The Stolen (25 page)

There was a tone in Christoph's voice Matthias had never heard. It was fear, he suddenly realised. Christoph was terrified.

I don't scare so easily, Matthias told himself. I may be the result of evil but I refuse to be an instrument of evil. His humanist beliefs, the notion that every individual was redeemable with the right education, the right nurturing – that no one was ever born evil – now seemed hopelessly idealistic. Perhaps he, like his real father, was capable of being seduced by an extreme belief system, of an emotional polarisation that could fatally exclude empathy. It was a horrifying but sobering possibility.

He switched the tape off then placed the machine in his safe. Outside an owl hooted, the stillness of the night mocking Matthias's own turbulent emotions. Tomorrow, he decided, he would take the tape in to police headquarters and hand the confession over to Detective Klauser.

The Kantonspolizei headquarters was not nearly as intimidating as Matthias had imagined. Situated on the Kasernenstrasse with the riverbed in the distance, there was something almost quaint and provincial about the red brick arches over each double window that matched the flat red roof. It looked more like a rural town hall than a city police headquarters. But now that he was inside the building he was more uneasy. The young clerk behind the glass window had glanced at him strangely when he mentioned that he was there to speak with Detective Helmut Klauser, and had asked Matthias to wait while he made a call upstairs to Klauser's office – or at least that was what Matthias had assumed, but then he overheard the clerk asking to speak to Johann Engels' assistant.

What is going on? Why hasn't he phoned Klauser directly?
Matthias thought, contemplating a quick exit. He was just about to turn back towards the rotating doors when a young man in a suit stepped out of the old elevator and came towards him. He wasn't smiling.

‘Herr Matthias von Holindt?'

Matthias nodded, the detective's bureaucratic manner an immediate irritation. ‘I'm here to speak to Inspector Klauser directly. I doubt that you could possibly help me,' he said firmly.

‘And I really doubt Inspector Klauser would be able to help you more than I can, knowing where he is now. If you come with me, I will explain.'

He led Matthias into the lift, its intimate space an unexpected awkward reality.

‘How is your father, Herr von Holindt?' the young bureaucrat asked a little too brightly.

Matthias glanced over, surprised at the personal question. The detective attempted a smile. ‘I've met him on several occasions through Chief Inspector Engels – he is a very forceful old gentleman, but he's always been kind to me.'

‘You are the assistant of the chief inspector?' Matthias failed to keep the dislike out of his voice – he had the strong sense he was being railroaded and he didn't appreciate the tactic.

‘I am, but I am also a detective in my own right.'

‘I see. Herr… ?'

‘Voost.'

‘Herr Voost, my father's health has stabilised, you will be glad to hear. But I'm not here to exchange pleasantries. I came specifically to talk to Detective Klauser.'

The young detective didn't answer; instead he glanced at his wristwatch nervously. Just then the lift shuddered to a halt and the steel doors slid open.

‘Please, Inspector Engels is waiting for you,' Voost said, ushering him out.

 

Chief Inspector Engels studied Matthias with a chillingly vacant gaze.

Even seated, Matthias was painfully aware that he was almost a foot taller than the inspector. Short men made Matthias wary – he'd learned many had a lot to prove to tall men like himself; he'd also learned that often such motivation had got them into powerful places. He'd never warmed to Engels, one of Christoph's lackeys. The man's office was noticeably devoid of personal objects except for a small aquarium on a shelf in which an unhappy-looking goldfish swam round and round a buxom plastic mermaid, and there was nothing on the desk in front of him except an expensive leather writing pad and an equally expensive-looking gold pen.

‘Cigarette?' The inspector held out a packet.

‘No thanks, ex-smoker.' Suddenly Matthias was horribly aware of the tape recorder in his briefcase. Did Engels know why he was there? Had Christoph contacted him?

‘My sympathies. You know it's a great shame we've never got to know each other better, Herr Professor, given how close I am to your father. Wonderful birthday party by the way – pity about that unfortunate outburst from your daughter; a real firebrand that one.'

‘She'll settle down.' Matthias tried to control his anger at Engels' supercilious tone.

‘And how is Herr von Holindt bearing up?'

‘Frail. He's finally handed control over to Wim Jollak. I'm off the board now. But you probably know that,' Matthias said carefully, wondering why Engels was stalling. Had Inspector Klauser been fired?

‘Indeed. There was a short piece about it in
Die Welt
. You are fortunate, Herr Professor, to come from such a dynasty. Why throw it all away? I wonder.'

‘But then, it's the job of a detective to wonder, isn't it?'

‘So, my assistant tells me you are here to speak to Detective Klauser? Is this a spontaneous visit?'

‘Actually it is, but he had indicated there wouldn't be an issue if I just dropped in without calling first.'

‘Yes, that sounds like Klauser – a little unconventional. Unfortunately you've come a day late. Klauser was murdered last night.'

Matthias sat back in shock, his mind reeling.

‘How?' he finally managed to say.

‘A sordid little event at a brothel – the man really did have some unsavoury habits. Actually we're not even sure if it was murder, or merely a sex act gone wrong. Klauser was an unhappy individual – he'd gone through an acrimonious divorce a few years earlier and then there was this thing a few days ago with his cat.'

‘His cat?'

‘Apparently it was the victim of some unfortunate vandalism. Klauser was very fond of the animal, so suicide is not out of the question.'

‘How did he die?'

‘Strangulation during an act of bondage, so it is possible he strangled himself to heighten sensation. We see a lot of that, especially just after Christmas.' Engels' face was rigid, his eyes empty of emotion.

Incredulous, Matthias studied the man before him; there was not a glint of irony about the delivery of this patently absurd statement, and that in itself was unsettling. Christoph's words came back into his mind – there was no doubt that Klauser had asked too many questions. Had whoever was implicated in the investigation wanted him silenced? And if they could silence a prominent detective with such impunity they were powerful indeed.

Chief Inspector Engels stubbed out his cigarette, crushing it down as if grinding Klauser's very head into the ground.

‘But perhaps I can assist you?' he asked.

Matthias rose to his feet, swept up with an overwhelming desire just to get out of the building.

‘Thank you, but it's really not that important. And please pass on my condolences to the detective's family. This is tragic news.'

‘Indeed.' Engels also stood. ‘Would you like my assistant to escort you out?'

‘No, no, I can make my own way.'

Matthias hurried out of the office, the briefcase with Christoph's taped confession securely held under one arm.

The lift doors were just closing when a young man, tall, blond and a little ungainly with astoundingly big ears, stepped in just in time. As soon as the lift was moving he reached across and jammed a matchstick between the controls. The elevator shuddered to a stop between two floors and he swung round to Matthias.

‘We have about four minutes before we reach the ground floor, Herr Professor.' The young detective pointed to the ceiling. ‘No cameras in here.' He handed Matthias his card. ‘I was Klauser's partner, Detective Timo Meinholt. They're saying he killed himself, that it was some dumb sex act gone wrong, and that's bullshit. Helmut was a lot of things, but he wasn't suicidal – they murdered him.'

‘Who are “they”?' Matthias asked, noticing the man's forehead was now beading with sweat.

‘I can't be sure, but this case he was working on – the dead gypsy on Altestrasse – that was a lead to something far, far bigger. Your father is involved, but you know that, don't you?'

‘Who else?'

‘An arms dealer called Janus Zellweger, probably a few others. With someone like that Klauser didn't stand a chance. But I know he thought you did; why do you think that was?' Timo Meinholt kept his voice down.

‘Maybe because I don't have to answer to pricks like Johann Engels.'

‘Or maybe because he thought they wouldn't dare silence an untouchable like yourself.'

‘I hope to hell he was right.'

‘There's something else: a close friend of Klauser's, the journalist Dieter Schwitters, was found hanging in his office last night. Another theoretical suicide. Herr Professor, I have a young wife and child; I love my job and I love my life, but I also know what's right and what's plain evil. Any help you want you let me know.'

Matthias nodded and Timo pulled the matchstick out of the lift controls.

‘The funeral's tomorrow. No autopsy – Engels insisted. Didn't want the media coverage. They want to bury him like he didn't exist at all.' The detective's voice cracked with emotion.

The lift reached the ground floor and the doors slid open.

‘
Viel Glück
,' Timo murmured as Matthias stepped out.

 

 

Jannick glanced over at the envelope that had been lying on Matthias's desk since that morning. It looked official but there was no stamped address on the back and it was impossible to see through. It was irritating – after all, Destin had said he was interested in all of Matthias's activities. The door opened and Matthias hung his coat and scarf up then turned to his colleague.

‘So how's it all going?'

Jannick made a big play of looking up from his desk.

‘I've almost finished preparation for the next experiment. We'll run the first tests tomorrow. You're in late – trouble at home?'

‘Not exactly,' Matthias said cryptically. He was aware of a growing gulf between him and the Dane – an undercurrent of professional resentment that seemed to have worsened since the press conference – and he was finding it harder to trust his colleague. He glanced over at his desk. He knew immediately the metal desk calendar had been moved and a framed photograph of Marie and Liliane was in the wrong place.

‘Has someone else been in here?' he asked Jannick.

The Dane paused. Destin had visited a few days earlier and to Jannick everything appeared to be in exactly the same place, but then he didn't have the same relationship to inanimate objects as Matthias, who, he knew, was acutely aware of the mathematical and physical dimension of the space between objects.

‘No, just me,' he lied, ‘but maybe there's a new cleaner.'

Matthias frowned and picked up the thick envelope that was propped up on his typewriter. ‘When did this arrive?'

‘This morning. Anything interesting?' Feigning a polite indifference, Jannick looked over.

With a lurch of his stomach, Matthias recognised Klauser's distinctive scrawl.

‘Perhaps.' He picked up the envelope and left the office. After checking the corridor was empty he stepped into a supply cupboard and locked the door behind him. Sitting on a wooden crate, he carefully slit the envelope open. Inside was another sealed A4 envelope and drawn on the front of this in pencil were the four symbols for Water, Earth, Fire and Air. Underneath was written
in case of sudden accident
in the detective's handwriting. Matthias felt a shiver go through him – had Klauser had a premonition of his own murder?

Inside was a newspaper clipping on the entrepreneur Janus Zellweger and copies of four typed lists, each with its own swastika stamp on the top. With growing horror Matthias scanned the numbered plunder, each item detailed by the ethnic group from which it had been ‘confiscated', the physical description of the actual object and then finally its destination. Where had Klauser found the list? And what was the association with Zellweger, and why the symbols?

Matthias leaned down to read the article about Zellweger, who embodied everything Matthias loathed about the arms industry: immoral, charismatic with a cavalier attitude towards other human beings. He was also famous for having no moral qualms about his clients, openly exporting to dictators and democracies alike. Obviously Klauser had linked the weapons manufacturer with the missing gold, but how?

And then there was the book of clocks that Klauser had discovered hidden in the priest's mattress, also once Nazi property. The clocks featured in the book represented the four elements, the very same book Christoph had told Matthias indicated the village where Ulrich Vosshoffner now lived as Pieter Schmidt.

The book, the article about Zellweger and the list of the plunder were all linked, but how? One obvious connection was the repeated motif of the elements, seen both in the book of clocks and inscribed on the clocks themselves – Christoph's prize possessions. Matthias looked back at the photographs and suddenly he saw the hidden elements on each individual list, cleverly constructed through the gaps between the typed words. But why would a list of illegal plunder be marked in such a fashion? And what about the statuette? He began looking for the entry. To his intense excitement he found it, the same entry at the bottom of each list: a description of an unusual statuette taken in 1943 in the Ukraine from a group of Kalderash. Drawn beside the entry was a small hourglass. Symbolising what… time? Matthias peered closer; he had seen it before, but where? Then he remembered: it had appeared under the description of eighteenth-century clock-maker Pieter Schmidt – it had been the centrepiece of the shield of the Watchmakers' Guild of Saxony – the very same Pieter Schmidt Ulrich Vosshoffner had based his new identity on. Matthias's mouth dried. It was imperative he found his blood father – he would be one of the last alive who would be able to answer the questions the list raised. Was it possible the symbols indicated the precise location where the statuette and plunder was hidden? Perhaps, but he felt sure there was something else that tied the elements to the holy relic, a theme that was more mystical, given the Third Reich's obsession with both power and superstition.