Tretjak (6 page)

It was early afternoon, the sun was shining, and Tretjak was sitting at a table outside the café on St-Anna-Platz with an espresso in front of him. Fiona Neustadt pushed her bicycle next to the table, raised it on its stand and sat down opposite him. The clock of the big church struck two. And then the little one followed suit: two o'clock. The tax inspector was dead on time. She was wearing a Sixties-style knee-length white dress with black polka-dots and a denim jacket. Her feet were clad in navy blue canvas shoes and her hair was tied back in a ponytail.

‘Summer must have arrived at the Inland Revenue,' he quipped. She laughed. ‘And it hasn't for the management consultant? Or I beg your pardon...' she raised one eyebrow mockingly, ‘for the “personal management and economic consultant”. You can buy me a cup of coffee. Cappuccino, please.' She carried with her one of those ugly shoulder bags made from durable plastic and took from it one of Tretjak's ledgers which she had taken with her after the first meeting. She had been a little surprised that he was using such an old-fashioned way of keeping his books. Tretjak's cashbooks were all black A4 notebooks and followed a simple principle: on the left-hand side all the monies coming in were noted down by hand, on the right were all the expenses, and at the bottom of each page the figures in both columns were added up. These sums were carried over to the next page as the opening balances. Each entry carried the name of the client and key words such as
ticket Rome or fee part payment
. The receipts for each of the entries were filed in separate folders, which Tretjak, in preparation for the meeting, had lined up on the table in the kitchen.

The ledger Fiona Neustadt now opened was peppered with yellow post-it notes. Tretjak saw that each had something written on it; most of the sentences ending with a question mark. Fiona Neustadt had angular, almost male handwriting – at least that was his impression.

‘You see,' she said, ‘a lot of work lies ahead of us. But don't worry too much: it looks worse than it is. Most of the questions are quite harmless, sometimes I think I know the answers already and just need confirmation.'

That was how the afternoon they spent together started, with a coffee in the sun. That morning, while driving to his appointment at the airport, Tretjak had caught himself thinking that he was actually looking forward to his meeting with the tax inspector. In contrast to other people he was not worried in the least about the inspection of his books. This much had always been clear: his business was shady, legally shady, morally shady; it thrived on discretion, on action behind the scenes, hidden from view – so he couldn't afford a less than completely transparent accounting system on top of that. In his job he encountered many enemies, always new ones, always different ones. It was important to identify and to know them. Unnecessary ones should be avoided. With the Inland Revenue it was very simple: you had to pay on time. And that's what he did. Therefore he could just enjoy the company of this interesting woman. Fiona Neustadt was intelligent and good-looking – and
simpatico
. He could let her take his mind off the disturbing thoughts which kept preying on his mind. Did Kerkhoff's murder have anything to do with him? What was going on with his cleaning lady? What, and more importantly who, was behind all this? Why on earth had he given the wrong answer to the inspector? When he called Maler that morning to correct himself, he immediately realised that the guy had already found out about his connection to the brain expert. He seemed alert and suspicious, and would start sifting through Tretjak's business. And the police were nothing like the Inland Revenue.

When Tretjak opened the door to his apartment and let Ms Neustadt enter in front of him, he noticed her perfume. The scent of grapefruit, he thought. Or was it lime? Later, when they were sitting at the kitchen table working, he noticed that she was not only wearing a fine old IWC Swiss watch, the classic
Ingenieur
model, on her left wrist, but also one of those colourful, cheap fabric bands connected with a wish which one wore until it fell off by itself and the wish came true. That was new, and Tretjak asked himself what Fiona Neustadt might have wished.

Following the chime of the church clock striking every quarter of an hour, they worked through the yellow notes. Some questions dealt with expenses which were not associated with one particular client. Tretjak thought of the member of parliament and explained to Fiona Neustadt that only about one fifth of all the people who contacted him actually become clients. There were also yellow post-it notes next to entries in the account book where Tretjak had written
received in cash. Fee EURO 75,000 received in cash. Fee, first down payment, EURO 50,000 received in cash
. And another time even
EURO 500,000 received in cash
.

Tretjak presented Ms Neustadt with a copy of a receipt made out by him for each of these entries, the corresponding pay-in slip from the bank, and the correct listing of the amount in his income tax returns. What was not evident in these cases were the names of the clients – on the receipt copies the names were obscured. It was about this point Tretjak had expected more of an argument with the tax inspector. For this he would have had a well-rehearsed legal disposition ready and waiting, which protected his clients' anonymity. But Fiona Neustadt only casually remarked: ‘Well, I guess we can see it as some kind of medical confidentiality.' She only compared the figures, and checked whether the entries tallied with the written receipts. For this she had donned a pair of black-rimmed spectacles over whose rims she occasionally shot him a glance. There were periods when they sat there without uttering a word, with only her pen moving systematically from column to column. Once Tretjak brewed them a fresh pot of tea, twice he got up to fetch them a fresh bottle of water from the fridge. The two pieces of American cheesecake, which he had bought at the café before they went up, stood untouched on the kitchen counter.

Sitting there in his kitchen, Tretjak slowly started to feel something, which surprised him: he envied this young woman. A real job, a regular working day with a bicycle and a shoulder bag, and with what he guessed was a small apartment. And with wishes you could tie around your wrist.

 

Tretjak had always seen his extraordinary memory as a gift: it had served him well. Today, now, doing this work, it seemed to take his breath away. Each entry in his books which they discussed conjured up images, stories and destinies in his mind's eye, lines of people appeared, long-passed situations played out again. While the tax inspector audited the past three years of his life from a strictly accounting perspective, he was sitting in his kitchen thrown back into the mess of human emotions and behavioural patterns. He suddenly felt unwell, felt that his pulse had started racing, that the palms of his hands had become clammy. For a short moment he thought about interrupting the appointment. Later he would think back to that moment and how things would have panned out if he had done just that. But instead he apologised and went to the bathroom. He took two Tavor and splashed cold water onto his face.

When he returned to the kitchen, Fiona Neustadt asked: ‘Are you alright? You look a bit pale.'

‘Yes, everything is fine,' he answered.

She closed the account book lying in front of her on the table. ‘May I ask you a personal question?'

‘Sure.'

She took off her glasses, leant forward, with her elbows on the table and her head resting on her cupped hands, and looked directly at Tretjak. ‘I know the books of management consultants,' she said. ‘I know the books of investment advisors and those of enterprise coaches... they all look different. There include project forecasts, project schedules, cost calculations. There are reverse remuneration, profit shares...' She paused. ‘What exactly is your job, Mr Tretjak? For what kind of consulting are people willing to pay these kinds of sums?'

He almost told her: this has nothing to do with consulting. I am not advising my clients what they should do. I do it for them. I send them away, get them to leave their lives, and for a while step into their shoes. Only when everything is fixed do they return. Instead he said: ‘Where did you get this very beautiful watch?'

She smiled, lifted her wrist up and looked at the watch. ‘From my grandfather,' she said, ‘I had always admired it, from when I was little. When I turned eighteen, he gave it to me. And one year later he died.'

She did not say: you didn't answer my question. She did not even say: I understand, you can't talk about that. She simply picked up the next accounts book, opened it, put on her glasses and said: ‘Each month you transfer 2,000 euros into the account of a church in Niederbayern. That is done by standing order. One could assume that this is a donation, but you have not applied for tax relief for it.'

Tretjak felt the tablets working as he became calmer. ‘I want to support the priest in that community. He does a great job. I don't want him to think that I am doing it just because it is tax deductable.'

She looked at him: ‘Are you some kind of Robin Hood?'

The melodic tone of the doorbell chimed. The police would later record the time to have been 17.55.

‘I have a delivery for Mr Tretjak,' the voice on the intercom said. A few seconds later the man connected with the voice was standing at the front door. He wore the orange jacket of a courier firm and was carrying a giant bunch of flowers in his hands, wrapped in see-through plastic. It was a distinctive bunch, exclusively roses, but in different colours. ‘I am supposed to deliver this to Mr Tretjak personally,' said the guy. ‘And this message.'

Tretjak took the flowers and a little white envelope. Deep in thought, he closed the door.

‘Oh,' said Fiona Neustadt when he came back into the kitchen with the flowers, ‘you must have left a good impression with somebody. And it seems not to have been a man.'

Tretjak saw that she was packing up her shoulder bag and making a move, wrapping up the appointment. He placed the flowers in the sink, closed the drain and turned on the tap. Still standing, he opened the envelope. It contained a card, on it a single, typed sentence:
shrouds are white
. Tretjak observed the water filling the sink. When its surface drew level with the edge, he absent-mindedly closed the tap. The church bells chimed six o'clock.

Only then did he notice Fiona Neustadt standing and ready to leave, with her bag slung over her shoulder and her jacket buttoned up, looking rather sheepish as though she had just witnessed an intimate moment. ‘I'd better be going now,' she said. ‘We could speak on the phone about another appointment.'

Tretjak nodded silently. He would have to inform the inspector.
Shrouds are white
... What the hell was going on here?

‘I have written down another few questions for you... They are lying on the table,' Fiona Neustadt said and turned towards the hallway to go. He heard her footsteps approach the front door.

‘Wait,' he said, and followed her.

She stopped, turned towards him, her hand already on the doorknob.

‘Have you got any plans for tonight? Do you have a date or something?' Tretjak asked.

There was an astonished look on her face. The look of a tax inspector who is asking herself whether somebody is overstepping the line.

‘I'm sorry,' Tretjak said. ‘I didn't want to... I just wanted to show you something.'

Now she smiled. ‘What did you want to show me?'

‘Forget it,' Tretjak said.

‘I'm meeting a girlfriend to play badminton at 7pm,' she said. ‘But afterwards I'm free.'

Tretjak hesitated another moment, but then he smiled as well. ‘Then you can exhaust yourself for a really long time,' he said. ‘Because what I want to show you can be seen only when it is pitch dark.'

 

Bolanzo, Italy, 5pm

It was exceptionally hot for late spring. Maria left her apartment directly over the ice cream parlour on Waltherplatz just after 5pm. She had put on her blue woollen jacket and on top of that the navy apron. A bit too warm, but she did not mind. On foot it would take her eight minutes to get to the hotel.

The little Maria. There must have been a time when she had been pretty. But as a woman of 83 years, this was no longer a distinguishing characteristic, especially not for a woman like the little, old Maria, who had never known any affairs of the heart. No, she always said, I didn't have time for any of that. She had been married to the hotel, for all these decades. Married to the hotel Zum Blauen Mondschein in Bolzano, one of the best in town. The owner of the hotel had changed a few times, yet standards had remained the same. Breakfast was served in the beautiful garden, as was lunch and dinner. From the rooms you could look down to the garden, and from the garden up to the windows of the rooms, framed by green shutters.

Maria had been a chambermaid at the Blauen Mondschein for almost 70 years and had seen the various owners come and go. When it had become known that the new proprietor had toyed with the idea of retiring Maria, the Mayor of Bolzano had written a letter. Bolzano was a complicated town, it had said, a little bit of Austria, a little bit of Italy; living together was a somewhat fragile, sensitive affair. One was proud of the Blauen Mondschein it said, especially because the hotel had always placed a special emphasis on tradition. And, as the mayor put it, part of that tradition was Maria Unterganzner. Italians as well as Austrians could not envisage the hotel without her. He was politely asked to consider that fact.

Maria was very slender and over the years she became more and more slender, which gave the impression that a mere puff of air could knock her down. But that impression was wrong. Maria was never sick, not even for a day. She sometimes had a fever and suffered extreme pains in her joints, but she never took time off because of it. She had a soft voice and seemed warm-hearted. Those who knew her better also knew that she did not show deep emotions. In fact, nothing daunted her, neither the big nor the small calamities. Whatever happened in the hotel over the decades, Maria would show up for work the next day.