Black Ice (7 page)

“Yes, yes, calm down. There's no one here yet.” Scholten took the note and went to join Rosa Thelen in the filing room. “Do you have a cup of coffee to spare for me, Rosie?”

He sipped the coffee, winked at her. He sang: “Rosie, Rosie, give me your answer, do . . .”

“Oh, don't go on like that.”

“Why not? You know I think you're fun.”

“Yes, I know. First you act all friendly, and then you turn mean. Like on Friday. And at a funeral too.”

“What did I say on Friday?”

“Don't pretend you've forgotten.”

“Oh, that.” He drank more coffee. “But that was a compliment, you know it was.” He lowered his voice a little. “Rosie, how often do I have to tell you your arse makes me randy?”

He put out his hand, trying to get hold of it. She
struck his fingers away. Scholten laughed. He put the cup on his desk and went out.

Kurowski, out of breath, met him in the doorway. “Lord, what traffic again.”

“You ought to start a little earlier, Herr Kurowski. Then you'd miss the traffic.”

“I'm not as daft as you.” Kurowski opened his locker.

“Dear me, young people today.” Scholten went outside the door. The yard was gradually filling up. Three or four dozen men were standing around. They had put their yellow jackets on and were talking, smoking and yawning.

Scholten found the truck drivers and gave out the duty notes. Wielpütz looked at his and pushed his cap to the back of his head. “What's all this, then? Who filled this note in? That Rothgerber?”

“Never mind who filled it in. You're to drive exactly the route it says on the note, no side trips.”

“Fuck him.” Wielpütz threw his cigarette end away.

“You want to go carefully, my friend.” Scholten pointed to one of the trucks. “Is that yours? Number Four?”

“Yup, why?”

“Never heard of care and maintenance of your vehicle?”

“Fuck you too.”

Scholten glared at Wielpütz. Wielpütz returned the glare. Scholten said “Like I said, go carefully, mate,” and moved away.

Rothgerber came out of the hut and discussed the day's programme with the foremen. The diesel engines of the minibuses and trucks started. Blue vapour from the exhausts drifted through the yard.

Scholten liked the knocking of the engines, their deep growl, the acrid smell of the exhaust gases. He
stood on the scraper outside the door of the office building, put his hands in his overall pockets and watched them leave. He was a little cold in spite of the pullover he was wearing under his overall. It would be warm inside the offices by now. Rosa was probably pouring fresh coffee. He wondered whether he could take another of the black cigars from the box kept for visitors without Wallmann noticing.

At seven-thirty Scholten was sitting at the little desk in the filing room, opposite Rosa Thelen, drinking coffee, smoking a black cigar and reading the paper. He gave the paper back to Rosa when he heard a car door slam outside, but it was only Büttgenbach.

Scholten set to work on the filing. Fräulein Faust wasn't in yet. No doubt that would become a habit now. Scholten looked out of the window. Surely Wallmann wouldn't have the nerve to take her to bed in his apartment already? But he was capable of anything. In Erika's house. In Erika's bed. And Erika herself only just underground.

Scholten pushed the folder he was holding violently back into its place.

Rosa Thelen looked up. “What's the matter?”

He puffed at his cigar, put it down on the ashtray. “Oh, Rosie, you simple country girl.”

“Are you starting on that again?”

“No, no, it's all right, calm down.” He took another file out of the cabinet, opened it and went to the window. Wallmann needn't think he could get away with this. He was reckoning without Jupp Scholten.

He'd call the police on the way home this evening. Evening would be better anyway. He could turn off into a side street and look for a phone box and a parking place at his leisure. There were phone boxes well hidden away down side streets.

He looked out of the window and moved his lips soundlessly.

“Keep a watch on Herr Wallmann's house.” No, this was getting much too long. What was it he'd intended to say again? “Frau Erika Wallmann didn't die in an accident, she was murdered. Check Inge Faust's alibi.” Not quite as long as he'd thought. Maybe he could add, “Keep a watch on Herr Wallmann's house.”

Inge Faust's little car came through the gates. It swerved alarmingly and stopped outside the office building. She got out, leaned into the car and came back into view with a stack of mail under her arm. Scholten watched her balancing on one leg and kicking the car door shut with the other. Her handbag impeded her. She tried to hold the stack of mail down with her chin, approaching the door and taking small steps. He heard her struggling with the handle. The door flew open. Inge Faust cried: “Herr Scholten, Herr Scholten, quick!”

He went out and took the stack of mail from her. She heaved a small sigh – “Oof!” — and smiled at him. “I dropped in at the post office – now no one has to go out for it.” He carried the stack of mail into her office and put it on the desk.

“But they won't have had it all ready at this time of day.”

“Oh, most of it's just junk mail.” She took her coat off. “I thought you'd be glad if I brought it with me.”

“Yes, of course.” Standing beside the desk, Scholten spread the mail out with his hand, as if by chance.

She opened the coat cupboard, looked in the mirror, took her headscarf off and shook out her short curls. Scholten looked at her. As she put her coat in the cupboard he examined her back and then cast a brief sideways glance at the mail.

He saw the blue envelope at once. It had been franked at the yachting basin's boatyard and bore the place's logo, a red and blue pennant in a circle.

She had taken out her comb, looked in the mirror again and ran it through her hair. She adjusted the scarf at her throat.

“Shall I open the mail for you?” asked Scholten.

“Oh, no thanks. I'll start on it straight away. But you could get me some water. I really need a coffee. Would you be kind enough?”

Scholten took the jug out of the coffee machine. “How much water?”

“Enough for four cups please.”

He went to the washroom, taking his time about it. When he came back she was busy opening and sorting the post.

“Where do you keep the coffee?” asked Scholten.

“Oh, you're so kind! Down there to your right in the little cupboard. The key's in it.”

Scholten took coffee and a filter paper out. “Four cups, you said?”

She laughed. “Herr Scholten, whatever has come over you today? Well, yes, four cups if you don't mind. I'm sure Herr Wallmann will be here soon too.”

Scholten elaborately unfolded the filter paper. “Level spoonfuls?”

“Slightly rounded, please.”

As he poured the water in she stood up. “There, that's done.”

He inspected the filter, put the coffee in, said, as if casually: “Shall I take the mail?”

“No, I'll do it. I don't want to disturb your coffeemaking.”

She picked up the larger stack of mail, smiled at Scholten and went into the project managers' office.

Scholten immediately strode over to the desk, pushed two letters aside and pulled the blue sheet a little way out. It was an invoice from the boatyard, very short.
To replacing one tackle (mainsheet)
. The price of the tackle followed. And the price for labour: half an hour.

Scholten pushed the blue sheet back and arranged the other two letters on top of it again. He went into the filing room, very nearly forgetting to switch the coffee machine on.

The cigar had grown cold. He lit it again, puffed at it, triumphantly watched the blue clouds rise. Rosa fanned the smoke away with her hand.

He'd known it. The bloody bastard!

Even if he'd only just reached the yachting basin when he called at three, he could have set off again half an hour later. They'd simply taken out the tackle and put a new one in. And the hypocritical bastard acted as if he didn't know how long he'd have to hang around or when he could be back at the house.

It was perfectly clear. Erika was supposed to think he was having difficulty in getting his bit of fluff away in time. And that was exactly what she did think.

Inge Faust was standing in the doorway, cup in hand. “You must make me a coffee more often, Herr Scholten. This is really good!”

When she had gone again Rosa said: “Well, fancy that. You never think of making coffee for me.”

“Rosie, your own coffee is unbeatable. She doesn't know how to make a good coffee, does she?”

“She may know how to do other things.”

“So do you. Or even if you don't, I can teach you. You only have to say the word.”

“Oh, do give over.”

Wallmann arrived at eight. He went into the project managers' office, looked in on Büttgenbach in his
little room then disappeared into his own office. He passed the filing room without going in.

A little later Inge Faust appeared, saying: “Herr Scholten, would you please come into Herr Wallmann's office for a moment?”

8

Only as he entered Wallmann's office did Scholten realize that he still had the stub of the cigar in his mouth. He reached for it as if lost in thought and let his hand drop to his side, turning it in to hide the cigar stub. Wallmann, gulping coffee, followed the progress of the stub with his eyes. Inge Faust stood bending over the side table, sorting papers.

“Yes, Herr Wallmann?” said Scholten. Wallmann slowly emptied his cup. He looked at Scholten over it. His eyes were still red-rimmed. He put the cup down. “Scholten, were you at the Jagdweg building site on Thursday?”

“Thursday?” Scholten felt hot under the collar. “Yes, I was.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I was asked to take Hülsenbusch that note from Herr Kurowski. Saying there was something wrong with the drawing.”

“Yes, you were asked to. But you didn't.”

Scholten swallowed and then said: “What makes you think that?”

“Don't answer back.” Wallmann leaned both forearms on the desk. His head was slightly lowered, and his red-rimmed eyes looked up at Scholten from beneath his brows.

He looked quite threatening. “You went from here to the Cooperative House-building Association excavations and collected the stuff for Rothgerber. Then
you met Wielpütz and simply gave him the note for the Jagdweg site. And Wielpütz, the lazy bastard, forgot about the note and left it in his vehicle.”

Scholten wondered frantically what he could say.

“You know what we'll have to do now, Herr Scholten? We're going to have to take out the Jagdweg pavement and put it back again properly. I've just been to the site, looking at the mess they made of it.”

Scholten shook his head, expelled air through his lips. “Can I help it if Wielpütz forgot the note?”

“I don't think you understand me. This is not about Wielpütz, I'll be talking to him too. This is about you. If you're told to drive to the Jagdweg then you drive to the Jagdweg, by the quickest route there is. You can't be so stupid that you didn't know it mattered. You probably went into a bar for a quick drink. When were you back here?”

“I can't remember now. I'm going all over the place the whole time.” Scholten cleared his throat. “And you have no right to call me stupid.”

“Scholten, I think you still don't get the idea. Next time I shall make a deduction from your salary. You're getting too expensive. This is not a charity organization. Oh yes, and something else occurs to me. Would you give me the cigar box, Fräulein Faust?”

Inge Faust handed him the cigar box from the occasional table. She went out.

Wallmann lifted the lid of the box, looked inside it. He called: “Fräulein Faust?”

She came back. “Yes?”

He gave her the box. “Please lock the cigars up at once.”

Scholten took a deep breath. “Are you suspecting me of stealing?”

“What do you mean, suspecting you? You're the only one here who smokes cigars.”

“Oh, come on, Herr Büttgenbach smokes cigars the whole time.”

“Going to brazen it out too? Scholten, you really do not get the idea.” Wallmann leaned heavily on his forearms and looked at him. “You are definitely becoming too expensive for me, Herr Scholten. Now go back to your work.” Without taking his eyes off Scholten, he picked up his empty coffee cup and held it out to Inge Faust.

Scholten turned away. In the doorway he said: “This is outrageous. I don't have to put up with this sort of thing. It's scandalous.”

He was going into the filing room but turned and went to the toilet. In the corridor he said: “Shit-head! Bloody bastard! Arsehole!” He sat on the lavatory in his overall and bolted the door.

The bastard wouldn't have dared do that when Erika was alive. But no sooner was she buried than he got going. They were all in for a nasty shock. Kurowski for sure. Büttgenbach too. He couldn't cope with his work any more. He was always getting Scholten to find him stuff that he needed. What was the betting that Büttgenbach really had helped himself from the cigar box now and then?

Talk about a shabby trick!

Oh no, Herr Wallmann, you don't mess about with me. Not with Jupp Scholten. You've picked the wrong man there.

But Scholten felt fear rise in him. It rose from the pit of his stomach up to his throat.