Black Ice (17 page)

Ah, those were the days. Scholten looked at the sheep's head. Suddenly he smelled the unmistakable
odour of the ironmonger's shop again, the sharp and acrid smell of the ironware, the sweetish grease, the musty smell of the dust on the wooden floor and the shelves. Even at midday it was dim at the back of the long narrow shop.

It was there, in the faint light from the window looking out on the yard, that young Jupp went to find curtain runners for the daughter of the florist next door. She came up behind him, stood close and looked at him bright-eyed. With sudden daring, young Jupp had felt under her skirt. She slapped his face and ran off, but she was back ten minutes later to fetch the curtain runners. Luckily Uncle Franz hadn't realized why she ran away. Or perhaps he was only pretending not to. “Off her head, that silly girl!”

Yes. Young Jupp had found it hard to leave the shop. Of course he was very proud of his Commercial Training certificate. The eagle with the swastika on top of it, and all those signatures below. But he didn't want to do his Reich Labour Service, he'd rather have stayed in the shop with Uncle Franz.

It was shit. And no sooner was he through with Labour Service than they called him up into the Engineers. Stationed first in Giessen. Then Breslau. And then off to Russia. He was nineteen years old, good heavens, and off to Russia. Until 1947. Six years exactly. He'd come back on 22 June 1947. And he had in fact been very lucky. Healthy enough on the whole, just some water on the legs.

He never saw Uncle Franz again. Uncle Franz burned to death with Aunt Gertrud in 1942 when the cellar behind the building was buried under rubble in an air raid, and the rafters they'd used to support the ceiling of the shelter went up in flames.

No war ever again.

Shit!

Scholten turned away from the shop window. He went into the nearest bar and sat down at the counter, ordered two beers, two frikadellers and two hamburgers.

The bartender asked, “Where's your friend, then?”

Scholten said: “It's for me.”

The bartender asked: “All of it served at once?”

Scholten said: “If you don't mind.”

Three black-haired foreigners were standing near him at the bar. When the bartender brought Scholten's order – “One, two, and here's the bar snacks” — one of the three pointed to Scholten and laughed. “You very hungry. And very thirsty.”

“That's right,” said Scholten and dipped the first frikadeller in mustard. He bit some off and said: “And you great chatterbox.”

“What that?”

“You talk a lot. Understand?” Scholten drank his first beer and waved to the bartender.

“I no talk a lot.” The foreigner looked at Scholten. “Why you so angry?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

One of the other two said: “His wife ran off.”

Scholten picked up the first hamburger and said: “Chance would be a fine thing.”

The three foreigners laughed. They raised their glasses and drank to him. He raised his own glass and drank. He wiped his mouth and asked: “Where are you boys from, then?”

“Turkey.”

“And how long have you been here?”

The first dug his thumb into his chest. “Me four
years.” He moved the thumb to one side. “Him two. And him seven.”

“Fancy that. Are you planning to stay for good?”

“No, not for good.”

“Why not?” Scholten stuffed the rest of the hamburger in his mouth. “You're doing all right here, aren't you?”

“Sure. Earn good money. But at home . . . you understand?”

“Yes, yes, I understand. Your own country, yes. You mean it's your own country.”

“That's right, own country.”

The Turk who had said nothing so far waved to the bartender and pointed to Scholten's empty glasses.

Scholten accepted the beer. He raised his glass and said: “What are your names?”

The first Turk said: “I'm Nedim. He's Tevfik. He's Rükneddin.”

“Good God. How can people call their kids names like that? I'm Jupp. Cheers, lads.”

The second Turk wiped his moustache and said: “Were you born here, Jupp?”

“Yeah. Right here. Round the corner.”

The Turk nodded. “Your own country.”

Scholten nodded. “Yes. Once it was.” He leaned both hands on the counter, raised his head and sang, “Oh, the old days, the old days in Cologne . . .”

The three Turks, fascinated, looked at him. The bartender said: “Cool it. We get songbirds like you every evening.” He began clearing the bar.

Scholten said: “Hey, cool it yourself.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “Bring us another round.”

The second Turk said: “You sing good.”

“Yes. I did once. When I was young. Understand?”

“Sure. But you not old yet.”

“You think not?”

“You still sing good.”

“Really?”

After they had drunk his round the Turks thanked him and left. Scholten said they should stay and he'd buy another round. The Turks laughed and said thank you very much, they'd be happy to stay, but it was no good, they had to go home. “Wife wait with supper, understand?” They shook hands, the second slapped him on the back and said: “See you, Jupp.”

Scholten said: “Yes, sure, see you, Mustafa.”

The barman came over. “Now what? Want another two?

“Two what?”

“Beers. Or a couple more hamburgers?”

“No, no. I'll have a beer.”

He let the beer stand a long time as he sat there brooding. Those lads were well off. “Wife wait with supper.” And then for bed and a spot of leg-over. Some of those Turkish women were very beautiful. Your own country, yes. What were they after? They had a home, they had all a man needs. Where was
his
home?

Scholten muttered: “Gone, all gone.” Bombed, burned, scattered to the winds. When their bodies were fetched up from the cellar Uncle Franz and Aunt Gertrud had been only half their proper size. It was the heat. The people from the medical auxiliary service had lined the corpses up on the pavement.

Did he still have any country of his own? All gone, all in ashes.

And the Turks had taken over what was left. At least they had a home. Where was
his
home? He was never left alone in his apartment. Or at the works either. Hilde, oh yes. He'd picked a right one there. A good thirty of their thirty-six years together had been pure
purgatory. Purgatory? No, hell. Hell for certain now Erika was dead.

A wave of heat ran through him. Wallmann. Wallmann would sack him at the next opportunity. The moment he made another slip. And there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all. The man had murdered Erika, and he couldn't even report it to the police. He'd done his best, but they were too stupid. And he could do no more if he didn't want to lay himself open to suspicion.

So now the bastard was going to throw him out at the age of fifty-eight. Then he couldn't even drive to work in the morning. He'd be delivered up to Hilde day and night.

He broke out in a sweat. He picked up his glass, emptied it, clutched the counter with both hands.

It couldn't be true. It would do for him.

There must be some way. He must at least keep his job. Otherwise he'd be done for, no doubt of it.

He stared at the glass. Suddenly his eyebrows drew together. He rubbed his forehead hard. He looked absently at the bartender, who was putting a fresh glass down in front of him. “Or didn't you want another?”

It was a little while before Scholten answered. “Yes, sure.” He rubbed his forehead again.

Just a moment. There
was
a possibility. Yes, there was.

He couldn't do anything to Wallmann. But could Wallmann do anything to him? He had Wallmann just where he wanted him. After all, he knew what the man had done. Wallmann couldn't touch him. He could shut Wallmann's mouth for him, couldn't he? He had only to drop a hint.

And that would make Wallmann pipe down. Oh yes, Herr Wallmann would be in a cold sweat then.

Scholten picked up his glass, drank, wiped his mouth. His lips twisted into a taut smile.

So suppose next time Herr Wallmann turned nasty he just dropped a hint. “Herr Wallmann, I think you ought to keep your voice down. I think you should be careful, know what I mean? You don't? But you've heard how black ice can be made in the freezer, have you?”

No, maybe not so direct. No need to be so direct anyway. He had only to say: “Can you tell me what happened to those five strips of wood? And the insulating tape? And how the grease got on the bolts – the bolts in the steps, know what I mean? Or would you rather tell the police about it?”

And then Herr Wallmann would turn very quiet. He might even say: “How much do you want?”

Scholten gave a start, looked around. No one was watching him. He waved to the bartender. “Let's have one more.” He looked round again. He propped his elbows on the counter, shielded his eyes with his hand.

Funny that he hadn't thought of that before, not at all. Well, obviously not, he was too decent. After all, Jupp Scholten was no blackmailer.

But you could think about such things. And what did blackmail mean in this case anyway? Was Wallmann to get off scot-free? A bastard like that? You couldn't call it blackmail, not with his sort. At the most you'd be depriving him of some of his ill-gotten gains. The money he'd stolen by murder. Murder and robbery. Exactly.

Scholten looked round again. Then he waved to the bartender. “I'll have a cigar.”

“Light or black?”

“Black.” Scholten chose a black cigar, bit the end off, held it to the match the barman handed him. He puffed, watched the blue clouds rising.

Yes, what a moment! “Or would you rather tell the police about it, Herr Wallmann?” Then Wallmann turns very quiet and asks: “How much do you want?”

And suppose he simply replied, let's say, “A hundred thousand”? Wallmann could easily shell out that much. The whole firm was his now, and the house, and the weekend house by the lake. And the boat.

Yes. That'd be quite something! A hundred thousand. It didn't have to be all at once. A ten thousand advance, perhaps. Like a deposit. And the rest in instalments. A thousand a month. Or two thousand a month. Wallmann could easily afford it.

With that kind of money you could go to Holland for the weekend or even longer, you could really paint the town red. Like when his bowling club was still in existence, and they always went on tour to the seaside. Not too far from Amsterdam, of course. Days in the fresh air among the dunes. Then Amsterdam in the evening. Or one of the seaside bars. Cafés, that's what the Dutch call them. And really paint the town red.

Oh Lord! A hundred thousand. A thousand a month, no need for more. That really would be something.

Scholten noticed a man leaning against the counter, watching him. He felt uncomfortable. He paid and left. He crossed the road, head bent, cigar between his teeth, hands in his coat pockets and went down the alley. The kids were still playing in the entrance to the yard.

As he got into his car a new idea struck him like a blow. He sat there motionless, staring absently through the windscreen.

There was nothing he could do with the money. Nothing worth mentioning anyway. He couldn't spend it. As long as Hilde lived she'd keep him on a tight
leash. Go to Holland? Not likely. She wouldn't let him go anywhere. And if he did she'd give him no peace day or night. She'd want to know where all that money came from.

A hundred thousand. Oh, shit. It'd do him no good, not while Hilde was alive. And she'd live a long time, he was sure of that: she would probably outlive him. She was tough as old boots. And if she actually did die first, he wouldn't need Wallmann's money. He'd have the fifty thousand from her life insurance anyway. A hundred thousand in the case of accidental death.

Scholten froze. He sat behind the wheel for some time as if paralysed, hardly breathing. Then he looked round. He rubbed his eyes. He quickly wound the window down, let the cigar smoke out, waved his hand to disperse it. He rubbed his eyes again and then his chin. He left his hand on his chin, motionless, and stared through the windscreen.

He shook his head. What sort of ideas are those, Jupp Scholten? How can you possibly entertain them? You're no Wallmann, are you?

No. No, I'm not. That's the trouble. That's why Erika is dead, and Wallmann has got away with murder, and Hilde's alive, and I'm just a poor bastard. That's what it is.

You can't help thinking about it. Why does a wonderful woman like Erika have to die, and someone like Hilde's still alive? For thirty years she's been saying how sick she is, and how bad she feels, and how hard life is to bear, but she goes on living, she goes on living year after year without stopping. Is that justice? She said it herself, she said it would have been better if she'd fallen down those steps and Erika was still alive. Who knows, perhaps she really would feel better off
dead, no more of all those aches and pains, no more need to get upset about him?

Scholten slowly leaned back in his seat.

And as for him, he'd be a free man.

Couldn't you even think about such things?

A hundred thousand in the case of accidental death. If Hilde had an accident and died, he would get a hundred thousand marks.

For instance, if she fell down the steps at the house by the lake.

Surely you could think about such things! What was wrong with that? If Hilde fell down the steps she'd be at peace. And so would he. And he could go to Holland, for instance, as often and for as long as he liked.