Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2) (8 page)

Her attention was caught by a nearby movement, and she turned.

Felix was standing by the wall. The photos hanging there drew him. He’d been driven by curiosity, the instinct that led him through life. He did not know what exactly it was that attracted his attention, but it suddenly seemed as though the pictures began to glow, to wink at him as if they had something to tell him. He held his breath. A redhead. Did he recognize her? A memory. Radiant hair. Young. Could it be? Could it really be? Could it be
her
, her hair shining as if it were a matter of life and death?

“Who is that?” he asked, feeling a tingle, sensing a tension spread through his body.

“Who?”

Brendler’s voice was louder than it had been. Felix turned and stared at the man as he slowly approached.

“Who do you mean?”

“This girl here. The girl with the red hair.”

“Her? That’s Hanna,” Brendler said. “Why do you want to know?”

“And the one next to her? Gertrud?”

“Yes,” Brendler said quietly and ran his index finger over his daughter’s face, slowly, again and again. “That’s Gertrud. My daughter.”

“Hanna Umlauf? The photographer?”

“Yes.” Brendler frowned, and Felix noticed the sudden alertness in his expression, in his voice. “Hanna Umlauf, the photographer. Why do you ask?”

“What’s her connection to your family?” asked Herz tensely.

A rueful smile passed across Brendler’s face. He turned and looked out of the window, out toward the trees, the garden. Green as far as the eye could see.

“Hanna is like my
. . .
our second daughter. She grew up here. Together with Gertrud. You could say we have
. . .
we had two daughters.” He was briefly lost in his memories and then turned around, returning to the present. “Lovely days. Yes.” Another short pause. “We haven’t seen her for years. And now Gertrud’s dead. I have to tell her. I must tell Hanna.”

“That’s going to be difficult right now,” said Herz slowly. “Hanna Umlauf has disappeared.”

“What?”

For a fraction of a second, Brendler and his son-in-law froze. Franza too. She came to her senses first. “What do you mean Hanna Umlauf has disappeared?”

“Just what I said.” Herz’s gaze moved between Brendler and his son-in-law to gauge what they were thinking and feeling. “Her husband reported her missing two days ago. I’m not sure of the current state of affairs, but looking at the situation here—”

“Her husband?” Brendler asked tensely. “Jonas? He’s here?”

“Yes.” Felix nodded. “He’s here. So you know Jonas Belitz?”

“Of course I know Jonas Belitz.” Brendler’s voice sounded gruff and dismissive, but Felix was not put off.

“You do?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell. We grew up together, he was my best friend, until
. . .
” He hesitated, turned away.

“Go on.”

Brendler turned back to Felix in agitation. “You’re beginning to get on my nerves, you know that? What on earth does it have to do with anything? My daughter’s been murdered, Hanna’s disappeared, and you’re asking me about a man I haven’t seen for at least twenty years.”

Felix smiled a little complacently. “Well, you could almost say he’s your
. . .
son-in-law, so I think he’s got everything to do with it.”

Brendler calmed himself and sat back down. He thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said wearily, “you would see it like that.”

“So?”

“What would you say if your daughter came to you one day and told you she was going to marry your best friend, who is twenty-five years older than she is?”

Felix raised his eyebrows and took a deep breath. “Well,” he said.

“Exactly,” said Brendler. “And after that they didn’t come to see us anymore.”

Herz nodded. “OK, I think that’s enough for now. We’ll make enquiries. Missing persons cases aren’t usually our area, but I’d say this is rather a remarkable coincidence.” He turned to Franza. “I think we’ve got enough here for now.”

As they were leaving, they opened the front door to find Lilli standing there. Franza recognized her on the spot.

“Lilli,” she said in astonishment. “Lilli!”

What a surprise! The little kleptomaniac from the shopping mall was Gertrud’s daughter.

“Yes,” Lilli said. “Yes.” She burst into tears. “I’d hoped that you
. . .
I really hoped!”

“Shhhh,” Franza said as she hugged Lilli. “It’s all right. It’s all right.”

Even as she said it, she thought what a stupid phrase it was.

Frau Brendler came to the door and drew Lilli to her. “There, there, little one, come to me! Let’s go in.”

“Yes,” said Lilli, wiping away her tears. More flowed in their place. Her grandmother drew her into the house and closed the door.

“What was that about?” asked Herz.

Franza waved an arm. “Nothing
. . .
nothing. We know each other, that’s all. Ran into her by chance a few days ago. She went to school with Ben.” She thought for a few seconds. “And this Hanna? What’s going on with her?”

As they drove back into town, he told her about the strange coincidence that had found him stopping by Hansen’s office when Hanna Umlauf’s husband had come to report her disappearance.

“There’s no such thing as coincidence,” said Franza, giving Herz a friendly pat on the shoulder. “What’s another word for it? Happenstance. Things happen for a reason.”

And things were beginning to happen. The tingling had begun.

12

The black birds fly over the fields for the first time this year.

Shadows in the gray morning light. Cries.

Every morning I compare the pictures—the pictures on the screen of my laptop with the pictures in my head. Until I finally feel the flight of the birds in my head. In my body, too, but more in my head. And then I can feel myself dissolving, becoming black, growing feathers, raising myself up into the endless expanse of the sky.

I continue taking photos. I have my subject now. The ravens. When they make their early-autumn flights in black flocks above my head, cawing and noisy, I photograph the expanse of the sky with the ravens as the centerpiece, circling, swerving, turning suddenly and changing direction.

I watch them with all the yearning in my head and my veins, and when their cries grow quieter and fade into the yellow-gray of the morning sky, I close my eyes and send myself after them, falling into the past.

All those years we hadn’t seen each other. Such a long time. I’m there, she’s here. We were sisters. As good as. But in fact
. . .

I didn’t know then. Never. Only now. I didn’t know she hated me at least as much as she loved me. I didn’t know that she suffered so much because of me.

Before, before Tonio, long before. I didn’t know that I tore her life apart, into the time before me and the time after me, and she had to get back at me when she had the chance.

I didn’t know that I was really never her sister. Life is compulsion. And rarely fair. But don’t we all know that?

The birds—at least the birds are beautiful.

13

No, she had not reappeared. Yes, she was still missing. A call to Peter Hansen at Missing Persons clarified that. Her husband had stopped by his office again the previous morning and they had opened a file. The wheels were set in motion, and now things were really moving.

“Is she the murderer?” Franza asked over a coffee in the office. “Or another victim?”

“Let’s hope neither.” Felix shoved the last bite of cookie into his mouth. They may not have had it down in black and white, only over the phone, but either way it was just as serious.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Franza picked up her purse and stood. “There’s nothing more we can do today.”

She took the photo that Hansen had quickly faxed over and studied the narrow face. It reminded her that she had wished for red hair herself when she was little. Not because she had found it particularly attractive at the time. No—because it would have been different. Made her stand out from the crowd. A counterpoint to the other girls.

The other photo. Gertrud. Also attractive, but in a different way. More reserved.

“When do you start to feel something like death approaching?” Franza stared at Gertrud’s face, into her brown eyes. “What do you think, Felix? Do you think you start to feel it’s time to go?”

He laid a hand on her shoulder, thinking it was typical of the questions she felt the need to ask.

“I don’t know any more than you do,” he said. “It’s not something you get to practice.”

No, it was not something you could practice: departing, dying. It was always new to those who did it, and the last thing they experienced. You could practice anything, all the things in the world, but not this.

“You’re right, smart guy,” Franza said with a smile. She looked at the photos again. “We need their histories. What else links them.”

“We do,” Herz said. “Herr and Frau Brendler will have to tell us more.”

They left the office. It was a mild September evening toward the end of the summer holidays. A small boy and a teenage girl had lost their mother. Two men were missing their wives. And yet
. . .
it was still a mild September evening.

It never ceased to amaze Franza that death never changed anything. That the days and the evenings were exactly as they had been before. Mild or stormy, cold or hot, rainy or sunny. She looked up at the sky, trying to see a slight darkening, a clouding over, even fleetingly—but there was nothing.

A young couple passed by on the other side of the street, their heads leaned in together.

“It could be Marlene,” Felix murmured, looking at them a little too eagerly and thinking of his eldest, about whom he knew so little.

“Yes,” said Franza. “She’s grown so pretty, your Lena. She takes after her mother.” She parried Felix’s raised eyebrows with a smile.

She thought of Ben, who had recently started writing song lyrics in the firm belief that he was going to make a career of it. Franza saw it as therapy for him and thanked God for Max’s lucrative profession and his patients’ perennial tooth decay.

The pair across the street were now kissing passionately. Franza and Felix watched them with a mixture of amusement and embarrassment. Franza thought about the early days of her relationship with Port. One summer’s day, they had met in town and it began to rain in buckets. They ran to the porch of a church, the air hot and close, their wet clothes flapping, and they’d looked into each other’s eyes, fallen into each other’s arms, and begun to kiss. As their passion reached its giddy heights, a group of teenagers strolled past with wolf whistles and wisecracks. Franza panicked. What if Ben had been among them and had seen her like that? In shock, she buried her face in Port’s shoulder, pressing herself against him as if to hide. She had sent up a quick prayer to heaven—not inappropriate, given their location.

She sighed and reached into her purse for a packet of cigarettes that she had bought three days ago and that was now half-empty. She lit up.

“Since when did you start smoking again? You’d stopped for so long. Three years, wasn’t it?” Felix shook his head in surprise.

“I don’t smoke,” Franza said. “Only now and then. And only a little.”

As she drew in the smoke, she imagined with a sigh how her lungs would be getting a little blacker.

“Since when?”

She shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Give me one,” he said. They smoked together in the twilight, puffing away in contented silence.

She knew. She knew very well by now. Since that night two weeks ago, when she realized.

She knew now that Max was not as mellow as he’d appeared for the last two years. On the contrary, he was jealous as a cat, which didn’t suit him. She’d known since that night two weeks ago: he was a lover who wanted her back in his arms, by his fireside, in his bed.

She’d known since she and Port had run into him and Max had put away a couple too many. She’d gone to meet Port after a performance at the theater. As usual, he’d wanted to stop at the bar around the corner—a meeting place for him and his fellow thespians. Who would have expected Max to be there?

But there he was, for whatever reason. He had a twenty-five-year-old on his arm and a glass of beer in his hand. From his eyes, Franza knew immediately it was not his first. He noticed Franza as soon as she opened the door, and, beaming at her a little drunkenly, he made his way toward her.

Shit,
she thought. She stopped short and felt Port stumble into her, then throw his arms around her and lay his head on her shoulder.
Shit,
she thought again, frowning and wondering what Max was doing there. Until now they’d always respected one another’s territory.

“Franza!” Max said in honeyed tones. “My beloved, deserting Franza! Come to me, let’s go home!”

He embraced her and laid his head on her other shoulder. Port looked up at Max in surprise and said, “What the hell
. . 
.
 
?” as they stared into each other’s eyes.

This was the first meeting of Franza’s husband and Franza’s boyfriend—and she was stuck between them like a piece of cheese in a sandwich, unable to move backward or forward. She was speechless and helpless—but only for a second. She extricated herself, grabbed hold of Max, and dragged him out the door. Port followed them.

“Is this
. . 
.
 
?” he asked in amazement.

“Yes, this is
. . .
” Franza said.

“Does he always booze like this?” asked Port.

“No,” said Franza. “No, he doesn’t always booze. In fact he never does! I don’t know what’s gotten into him!”

“You!”
Max snarled. “You’ve gotten into him, sweetheart! But sadly someone else has now gotten into
you
! Him! Him!”

And he lunged for Port, banging his hand against his chest, once, twice. Until Franza took hold of him, and pressed him against the wall.

“Ow,” he said. “Ouch! You’re hurting me!”

“Do I care?” she gasped, but loosened her grip slightly. “You’re being such an idiot!”

“Let him go,” said Port, getting hold of himself after Max’s sudden onslaught. “Put him in a taxi and come back in. I’m hungry!”

You’re an idiot, too,
thought Franza.
You’re a little egotistical idiot who thinks only of himself.

“I’ll take him home,” she said, caressing Port’s cheek affectionately. “I can’t leave him to his own devices in this state. You understand, don’t you?”

“Oh.” Port was clearly affronted. “What about me? So you can leave me to my own devices, can you? No, I don’t understand!”

“What a shame,” she said, a slight smile twitching at her lips. “I really thought you were a big, grown-up boy.”

She thought once again,
Yes, you’re an idiot, too. But a sweet one
.

“Huh,” said Port, now edgy and huffy. “How big and grown up is he?” He pointed at Max, who stood staring dimly ahead of him.

“He isn’t at all,” she said, eyeing her husband. “No, for some reason he isn’t today.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head.

Port was offended. “I’m glad you find it funny.”

Franza shook her head, inwardly rolling her eyes.

“Of course I don’t,” she said, grinning in spite of herself.

“So, I see now,” Port said in an injured tone. “Well, that’s it for today! You know full well what you’re missing, and I guess I’ve no need to be jealous, as he’s not likely to get it up tonight!”

Max overheard that and turned in a flash. “You!
You!
I’ll show you what I can get up! Come here!”

“Out of here!” snapped Franza, shoving her husband in the direction of a taxi. “Out of here! Enough now. We’re going.”

But Max was not to be put off. “My wife!” he yelled, waving his arms around. “Look here, this is my wife! With whom I’m no longer allowed marital relations. It’s no fun anymore! No fun! No fun! No fun!”

“Poor bastard,” the taxi driver said as they got in. “Why don’t you give him a quickie?”

Franza gasped indignantly.

“Give me a blow job,” Max wailed. “You haven’t done that for ages.”

“Oh, that’s harsh!” the taxi driver said with a grin. “Go ahead. I won’t look. Promise!”

That was the last straw for Franza. She waved her police ID in front of his eyes.

“One more word out of you and I’ll have you both arrested for sexual harassment. Then I’ll sit you together in a cell and he can blow you—blow his stinking boozy breath in your face.”

“Oops, I see you’re not one to be messed with! Understood, Inspector! So, where to?”

As they drove along the Danube, Max sniggered to himself, disturbing noises escaping him every now and then.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” the taxi driver said, “if he hurls all over my car—”

“Shut it,” said Franza. “Just drive!”

The driver obeyed as Franza contemplated telling him to stop so she could tip him, his taxi, and her husband all into the Danube. But she was a police officer, and police officers didn’t do things like that. Police officers brought people safely home, heaved them into bed, and tucked them in. Or at least they did when it came to cast-off husbands and the like.

As Franza finally closed Max’s door behind her, she was torn between stopping for a bottle of wine or a pack of cigarettes. She went for the wine
and
a pack of cigarettes, and took them to Sonja’s.

The next day, Max came into Franza’s office full of remorse. He raised his hand in careful greeting to her colleagues and very carefully, as if the slightest movement would cause his head to explode, laid a bouquet of white roses on Franza’s desk. He left as quietly as he had come, white faced and nearly transparent.

“What was all that about?” Felix asked, dumbfounded, following Max with his eyes. “What have you done to your husband?”

“Nothing,” said Franza with a grin. “I don’t believe he’s feeling particularly well.”

“Well, if I didn’t know him so well, I’d say he was hungover. Is that possible?”

He looked knowingly at Franza, who smiled and said nothing.

Two days later, Port came out with the Vienna business.