JF02 - Brother Grimm (17 page)

‘It doesn’t always work that way.’

‘She let this happen to Martha.’ Anna’s tone was defiant. ‘She obviously knocked her about when she was a kid … there’s the twist fracture to the wrist from when Martha was about five and God knows what else in the meantime. But, worse than that, she let that poor girl fend for herself in a dangerous bloody world. The result is that she was taken by a maniac, spent God knows how long terrified witless and then she’s killed. And that cow hasn’t the heart to even give her a decent burial, let alone visit her grave.’ She shook her head, as if in disbelief. ‘When I think of the Ehlers, a family torn to pieces for three long years because they have no body to bury, no grave to grieve over … and then that cold-hearted bitch who doesn’t give a toss about what we do with her daughter’s body.’

‘Whatever we think of her, Anna, she’s the mother of a murdered child. She didn’t kill Martha and we can’t even prove that her neglect of her was a contributory factor. And that means we still have to treat her like any other grieving parent. Do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes, Herr Hauptkommissar.’ Anna paused. ‘It said in the Kassel report that the mother was an occasional prostitute. You don’t think that she swapped over to pimping for her own daughter? I mean, we know that Martha had sexual partners.’

‘I doubt it. From what I can see from the report it was just, as you said, an occasional thing to feed a habit when necessary. I doubt that Frau Schmidt would be organised enough for anything else. Anyway, you heard the way she spoke about Martha.
It clearly wasn’t a close relationship and I get the feeling mother and daughter went their own ways. Did their own thing, as it were.’

‘Maybe Martha was the organised one,’ said Anna. ‘Maybe she was in business for herself.’

‘I doubt it. There’s no suggestion of that in any of the police or social services reports. She had no habit to support. No. I just think that she was trying to be as normal a teenager as her family background would allow.’ Fabel fell silent for a moment, thinking about his own daughter, Gabi, and how much Martha Schmidt had reminded him of her. Three girls of roughly the same age, who looked like each other: Martha Schmidt, Paula Ehlers, and Gabi. Some part deep within him shuddered at the thought. A universe of unlimited possibilities. ‘Let’s get back to the Präsidium … I’ve got a bakery to visit.’

The weather had taken a turn for the worse. The previous week’s promise of spring, which had stretched into the bright morning, now faded in the cheerless, blustery sky that crowded down on North Germany. Fabel wasn’t sure why – perhaps because he knew it was a long-standing family business and because he always associated bakeries with a traditional craft – but he was surprised to find that the Backstube Albertus was a large industrial unit situated close to the A7 autobahn. ‘For ease of distribution …’ Vera Schiller had explained, as she conducted Fabel and Werner into her office. ‘We deliver to Konditoreien, cafés and restaurants throughout northern and central Germany. We have built up excellent relationships with our customers and often have senior staff deliver important items personally. Of course, we have our own delivery department – we have three vans almost continuously on the road.’ Fabel could tell that they were being treated to the standard speech that Vera Schiller would make to any visitors to the premises. It was clearly tailored more for potential customers than for murder detectives.

Her office was large, but functional rather than plush: a very different environment from the classical elegance of the Schiller villa. As Frau Schiller took her place and invited Fabel and Werner to sit down, Werner gave his boss a covert nudge with his elbow and cast his gaze towards a second desk, at the far side of the office. No one sat at the desk but it was piled with papers and brochures. A wall planner behind it laid out dates and places. Fabel was a sliver of a second too slow in turning back to face Vera Schiller.

‘Yes, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar,’ she said, ‘that is Markus’s desk. Please feel free to …’ she considered the word for a moment ‘… to
examine
anything. I’ll also take you down to meet Herr Biedermeyer, our Chief Baker. He can tell you more about the other victim.’

‘Thank you, Frau Schiller. We appreciate your cooperation.’ Fabel was about to say again that it must all be very distressing for her, but somehow he felt it was redundant. No, not redundant, inappropriate. This wasn’t distressing for her: it was inconvenient. He examined her face. There was no hint of anything underlying the superficial calm. There was no suggestion of recently shed tears nor of lack of sleep. And there had been no malice in her reference to Hanna Grünn as ‘the other victim’. It was simply an appropriate description. Vera Schiller’s coldness was more than a surface frost: it was a thoroughgoing sterility that bound her heart in ice. Fabel had met her twice: once in the home she had shared with her husband and now in the office she had shared with her husband. Yet, less than forty-eight hours after she had found out that her spouse was dead, there was no sense of
the ‘incompleteness’ Anna Wolff had described when talking about visiting a victim’s home.

It took a lot to unnerve Fabel, but Vera Schiller was one of the scariest people he had ever encountered.

‘Is there anyone you can think of who would have wished your husband harm, Frau Schiller?’

She laughed and the immaculately lipsticked lips drew back from the perfect teeth in something that couldn’t be described as a smile. ‘Not specifically, Herr Kriminalhauptkommissar. Not anyone to whom I could put a name, but in the abstract, yes. There must be a dozen cuckolded husbands and boyfriends out there who would have wished Markus harm.’

‘Did Hanna Grünn have a boyfriend?’ asked Werner. Frau Schiller turned to him. The smile that wasn’t a smile faded.

‘I’m not familiar with the personal lives of my employees, Herr Kriminaloberkommissar Meyer.’ She stood up and, as with all her movements, she did so brusquely. ‘I’ll take you down to the bakery floor. As I explained before, Herr Biedermeyer will be able to furnish you with more specific details about the girl who was killed.’

The main hall of the bakery was divided into what looked like small conveyor-belt systems upon which different products were being assembled or prepared. The air itself seemed doughy, thick with the fragrances of flour and baking. Both walls were lined with huge brushed-steel ovens and the staff were dressed in white coats and protective caps and hairnets. If it hadn’t been for the nearly edible air, it could have been a semiconductor factory or some 1960s movie vision of a futuristic mission
control. Again the reality jarred with Fabel’s image of a traditional German bakery.

Vera Schiller led the way down to the factory floor and took them to a very tall powerfully built man whom she introduced as Franz Biedermeyer, the Chief Baker. She turned on her heel before Fabel had had a chance to thank her. There was a moment of embarrassed silence before Biedermeyer smiled amiably and said, ‘Please excuse Frau Schiller. I suspect she is finding this very difficult.’

‘She seems to be coping rather well,’ said Fabel, trying to keep any hint of sarcasm from his voice.

‘It is her manner, Herr Fabel. She is a good employer and treats her staff very well indeed. And I cannot imagine that she is taking her loss anything other than really badly. Herr and Frau Schiller were a very effective, even formidable partnership. In business, at any rate.’

‘And personally?’ asked Werner.

Again the Chief Baker smiled amiably, this time shrugging. There was something about the wrinkles around Biedermeyer’s eyes that suggested that he smiled a great deal. It reminded Fabel of his own brother, Lex, whose mischievous personality always revealed itself in and around his eyes. ‘I really don’t know anything of their personal relationship. But they were a good working team. Frau Schiller is an astute businesswoman and knows all about commercial strategy. She has kept this bakery highly profitable during what has been a bad time for German business generally. And Herr Schiller was a very, very good salesman. He had a great way with the customers.’

‘I gather he had a great way with women, as well,’ added Fabel.

‘There were rumours … I can’t deny that. But, as I said, it’s not my place to speculate on such things and your guess is as good as mine as to how much Frau Schiller was aware of and how it affected their marriage – excuse me …’ As they had approached him, Biedermeyer had been decorating a cake and was holding a small, intricate icing detail between his massive forefinger and thumb, and he now turned to lay it down carefully on the burnished stainless-steel counter. Fabel noticed that, obviously to meet hygiene regulations, Biedermeyer wore white latex gloves which were coated with a fine dusting of flour. His hands looked too big and the fingers too clumsy for Fabel to imagine the Chief Baker carrying out any delicate cake decoration or fancy pastry work.

‘And his relationship with Hanna Grünn?’ asked Werner. ‘Were you aware of that?’

‘No. But it doesn’t surprise me. I knew that Hanna was – how can I put this – a little
indiscreet
in her choice of boyfriends. Again, there were all kinds of rumours. A lot of them were malicious, of course. But I don’t remember anyone suggesting that anything was going on between Hanna and Herr Schiller.’

‘Malicious? You said a lot of the rumours were malicious.’

‘Hanna was a very attractive young lady. You know how bitchy women can be about things like that. But Hanna didn’t do herself any favours. She made it more than clear that she looked down her nose at this job and, particularly, at the other women on the production floor.’

‘Did she have any particular enemies here?’ Fabel indicated the production floor with a nod of his head.

‘Who would hate her enough to murder her?’ Biedermeyer laughed and shook his head. ‘No one would have given her enough thought. She was disliked, not hated.’

‘What did you think of her?’ asked Fabel.

Biedermeyer’s habitual smile was tinged with sadness. ‘I was her supervisor. Her work was never really up to par and I would have to talk to her from time to time. But I felt sorry for her.’

‘Why?’

‘She was lost. I suppose that’s how you would describe it. She hated working here. Being here. I think she was ambitious, but had no way of fulfilling her ambitions.’

‘What about other boyfriends?’ asked Werner. A young apprentice came past, pushing a two-metre-high trolley rack; each tray was covered with swirls of unbaked dough. The three men moved out of the way before Biedermeyer answered.

‘Yes. I think there was one. I don’t know anything about him, other than he used to pick her up sometimes on his motorbike. He looked a bad sort.’ Biedermeyer paused. ‘Is it true that they were found together. Herr Schiller and Fräulein Grünn, I mean?’

Fabel smiled. ‘Thank you for your time, Herr Biedermeyer.’

They were out in the car park before Fabel turned to Werner and said what they had both been thinking.

‘A motorbike. I think we’d better chase up forensics for a type and make for the tracks we found in the Naturpark.’

Ingrid Wallenstein hated taking the U-Bahn these days. The world had changed beyond her understanding and there were so many undesirable people about. Young people. Dangerous people. Mad people. Like the ‘S-Bahn Schubser’: the maniac who had been pushing people under the S-Bahn trains. The police had been looking for him for months. What kind of person would do a thing like that? And why had things changed so much in the last fifty years? God knew Frau Wallenstein and her generation had lived through enough to drive them into madness, but it hadn’t. All that the post-war generations had to deal with was having everything they wanted, when they wanted it. That was why she had little time for young people: they hadn’t had to experience everything Frau Wallenstein’s generation had had to go through, yet they were discontented. They had become rude, careless, disrespectful. If only they had had to endure what she had endured as a child and as a young woman. The war, and the terror and destruction it had brought. Then, afterwards, the hunger, the want; everyone having to work together to rebuild, repair, to put
things right again. Not today: today young people threw everything away. Nothing held any value for them. They appreciated nothing.

Since she had first heard of the ‘S-Bahn Schubser’, Frau Wallenstein always made sure she either sat down or stood with her back to the platform wall while she waited for a train.

Her knee hurt and she leaned heavily against her walking stick as she scanned the platform and surveyed her fellow travellers. There was only a handful of people on the U-Bahn platform, a couple of whom had those tiny headphones in their ears, with the dangly wires coming from them. Frau Wallenstein hated those things. If you sat next to one of them on the bus or the train and they were listening to that awful music of theirs, it was like having a wasp buzzing ill-temperedly next to you. Why did they do that? What was so terrible about hearing the world around you and, God forbid, actually having a conversation with someone?

She looked further up the platform. There was a youngish woman, sitting on a bench. At least she was dressed in a decent-enough-looking suit. The pain in Frau Wallenstein’s knee always got worse if she stood for any period of time, so, silently cursing her arthritic joint, she sat next to the woman, and said: ‘
Guten Tag
.’ The young woman smiled back at her. Such a sad smile. Frau Wallenstein noticed that she was perhaps not as clean as she had first thought, and had a pale face with dark shadows beneath her eyes. She began to wonder if she’d made a mistake in sitting next to her.