to leave her on her own, as if it had wanted to be with her to the end, seeing as there was no one else.

“So it isn’t her, after all,” said Felix quietly. He let out a sigh of relief while wondering why he was relieved—after all, he didn’t know this woman or Hanna Umlauf.

“Isn’t who?” asked Franza.

“Nothing,” said Herz. “Later.”

Borger, the coroner, was already there, as were the other members of the forensics team. They nodded to each other.

Franza bent over the woman on the floor and felt the stillness that radiated from her, and as if everyone around her also noticed it, their voices became quieter.

Franza closed her eyes.
Let me feel you,
she thought.
Let me into your heart, only for a moment, and show me what moved you so much it killed you.

I can’t yet,
the woman said in Franza’s mind,
give me a little time.

All the time in the world,
Franza whispered back into the silence.
I’d give you all the time you need—to eternity, even—but I don’t have time . . .

She rose, smiled a little sadly at Borger, whose features had grown still, and listened for the sound like faint background white noise in the distance. Franza brought the thought to its conclusion:
But I . . . I don’t have time . . . so help me . . .

It was like it always was. A sense of hovering between the heights and the depths, reaching out, feeling, sinking into a stranger’s life, a stranger’s death.

What was it like?
What was it like when you felt the blade of the knife on your skin? When it cut into you? When it slipped smoothly between your ribs and into your heart? As smoothly as a voice whispering into an ear: It’s OK. It’ll soon be over. Be calm. It’s OK.

Then there was a high-pitched tone reaching up to the sky, penetrating the blackness of the night. Then she died. Then she was dead. With a knife in her breast, piercing her heart. With a pain that tore her apart and finally released her into gentle death. Perhaps she was astonished by this remarkable fact—the fact she was dead. Now. So suddenly. So unforeseen. In this place that was intended for life, not for death.

She fell and left her body. Her arm sank to her side, her hand opened, bitter white lines, blood.

Perhaps she felt a vast loneliness, perhaps she froze. Perhaps she still heard the blade as it clattered to the floor, perhaps she heard the sound in the air, then
. . .
nothing more. Death swallowed all noise, muted it, muffled it, killed it.

“Gertrud Rabinsky,” said Arthur, who had already gotten down to work.

Franza abruptly raised her hand. He hesitated, and she took a deep breath and closed her eyes for a couple of seconds before finally turning.

“Now, go on,” she said.

“Sorry,” said Arthur.

“No problem,” she replied.

He began.

“Forty-four years of age, married, an adult daughter with an apartment in town. A young son, who was spending the night with his grandparents, I believe, or with friends. In any case, neither of the children were at home. Her husband found her. I sent him away a little earlier. All he was doing was standing around in complete bewilderment. I’m sure he’ll be breaking it gently to his children that their mother
. . .
you know
. . .
”

He fell silent.

Well done, Arthur,
Franza thought, feeling a pang of tenderness for her young assistant.
You’re doing well. Never allow it to leave you completely cold. Protect yourself, but don’t be cold.

She gave him a nod, and he continued. “She had a pottery shop in the town center. Near the cathedral.”

“Ah, that’s it,” Borger said. “Now I know why she seems familiar. I bought some mugs from her. I watched her working and then I bought some mugs. It wasn’t long ago. Lovely mugs.”

Franza nodded. “Yes, I’m sure.” She felt the beginnings of a smile.

A case took on a whole new strangeness if you knew the victim, however fleetingly. If you had met them even briefly when they were still alive, the shield of distance was suddenly removed.

“What have you got to tell us?” Herz was a little less sensitive, not always hearing, or wanting to hear, the subtle undertones. Franza was grateful to him for that. It was a way of building bridges between what was clear and what was indistinct. So often she found that the truth lay somewhere in the middle.

“Stab wounds,” Borger replied. “Three. Inflicted with great force. Probably in quick succession. Typical of a crime of passion. People who know each other. Emotions running high. You’ve got the murder weapon here—a simple kitchen knife, which it looks like someone had been using shortly before to cut sausage and cheese.”

He indicated the table, the wooden chopping board, the onion on the floor. “And perhaps onions, too. Not this one, though. I’ll be able to give you a more precise picture when I’ve examined the traces in the puncture wounds.” He paused briefly. “The place where she was found is without doubt the crime scene.”

Herz smiled. “Thanks, Borger, but can you leave us something to do? Or have you already solved the case?”

“When did it happen?” Franza asked.

Borger tilted his head. “Judging from the degree of rigor mortis and the consistency of the blood, I’d say fourteen, fifteen hours ago.”

“During the night, then.” She did a quick calculation. “Around one. Around midnight.”

Borger nodded. “I can tell you more precisely later.”

“Did she try to defend herself?” she asked.

Borger shrugged. “Can’t say yet. Apart from the stab wounds there are no immediately obvious injuries.”

He picked up one of the dead woman’s hands and indicated her nails. “What will I find under here? When I examine her, it’s possible I’ll find skin particles under the nails indicating a struggle. But I need a little more time.”

Franza nodded. “Sure. Of course.”

Borger sighed. “So you want it yesterday.”

“Correct,” she said, a smile escaping her. “I’m so lucky to be surrounded by such exceptionally intelligent men.”

They took a quick look around the house, taking care not to get in the way of the forensics officers, who would soon be taking over the house—the crime scene—for themselves. But Franza and Herz were eager to gain some insight, some feeling for the people who lived here, for the dead woman.

It was clear from the house that Gertrud Rabinsky was a woman of taste, with a feel for shape and color, for warmth and light. In the family photos, however, she came across as slightly aloof, reserved, as if the camera were an alien intrusion, something against which she had to defend herself.

Herz picked up a portrait. “OK, we’ll take this with us. Now let’s go see her parents. They’re all together, her husband, her children, and her parents. Arthur, you hold the fort here.”

They left the house. Past the damson tree, still laden with overripe fruit.
They’ll go rotten now,
Franza thought.
No more jelly, no damson schnapps, no cakes. What a shame.

She’ll have turned up,
Felix thought.
Hanna Umlauf will have turned up and is probably safe on her way back to France with her husband.
He wondered whether he should call Hansen and ask him. Sometime next week. There was no hurry.

They drove back toward town, but before reaching it turned off into a valley, at the end of which was the house—no, the villa. That was a more fitting description. Tasteful. Idyllic. From the outside. But no longer so inside.

“Herz.” He produced his ID. “Criminal investigation. This is my colleague, Oberwieser.”

“It didn’t take you long,” said the man who opened the door to them. He was somewhere in his midsixties, wearing a shirt and tie. Perhaps he had been pulled away from his office. His face betrayed signs of exhaustion and deep sadness.

“True,” Herz said. “That’s part of our job.”

“Brendler,” the man said. “I’m her father. Come through; we’re all in here.”

They followed him through the house and finally entered a spacious living room. An elderly woman was sitting at the table, leaning on her elbows, shock visible in her features and in her bearing. Once again Franza was amazed at how quickly it all happened, how rapidly tragedy seeped into a person’s body, how fast it spread and drained them of all strength.

Moritz, the five-year-old boy, was sitting on a sofa, and a man, evidently his father, was holding him in his arms. Franza guessed he was in his midforties. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, blond, glasses, moustache—his features were set as if the pain had not yet fully registered.

“I found her,” he said. “I came home and found her. That’s all. There’s nothing more to say.”

“Yes, there is,” Herz said. “I’m sure you can tell us more. Just take your time.”

Herz turned to Frau Brendler. “Perhaps you could take care of the little boy. He shouldn’t hear all this.”

“Yes, you’re right.” The woman stood. “Come on, Moritz, come with me!”

“What about your granddaughter?” Felix asked.

“We’ve called her,” Hans Brendler said. “She’s on her way.”

They didn’t find out a great deal. The evening before she was found, Gertrud’s husband had been at a friend’s birthday party that lasted until the wee hours. He had done the rounds with his colleagues, had drunk too much, and had gone to his office to sleep for the few remaining hours of the night. Late morning he had gone home, taken a shower, and changed, assuming that Gertrud had gone to her shop. He’d gone to the kitchen to fix a quick snack before driving back into town—and found her lying there.

“It says here you found her around twelve,” Franza said, glancing at the notebook Felix was filling with an increasing volume of notes. “But you didn’t call the police until half past one. Why leave so long? What were you doing for all that time?”

Christian Rabinsky stared at the floor, his elbows on his knees and his face propped in his hands.

“I don’t know,” he said flatly, barely audible. “Nothing. I wasn’t doing anything. She lay there, not moving. She was really dead. Nothing could have changed that. I just wanted some time alone with her. That’s what I did, I spent some time alone with her. Something I’m never going to be able to do again. Or, maybe
. . 
.
 
?” He raised his head and looked Franza in the eye. “Maybe
. . 
. ?”

“No,” she said. “You’re right. You’re never going to be able to do that again. But nevertheless—”

She broke off. What had he said? She was
really dead.

He was right. There was nothing that could have changed that. Nothing. Some time alone, him and her. Was there anything wrong with that?