The Sinner (46 page)

Professor Burthe had simmered down by now He leaned back
in his chair and eyed Grovian thoughtfully. "What makes you so
certain?" he asked. "Fran Bender's statements, or do you have
proof?"

Grovian swore under his breath. All he had was words. A few
here, a few there. Horst Cremer, Melanie Adigar, Johnny Guitar
... It wasn't even certain that Hans Bockel and Johnny Guitar
were one and the same person, and Bockel was his only link with
Frankenberg. No attorney could cite "Tiger's Song" as an argument
in court.

"You feel sorry for the woman," the professor said when he
didn't answer. The words hung in the air like an incontrovertible
statement of fact. "You want to help her and are trying to find a
rational explanation. You have a daughter, don't you? How old is
she, Herr Grovian?"

When Grovian still didn't reply, Burthe nodded to himself. In
the same infuriatingly sympathetic tone of voice, he went on: "I've
listened to all the tapes, not just the last one, so I can understand
your emotional involvement. A young woman whose only wish
was to lead a normal life. So helpless, so desperate. Destroyed
by circumstances beyond her control, she pleads for sympathy.
Completely beside herself, she utters a cry for help and collapses.
You were alone with her when it happened, weren't you? Cora
Bender's cry for help was addressed to you alone. You not only
personified her father at that moment, you felt like him too. The
same scene recurred earlier today. Every father wants to believe his
daughter, Herr Grovian. Bear that in mind and ask yourself how
you would assess your behaviour had a colleague engaged in it."

Grovian involuntarily gritted his teeth. "I'm not here to be
psychoanalysed," he said. "I've merely been trying to clarify some
new information."

Burthe nodded thoughtfully. `And Fran Bender was able to
confirm it?"

"Yes, in a way."

The professor gave another thoughtful nod. He didn't enquire
into the nature of this new information. "She'll confirm anything, Herr Grovian - anything and everything that establishes a
connection between herself and Georg Frankenberg. She herself
is seeking a rational explanation. His death had a liberating effect
on her, and she's searching for the reason, trying desperately to
incorporate him in her life and supply a demonstrable motive. To
achieve that, she even sits him on a sofa in the role of her pimp."

Grovian's attempt to say something was silenced by another
gesture. "I'll try to explain something to you, and I very much
hope you'll finally grasp where your work and commitment end
and mine begin. Let's forget about Georg Frankenberg and the
cellar. Fran Bender's trauma has a name: Magdalena."

To Professor Burthe it was simple: Georg Frankenberg was
only a chance victim. His fate could have been that of any man
accompanied by a woman with something about her that reminded
the killer of her sister. Cora Bender couldn't have brought herself
to kill the woman who had ruined her life a second time. In her
distress, which was very great, she had attacked the man. His death
killed two birds with one stone. She had sent Magdalena her heart's
desire, a good-looking man. What was more, Frankenberg's wife,
deputizing for Magdalena, had pushed her hand away and thereby
signalled that she no longer needed any help. Cora Bender was
free at last - so free that even the certainty of life imprisonment
had failed to shake her resolve. As she saw it, she deserved to be
punished.

Grovian listened to this itemized account without expression. A
life like a criminal record: mendacity, deceit, theft, drugs and, to
crown it all, a murder. No, not Georg Frankenberg; he was supposed
to forget all about him. The victim's name was Magdalena!

Professor Burthe didn't know whether Cora Bender had killed
her sister with malice aforethought because she regarded her as the
destroyer of herself - and not only of herself because her father,
whom she worshipped, had also been destroyed - or whether she
had done it in a drug-induced rage. The fact remained, the ribs
that had snapped were Magdalena's.

Cora's words came back to Grovian: "I always kept one hand
on her chest . . ." That was enough for him. You quacks, he thought, unaware that he had adopted her own way of thinking.
Listen to you for half an hour, and you'll end up believing in
Santa Claus.

But not him! He had assembled some facts. "I'll make you a
suggestion," he said, getting to his feet. "You do your work, and I'll
do mine. Put all that in your report, and I'll demolish it in three
sentences." Professor Burthe expressed a wish to hear the three
sentences right away. Grovian listed his facts. First, Cora had been
absent from home for three months when her sister died. She was
lying in some private clinic with a fractured skull and hadn't been
discharged until November. Secondly, prostitution after her sister's
death as a form of atonement, coupled with a subconscious desire
for an incestuous relationship with her father. Prettily phrased, that.
He could never have put it so well. Unfortunately, however, there
hadn't been time. No one prostituted themselves with a fractured
skull. That apart, there hadn't been any subconscious desire or
idolized father.

"You should consult the Bible, Professor Burthe. It's all down
there. The Bible keeps trying to tell us the truth in its own way.
Magdalena was the whore."

He shook his head and laughed. "Magdalena did the spadework,
and they finished her off in the cellar. If you don't believe me, try
experimenting with a lighting console or play her `Tiger's Song'.
That was the trigger, not Frankenberg's wife, I'll bet you anything
you like. She herself said it was the tune. If you try it, though,
make sure there's someone else with you for safety's sake. You've
got some tough male nurses here."

He made slowly for the door and played his last trump card.
`And sometime ask Frau Bender how many drops of water a junkie
scoops out of the toilet to lend his fix the requisite consistency."

Professor Burthe wrinkled his brow "I'm not sure I ..."

Grovian's hand was already on the door handle. "You heard
me. Give Frau Bender a junkie's works and inspect every square
centimetre of her body. If you find even one scar indicative of
sadomasochistic practices, I'll turn in my badge. But I won't
have to."

He opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. "Bear
that tune in mind, Professor. I didn't dare play it to her, I'm afraid,
but I'll make up for lost time the next chance I get. My investigative
methods may have landed Frau Bender in this place, but they'll get
her out again. That's a promise, Professor."

Grovian had seldom felt so angry as when he left the district
hospital. Or so helpless. He'd worked his way up the police service
without a university degree. How, if it came to the pinch, could he
hope to rebut the findings of an eminent professor? He couldn't
commission a second opinion.

He drove to Hiirth and consulted a phone book. There were two
numbers listed under the name Eberhard Brauning, one professional
and one private. Grovian dialled the former. Herr Brauning wasn't
available, unfortunately, and his courteous receptionist couldn't
arrange an appointment until tomorrow at the earliest. However, a
little pressure persuaded her to put Grovian through after all.

Eberhard Brauning was startled when Grovian stated his name
and urgent business. 'Ali yes," he said, "the chief." He chuckled,
then turned businesslike. "I was going to call you anyway in the
next few days. There are a few points that need clarifying."

"Only a few?" Grovian gave a mirthless laugh. "I'd much
appreciate it if you could spare me a little of your time. I realize
you're a busy man, but my own time is in short supply. I won't have
any at all for the next few days, and the matter's urgent."

That was putting it mildly. From the way Burthe had spoken, it
sounded as if his work was drawing to a close. Once his confounded
report was with the DA . . . Burthe's assertions were buzzing
through his head like a swarm of bees. It could have happened to
any man accompanied by a woman ...

That wasn't altogether true. At all events, he himself hadn't been
accompanied by a woman when she struck him. Grovian could
still hear her counting out the blows. Unaware that Brauning was
hesitating, he didn't return to the present until a long, drawn-out "Well . . ." came down the line. "Looking at my desk diary, I see ..."
Brauning didn't disclose what he saw Instead, lie asked: "Would
this evening suit you? Do you have my home address?"

"Yes."

"Good. Shall we say eight o'clock?"

"Can't you make it a bit sooner?" It wasn't even four, and he
didn't know how he would while away the afternoon. Until he'd
got this off his chest, he couldn't concentrate on anything else.
"How about six?" They compromised on seven.

That settled, he brewed himself some coffee. While drinking his
first cup he dipped into the tapes again. "I only wanted to lead a
normal life, can you understand that?" And: "Gereon shouldn't
have done that to me." Oral sex, he thought, Magdalena's dream.
That was why she'd freaked out when her husband tried it. In a
way, that explained everything.

Over his second cup he noted down her description of the cellar
as far as he recalled it. The reconstruction was excellent. He could
see it in front of him. The bottles on the shelf with the mirror behind
them. In front of them, a pudgy little man sprinkling white powder
on the back of his hand, licking it off and biting into a lemon.
Tequila, he thought. Tequila, coke and "my turn". Her own desire
rebounded on her? What nonsense! All the same, he had Margret
Rosch's statement about the nightmares Cora had suffered from at
a time when everything was still fresh in her mind.

He wondered whether she had regained consciousness and had
found the way back on her own, or whether she was cursing him
again for having left her in the cellar despite his promise.

His gloomy deliberations were interrupted by Werner Hoss,
who came in with a few items of news. There was still no clue to
Ottmar Denner's whereabouts, and Hans Bockel was still just a
name. They'd had no luck with the Hamburg hospitals, but Ute
Frankenberg had been discharged.

Wonderful! He must definitely have a word with her. Perhaps
Frankie had told her where he and his friends had made music
together. He pocketed one of the interrogation tapes and set off
for Cologne.

He got there almost on the stroke of seven. Eberhard Brauning's
home address was an oldish but very well maintained apartment
house with an ornate, freshly painted facade. He rang the bell, and
the electrically operated door clicked open.

The lobby was dim and agreeably cool, the floor tiled in black
and white. Her words came back to him: "White flagstones with
little green squares between them ..." They simply had to find the
house in question.

There was a lift, but he decided to use the stairs. Brauning's
apartment was on the second floor. Big old rooms with high ceilings
and tall windows, choice antique furniture interspersed with a
few luxuriant pot plants. All the doors to the hallway stood open,
bathing the apartment in the subdued light of early evening.

Cora Bender's attorney greeted him at the door. The impression
he made was tense rather than diffident. He ushered Grovian
across the spacious hallway and into the living room. "I hope
you don't mind," lie said, "but I'd like my mother to sit in on our
conversation."

Hell, thought Grovian. Aloud, he said: "Not at all." He saw her
as soon as he entered the room, a distinguished-looking old lady
with an alert expression and a neatly cut helmet of silver-grey hair.
She probably goes to the hairdresser twice a week, he thought, and
wondered if Cora Bender had used the shampoo he'd brought her.

Grovian said a polite good evening and returned her firm
handshake. The heavy gold ring on her right hand was set with a
ruby the size of a thumbnail, but all he could see in his mind's eye
was Cora Bender's stringy hair. Why hadn't she washed it yet? Had
she written herself off so completely? Perverted clients! She must
realize that a statement like that would bar her way back for good
and all. Her husband wasn't the type to come to terms with it.

Then he was sitting in an armchair with candy-striped upholstery.
Beside him, on a little knee-high table with barley-sugar legs and
an inlaid top, was a dainty china cup. The decaffeinated coffee was
just the right colour. He didn't know where to begin.

Robin Hood, he thought wryly. Avenger of the disinherited and
protector of widows and orphans. And of the legally incapacitated! Go on, Robin, make it clear to this youngster what his client needs:
a sensible expert who won't brand her on the forehead. She needs
a woman to talk to. She can't trust an older man - she might see
her father in him - but a woman ... Then he visualized Elsbeth
Rosch sitting at the kitchen table and shook his head. It was all
nonsense.