Black Ice (6 page)

He had gone back to the house in the boat and taken his bit of fluff on board. And then they'd gone for a sailing trip. Yes, it must have been very comfortable. The big double bunk in the foreship. Heating. They could cook on board too. And the lake was a good size, no one could find them in a hurry. Not that there were many people out on the water at this time of year, in the middle of the week.

He probably planned to be back quite early on the Friday so that he could drive his bit of fluff back to town before Erika arrived. Maybe even on Thursday evening. No, that would have been one night less for them. Naturally they'd want to have fun up to the last minute.

But then he had problems with the mainsheet. He went into the yachting basin. His bit of fluff probably stayed in hiding below decks. He had called the office
at three to find out when Erika was driving up. And whether he had enough time to get his bit of fluff away.

Erika had seen that at once. That was why she wanted to leave immediately, at three. She wanted to catch the pair of them arriving with the boat. But then she had second thoughts; she didn't think it would work. “He's too crafty.” Of course. He could put his bit of fluff ashore somewhere in the yachting basin, and she could have caught the bus home.

But he didn't do that. Obviously a real gentleman like Wallmann doesn't let his bit of fluff go home by bus. He had the mainsheet repaired, and then they went to the weekend house. And he called again from there, around five, and hung up again at once. He just wanted to find out if Erika was still in town and if he had time to get out of there with his bit of fluff.

Hold on a moment, Jupp Scholten. Something doesn't quite fit.

Wallmann had still been in the village at a quarter to seven. He looked in at Grandmontagne's while Erika was sitting there with her glass of grog and said he had to go back to town for the files. If he'd still been at the house at five he would have set off with his bit of fluff at once. He wouldn't have hung about until quarter to seven.

Scholten thought hard. Suddenly he drew a deep breath.

Of course: Wallmann was still in the yachting basin at five. The repair had taken some time. He was in the yachting basin when he called the second time. And hung up. They could still get back to the house. Then he put the bit of fluff in his car, looked in at Grandmontagne's and said he had to go back to town for the files, and he drove his bit of fluff back.

No. No, Jupp Scholten, that doesn't work either.
Even Wallmann wouldn't have the nerve to drive past Grandmontagne's, right in the middle of the village, with Fräulein Faust in his car.

And there was another thing: if they'd come back in the boat so late, he couldn't risk driving along the track through the woods to the road with his bit of fluff in the car. Erika might have met him on the way. The track is too narrow for cars to pass each other. You have to give way. She'd have stopped, asked where he was going. She'd have seen Fräulein Faust.

No, he must have been alone when he drove away from the house. Fräulein Faust can't have been in his car. But where was she then, where was his bit of fluff?

Still on the boat, maybe?

Scholten sat up abruptly. In alarm, he glanced at Hilde. She didn't move. He cautiously sank back again and smoothed the quilt.

He smiled grimly in the darkness. Yes. He knew what had happened now for certain. He'd worked it out. He'd found the answer.

Where was Wallmann's bit of fluff? Simple. She was still on the boat. Or no, not on the boat. She was up at the house. Behind the garage. In hiding.

Wallmann had fixed it all so that Erika would be bound to think his bit of fluff was still on the boat. That call at three in the afternoon and his question: was she coming up for the weekend as they'd arranged? And then the problem with the mainsheet. Very likely he'd damaged it somehow himself, to give him an excuse to be seen at the yachting basin. The repair was probably done by the time he called at three. But he wanted Erika to think he had problems, so that he'd be back early enough to get his bit of fluff away unnoticed.

Hence the call at five. He also wanted to make sure
that Erika wasn't already on her way. But at that time he wasn't in the yachting basin any more, he was back at the house with Fräulein Inge Faust on his lap. They were sitting there waiting, and shortly after six-thirty he drove off, looked in at Grandmontagne's and made out he was in a great hurry. And Erika fell for it and thought he was in a hurry because he had to get his bit of fluff away. Along the path by the shore, for instance. Of course: Erika thought he was planning to get his bit of fluff out along the path by the shore.

So she drove up to the house and immediately climbed down the steps.

Or planned to climb down the steps. But Wallmann's bit of fluff was behind her. She came out of hiding and pushed her. And Erika fell from the steps, hit the steep slope of the bank, and from there she fell into the lake.

That was it. That was how it must have happened.

And Wallmann had his alibi.

Scholten smiled grimly. Well, he needn't think he was getting away with it.

He cautiously sat up, smoothed his pillow flat and lay down again. He massaged his belly. He stared into the dark. Something was still worrying him.

Wallmann's bit of fluff. What about her own alibi? It wasn't in good shape.

Really? Wasn't it? She'd been telling everyone she was off to Passau to stay with her girlfriend. And the police had probably been too stupid to check. Why should they? They probably didn't even guess that Inge Faust and Wallmann were an item.

And how would Inge have got back to town? Wallmann was already on his way. He had his alibi to think of.

Scholten rubbed his forehead. Then he smiled to
himself. How silly. It was perfectly simple. She got back to town the way she came to the house. In her own car.

She had hidden her car in the wood before they set off on their sailing trip. No, wait. That would have been too risky, leaving it for five days. And why bother? They had simply put her car in the garage with Wallmann's. And when they came back with the boat on Friday afternoon they had taken her car out and hidden it behind a bush somewhere. Then, after pushing Erika down the steps, Wallmann's bit of fluff got in it and drove home.

Scholten took another deep breath. He settled in bed and smoothed the quilt out. He closed his eyes. He smacked his lips with satisfaction.

After a while he felt his penis stiffening. He opened his eyes and listened. Slowly, he drew his knees up and cautiously unbuttoned his pyjama trousers.

Hilde said: “You needn't think I'm asleep. I can hear everything you're doing. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Stop it at once.”

Scholten turned on his side and pulled the quilt up over his shoulders.

After a few minutes he fell asleep.

7

On Saturday Scholten thought hard about what to say on the phone. He mustn't make it too long. The police record such conversations. He didn't know how well he could disguise his voice, and if he went on at length someone might recognize it on the tape. “Hey, that's Scholten, Superintendent. He's disguised his voice, but I swear that's him.”

When he went downstairs to fetch the newspaper from the letterbox he was muttering to himself: “Check Fräulein Faust's alibi. Inge Faust, she's a secretary with Ferdinand Köttgen, Civil Engineering Contractors. The owner of the firm, Frau Wallmann, didn't die by accident, she was murdered. Check Fräulein Faust's alibi.”

He was pleased with the idea of making the first and last sentences identical. You had to show the police where to begin, and the repetition would make sure they got the point. If not, they were just useless. But the whole thing was much too long. They had ways of tracing your call, and before he'd finished they'd know where he was calling from.

Hell, that was true anyway. He stood motionless on the stairs with the newspaper in his hand. He couldn't call from home. Or from the office. He'd have to use a phone box.

That was dangerous. He'd been thinking of putting his handkerchief over the receiver to distort his voice. But he couldn't do that in a phone box: too much risk of someone seeing him.

“Shit,” said Scholten.

The woman from the top floor was coming downstairs. She said: “Good morning.” Scholten stepped aside, smiled and said: “Good morning. How are you today?”

“Fine, thanks. How about you?”

“Ah, well – as good as an old man feels when he sees a pretty young woman.”

“Oh, go on with you!” She laughed. “You're not telling me you're an old man, are you?”

He stepped up to the banisters and watched her on her way down. “That depends.”

She looked back, laughed and waved to him.

What bodywork, he thought, good breasts too. He climbed the stairs in his slippers.

“Who were you talking to out there?” asked Hilde. She had opened the front door of the apartment just a crack.

He went in past her. “Frau Lewandowski.”

“What did you have to talk to her about all that time?”

“Good heavens, she just said good morning, and I asked how she was.”

“You could have spared yourself that question. Bad people always feel fine. Anyway, it's not
Frau
Lewandowski. She isn't even married.”

“You want me to say Fräulein Lewandowski to her?”

“I don't know why you have to say anything to her at all. You know perfectly well there are always men going in and out of her place.”

“Yes, yes.”

“But I suppose that doesn't bother you. Maybe you'd like to go up to her place yourself?”

Scholten retreated to the lavatory with his newspaper.

He put the paper down on the edge of the bathtub, propped both forearms on his knees and thought. He silently moved his lips. After a while he had found wording that satisfied him. “Frau Erika Wallmann of Köttgen Civil Engineering didn't die in an accident. She was murdered. Check Inge Faust's alibi.” That contained the essentials but wasn't too long. He could be through with it in six or seven seconds.

He could leave out the “Frau” too. If necessary even the name of the firm. Instead he might repeat “Inge Faust's alibi” at the end. Ten seconds, he didn't need any more to get the message across. Then out of the phone box and off as fast as he could go. There was just the problem with the handkerchief. He couldn't risk that. Maybe he could whisper? What he was saying must sound distinct, of course.

Hilde called through the door: “What are you doing in there? Talking to yourself? Don't stay on the lavatory so long. It's not healthy.”

He found no chance all day to get to a phone box. It was obvious he'd have to drive to another part of town. He couldn't call from the phone boxes near his own apartment. Too many people knew him and might ask: “What was he doing in a phone box? Surely he has a phone at home!”

When he picked up the shopping bag to go to the supermarket Hilde said she would come too. She was feeling better, she told him.

Oh, he said, but he wanted to look in at the works again. Wallmann wouldn't be thinking about the maintenance of the trucks only a day after the funeral, and Rothgerber and Kurowski never did it properly. He was going to the works to make sure the men were cleaning the trucks properly, or they'd arrive at the building sites filthy on Monday morning.

Hilde said he'd do no such thing. Why were Herr Rothgerber and Herr Kurowski project managers, drawing a higher salary than he did? She didn't see why he should do their work for them. Or Herr Wallmann had better make him a project manager too.

Scholten gave up. He felt a certain relief. He hadn't really thought it all through properly yet. Whispering might not be safe enough.

At Mass on Sunday morning he had an inspiration. His thoughts had been going round and round in his head, and when the organ finished the prelude
Beim letzten Abendmahle
he missed the vocal entry. Hilde nudged him, and Scholten joined in, . . .
die Nacht vor seinem Tod
, with the powerful tenor voice of which he was still rather proud.

As he sang loudly, clearly giving the note for the people in the pews around him, he could almost have smiled. Of course, that was how he could do it: he could say his piece in a head-voice. Then no one would recognize him easily on a police tape. No one at all, that was certain. They might even take him for a woman.

But on Monday morning, on the way to the works, he drove past all the phone boxes. Sometimes he couldn't see anywhere to park; sometimes he reached a set of lights just as they changed to green.

At six-thirty he turned out of the street into the works' yard. His car rattled over the deep ruts that the builders' trucks always left in the trodden mud. The sky was cloudy; it had begun to drizzle. Two windows of the low office building were lighted. The sun, pale and veiled, was just rising above the ridge of the wooded land to the east.

Scholten wiped his shoes on the scraper outside the door and went in. The soft manmade flooring laid over
the wooden boards muted his footsteps. He looked in at the filing room. Rosa Thelen stood there, holding a coffee cup.

“What are you doing here so early, Rosie?”

She drank her coffee. “I couldn't sleep.”

“You ought to go dancing in the evening. Then you'd sleep all right.”

“Oh, do be quiet.”

“Believe me, I know what I'm talking about.” He went to his locker, hung up his coat and jacket, put on his grey overall.

Rothgerber appeared in the doorway of the project managers' office. He was holding the duty notes with the day's assignments for the truck drivers. “Morning! Here, you could give these out. And tell Wielpütz to drive exactly where it says on that note, none of his side trips.”