Nemesis: Innocence Sold (17 page)

“Sorry.” A chocolate-smeared hand reached out to Dirk. “I’m Alina, and who are you?”

Dirk bent down to the child. “My name’s Dirk, and this is Sven, my friend and colleague.”

The other girl didn’t want to be eclipsed by her sister and took on Sven. “I’m Martina. Are you staying for a long time?”

“Girls! Go see Grandma. The less you slow me down now, the sooner I’ll be back here.” The girls obeyed and disappeared into the house.

Dirk whistled through his teeth. “Impressive. Tim would’ve started an endless discussion. Let me in on your secret?”

Liebe smiled with an unmistakable hint of pride. “A mixture of bribery and threats: the beasts know very well that we’ll ride our bicycles out to the Baltic if I can get off work in time. As you may have guessed, this house belongs to my mother. Actually, she only rents the two vacation apartments to steady customers who have been coming here for years, but she made an exception for Eric’s parents. Come around the house with me. As I’ve said, they’re sure to be outside.”

Sven praised the house and the lovingly planted garden. “Pretty, really pretty. A nice change from Burg with all its tourists.”

“You mean the souvenir stores that all sell the same seagulls and endless mountains of colorful beach toys? This is the real Fehmarn here, but if there were nothing else, we’d be as good as unemployed. The tourists are mostly young and ensure we have enough to do. But other than some illegal car racing and other nonsense, it’s quiet here. Well, we could do without the swimming accidents, especially when children are involved. But what happened to Eric is of a different caliber. Really bitter.”

They had gone around the side of the house and now had a view of a parklike garden that stretched to a pond. A couple sat on a bench at the edge, a baby carriage next to them. “Mr. and Mrs. Neuveert with their daughter, Silvana, who isn’t yet four months. If they hadn’t had the baby, they’d have gone crazy. It’s also because of her that they stayed on the island when Eric . . . Well, you know.”

Dirk nodded uneasily and swallowed hard. The body had not yet been released by the forensic unit, and he didn’t like imagining what the parents would still have to go through.

“Come on, I’ll introduce you. They both speak German very well, but keep it as brief as possible. Please.”

After the captain had said a few explanatory words, Dirk left the conversation to his partner. His ability to be empathetic would never equal Sven’s in normal circumstances, and under these conditions, with the grieving parents who were still in shock and had a number of unanswered questions, he would never find the right words. Perhaps he should never have come to the island.

He had to swallow again when the mother answered the question about the photographer and even remembered his name. A trace of joie de vivre flashed in her face when she talked about the sand castle contest in detail and described how happy Eric had been about his victory.

The sight of her made Dirk clench his hand into a fist; overpowering anger rose in him at the thought of the photographer who had unscrupulously acted as a hunter and collector of children in order to satisfy his drug addiction.

Abruptly, the mother’s sorrow over the loss of her child returned, and she turned away, gazing into space.

For the first time, Eric’s father spoke. “Why are you interested in this photographer?”

Sven tilted his head in the direction of the mother and shook it.

For a moment, Dirk avoided the searching look; then he had made his decision. He hadn’t come this far to remain silent now out of cowardice. The man had a right to some answers. “Let’s walk a little,” he said.

Eric’s father followed him until Dirk stopped under the spreading boughs of an apple tree. “The photographer showed the pictures of Eric to someone who was so enthused about your boy that he . . . wanted to get to know him better and . . . In a way, it was an accident that Eric was unable to tolerate the chloroform.” Dirk cursed himself for his awkward choice of words. “I’m sorry. I . . .”

Eric’s father laid a consoling hand on his arm. “It’s all right. I understand. As a mathematician, I appreciate clear words, even if they are very difficult to bear. At least this partially answers the haunting question of why. You’ll find this photographer?”

“He was found dead this morning. Probably murdered to protect the men behind all this, but it will not help them. We have the perpetrator and will get the others, too, Mr. Neuveert. That’s not an empty promise; we’re all deeply affected.”

Eric’s father looked at him thoughtfully. “I feel you truly mean what you say.”

“I do. My partner and I have sons the same age.” After hesitating, Dirk refrained from mentioning Tim’s attempted kidnapping. At this moment, at least, it wouldn’t comfort the father to know that another child had survived. “I’m not going to claim that I know what you’re going through, but we’ll ensure that these criminals never cause a child or his parents to suffer like this again. You have my word on this.”

A muscle twitched in Neuveert’s cheek. His lips trembled a little. “Perhaps it was more merciful this way; the thought of what else might have been done to him is . . .” Neuveert visibly struggled for control. Dirk didn’t understand the quiet words in Dutch, but they sounded like curses. “Were you there? Did you find him?” The father’s hoarse voice could barely be understood.

Dirk dug his fingernails into the palm of his hand as the image of the dead boy appeared before his eyes. In the presence of Eric’s father, he had no right to give in to his own rage and sorrow. “Yes. He had a very calm, relaxed expression on his face, as though he had fallen asleep. He didn’t suffer; I am certain of that.” Dirk’s voice, too, was raw, and again he had to swallow hard.

Lost in thought, Neuveert stared at the pond. Dirk remained silent as well, in order to give the father some time. Finally, Neuveert began to speak quietly: “We were always afraid of losing him because of his asthma. Every night, I went to his bed and listened to his breathing. We stayed up through countless nights when he was sick. But who expects danger from a walk on the beach? Eric had run on ahead while we made a brief stop to take Silvana out of the baby carriage. Then Eric was just gone . . .”

This time, Dirk touched Neuveert’s arm. “Stop making it even harder for yourself. You had no chance to prevent this. I know of a case in which the mother was barely twenty yards away. The crime comes like a shot from an ambush. Mr. Neuveert, please stop that—it’s already bad enough. There was nothing you could have done.”

“Like a shot from an ambush?” Neuveert repeated. “You know, I’m surprised. Angela and her colleagues were very concerned and helpful. The Lübeckers were rather cool, but you and your partner are different. You’re close friends, are you not? In your case, I really have the feeling that we . . . that Eric means something to you. Please let us know if you’re successful with your investigation.”

“Of course—you can count on it. How can I reach you in the Netherlands?”

“I’ll give you the e-mail address for my office at the institute. At home wouldn’t be good. I will inform my wife, Mariana, later.”

Dirk saved the e-mail address on his phone and was somewhat uncertain as to how he should say good-bye, but Neuveert made it easy for him. “Thank you, Mr. Richter. In the name of my son, too.”

Neuveert offered his hand, and Dirk responded with a firm grip but couldn’t get out a word. He gave a brief nod in farewell and put his sunglasses on on the way to his car. This case was damned gut-wrenching for him; he didn’t need to have everyone reading this in his eyes. A few minutes later, Sven and the policewoman appeared.

The captain surprised him by embracing him. “I don’t know what you said to Mr. Neuveert, Dirk, but it has helped him greatly. Thank you for that.” He was spared having to answer. “I hope you don’t mind that I call you by your first name. And now we could all use a cold beer. Follow me in your car—I’ll show you a spot on the island that you’ll like. They also have the best fish rolls anywhere on the Baltic, and I want to get something off my chest about the Lübeckers.”

CHAPTER 17

This time, Dirk was grateful for Angela’s unconventional way of driving. The tempo and daring maneuvers left no room for thinking. When a straight stretch lay before them, Sven broke their silence. “She’s right. Well done, partner. Like I said: Your charm seems to have worked. I can’t wait to see what she’s going to pull out of her hat next.”

“She reminds me of Alex: always good for a surprise and never predictable.”

“Hey, don’t get carried away. You’re married.”

Without slowing down, Angela turned onto a country road. During the attempt to follow her, the Audi threatened to leave the curve, but after a horrifying second Dirk had it back under control. They drove past cornfields at top speed until the Baltic lay before them. Dirk brought the Audi to a stop with a controlled skid but could not take his eyes off the water, which was bustling with numerous kitesurfers. Their parachute-like sails were bright spots on the blue-green sea. Dirk got out.

“I could watch them for hours. The weather’s ideal: almost no waves, enough wind,” Angela said and pointed toward a food truck. “That’s Kurti, who still smokes his own fish. When the weather’s like this he’s always here. His granddaughter’s one of the best kitesurfers. Mackerel or eel? I’m buying. There’s mineral water or Jever to drink.”

“I’d like mackerel. And Jever’s great. We drink it at home, too.”

“That’s what I thought; one of those fluff brews wouldn’t fit you two. Beer needs to be tart. Period.”

Sven smiled and gave a thumbs-up. “That’s how it is. You take care of the fish; the LKA will ensure we don’t die of thirst. I’ll help you carry things.”

Thankful for his partner’s thoughtful behavior, Dirk leaned against the Audi and enjoyed the warm sun and the wind blowing through his hair. Once again, he swore he would bring down those responsible for Eric’s murder, but even that would be only somewhat satisfactory. He didn’t understand why there were people who transgressed all boundaries of humanity and law. Sure, one’s intellect provided answers—power, profit, greed, and perversion—but something in him fought against accepting that such abysses existed.

For his taste, Sven and Angela returned too soon, but he forced a smile.

“Should we eat here or at one of the shaky stand-up tables?” asked Sven.

“At the tables. Closer to the sea.”

“Is that a sport for you?” asked Angela, pointing with her beer bottle to a surfer who waited until he had nearly reached the beach to execute a perfect turn.

Dirk tilted his head and thought of his rare windsurfing excursions with Pat. “To some extent—the tempo and water would be attractive—but I have a hard time with wind and currents. I’ve mastered windsurfing fairly well, but I only get on a board in the presence of a friend who has an uncanny sense of wind and waves. I just have to follow him; then it works splendidly and is a lot of fun.”

Angela laughed and took a bite of her fish roll. “That sounds really tempting. Let me know if you get out here.”

“I’ll do that. I could easily imagine spending a weekend on the island with family and friends. We’ll see. If it happens, we’ll get in touch.”

“Surfing isn’t your thing?” she asked, turning to Sven.

“If it gets sporty, that’s my partner. The standard fitness program’s enough for me.”

“I can see that by looking at you guys.” She heaved a deep sigh. “It’s unfair—men seem to have an easier time keeping their weight down and staying fit. I really have to work at it.”

With his mouth full, Sven nodded. “That’s what my wife always says, too.” He was barely comprehensible. He swallowed with pleasure. “This stuff’s truly fantastic—coming here for a short vacation would be worth it for the food alone,” he said, much more distinctly.

“I’m glad you both like it. But don’t think everyone finds out about this place.” She raised her beer bottle in a toast to Dirk and Sven, who immediately returned the gesture. The bottles clinked; Sven mouthed some words to Dirk:
Giving up is not an option
, something like their motto. Smiling, Dirk nodded, not surprised that his partner had recognized his mood. Behind his seemingly relaxed facade the rage that hadn’t let him go since the attempted kidnapping continued to boil.

For a while, the conversation rippled along, but his respect for the captain increased more when he heard about how she mastered her job and her tasks as a single mother. Her bottle was almost empty when she turned serious. “If you think I’m insane in a minute, blame it on the beer. Speaking of which—in Munich the
Halbe Helles
are as much a part of lunch as a glass of red wine is in France. It’s nice you’re not giving me a lecture about drinking on duty.”

Dirk found it increasingly easy to grin. “Why should we? One beer’s not going to put any of us over the limit. Where’s the problem?”

“If you ask me, in Lübeck,” she said.

“You should explain that,” Sven said.

“A childhood friend of mine also joined the police. He went to a university, however, and is well on his way to becoming chief of detectives. Or was, actually, because there’s a problem. When he was with the District Office of Criminal Inspection in Lübeck, he noticed that some things were not being pursued. First he believed this was a coincidence, but then it was no longer possible to explain it as such. Specifically, there was the case of a missing boy from Ukraine with blond hair and blue eyes and that of a small Turkish child. An incredibly sweet kid. In both cases, the files were very quickly slammed shut with the explanation ‘Conflict between the parents and probable return to the homeland.’ Then there were a whole lot of rumors that were hotly debated among colleagues but didn’t result in any investigations. Sounds wild, right? But Hannes is as sober as an encyclopedia; he doesn’t go around telling crazy stories. I just know that he turned to the LKA in Kiel and was once again approachable when he visited his mother on weekends. Well, that’s it. Do something with it, or write it off as silly talk. By the way, the bridge is over there. You just have to keep right later, and you’ll be on your way back home.”

Dirk looked in the direction she was pointing, but in his mind he was still sorting the report she had delivered in staccato bursts. The obvious conclusion was that the Kielers had taken the information seriously and put Berger on it. So much for the theory—now they just needed proof. Finally, he raised his beer again. “Do you want to get rid of us so quickly? Thanks for the inside information. I think your friend’s right because we’d already had similar thoughts ourselves. There’s still the question of whether this is just sloppiness or something far worse.”

“I don’t want to get rid of you. Quite the contrary—you’re welcome to stay longer,” Angela offered with a mischievous smile. Without looking, Dirk sensed his partner’s grin, but before a noncommittal answer occurred to him, Angela’s smile grew wider. “Only until Friday evening, however—otherwise there could be trouble with Hannes.”

“Aha—
childhood friend
is what it’s called these days,” Dirk said with a wink.

“If you’d like me to put you in touch with Hannes, let me know.”

After exchanging glances with Sven, Dirk refrained from asking for the full name. They would be able to track down the Lübeck policeman without it. “Thanks. We’ll do that.” He stretched and crumpled the napkin that the fish roll had been wrapped in. “All right, then. Unfortunately, it’s time for us to head back.”

Dissatisfied, Mario Berger closed the file. Without proof, his theory was worth nothing, and his superior in Kiel was getting impatient. At least they were both convinced that the tragic death of little Eric would give them the breakthrough they had long been waiting for. Now it was up to him to turn their conjectures into watertight charges for the public prosecutor’s office, and this was exactly his problem: he had nothing. He had spent over two hours studying the personnel files of the two policemen who had manifested a conspicuous interest in their Hamburg colleagues. But the contents had had a tendency to raise more questions rather than provide answers. There were no obvious commonalities between the two men, and their CVs didn’t seem to justify a close friendship.

Ulf Blumenthal, whom the red-haired American, not inappropriately, had compared to a primate, had entered the police force after passing his final high school examinations and been promoted at normal intervals during his service, but there were some formulations in the personnel file that indicated his superiors hadn’t always been happy with the fifty-two-year-old’s performance. Unfortunately, a bad feeling wasn’t enough to justify further measures such as taking a look at his financial situation or searching his apartment. There were some indications that Eddings had been right in his assumption that if there had been no witnesses the situation in the old-town building would have escalated. However, in Berger’s view such an escalation would have ended fatally for the two policemen, as Eddings and his red-haired friend had already proven that they could handle themselves. Sandra Meinke didn’t seem to see her service pistol as a fashion accessory, either.

That left the second policeman, Volker Lüttgens. At the age of thirty-one, he already held the same rank as the older man. His evaluations were consistently positive, and he had also received two commendations. After passing the college placement examinations, he had decided against going to college and chose a career with the police. Why was Lüttgens involved with Blumenthal? Berger hadn’t failed to notice how uncomfortable his colleague had felt when they had met.

But these questions would have to wait; Berger’s wife and daughter were complaining more frequently about his constant absence. Today he would finish on time.

He groaned inside when he heard a knock at his office door and—without waiting for a reply—Röhrich entered. The captain had long been his favorite suspect, but he was now no longer sure what he should think of the man—there was too much that didn’t fit.

Röhrich looked out the window, down at the Berliner Platz, a Lübeck roundabout on which there was always traffic in the daytime. Berger, too, had observed the sometimes chaotic and irresponsible behavior of bicyclists and drivers and hoped to sort out his contradictory thoughts while doing so. He waited patiently until Röhrich broke the silence. “What you suggested earlier about the dubious roles of Blumenthal and Lüttgens, I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it, either. But I can’t find a plausible explanation for their behavior. No order was issued to the effect that they should go to where Mr. Richter’s son was being treated in the hospital. Blumenthal proceeded there on his own initiative and didn’t report to the command center until he was there. Today was nearly the same situation once again. He’s doing his own thing. The question is: Why? And perhaps also: For whom?”

“And where does Lüttgens fit in?” Röhrich asked while he scratched his thumbnail.

“If you ask me, not at all. The two make a remarkably odd couple.” Berger closed the second file folder. “But I won’t get any further now. Tomorrow’s another day.”

If Röhrich found quitting for the day at around four thirty—which was relatively early—to be unjustifiable, he didn’t show it; instead, he looked down at the roundabout. “I have a feeling about this, but I can’t figure out why.” He apologetically spread his hands. “I’m not one of the best-informed people here, but Blumenthal’s name came up some time ago in circumstances I can’t remember anymore. I hoped you’d give me the right key word.”

“I’m sorry. I have to pass.” Berger noted this; perhaps his partner for this mission would be able to shine a light into the darkness. Since they had agreed to meet for a brief conversation anyway, he would pass the question on.

“All right. Then I won’t keep you any longer. Well, one other thing: Have you asked around in Hamburg? I don’t like that Klein, not to mention the American—there’s definitely something behind all this.”

“I’ve asked around, without success—except that I was advised not to ask any further questions about it . . . Richter and Klein seem to be in the chief of police’s good graces, and they’re tight with the head of the drug unit. A regular men’s club.” With this, Berger stuck to the truth halfway and refrained from mentioning the rumors about how the two had taken on terrorists in the past and gotten the upper hand. In his estimation, these rumors could well be true. Both in Richter’s case and in Klein’s, he had sensed a hardness that he knew well behind the engaging manner. He hadn’t bought Richter’s performance as a harmless accountant for a minute and had let this be noted. Also, there was the manner in which Eddings had resolved the hostage situation. Tax expert. Berger sighed with a hissing sound as he thought of Eddings’s supposed job.

He didn’t recall that he wasn’t alone until he heard Röhrich’s question. “Excuse me. I just thought about the murder of the photographer.”

“The perpetrator’s still not saying anything?”

“No, not a word. We’ve put his fingerprints through all the databases, without any results.”

“And the photographer’s apartment?”

“Nothing. According to the technicians, nothing can be obtained from the destroyed laptop.”

“What a mess. At least the weather’s adjusted to the season. I think I’ll have to water some plants for the first time today. Have a good evening.”

A few feet from his Opel, Berger pressed the button on his car key and cursed when nothing happened. He had expected the door to unlock and the blinkers to light up; instead, the car seemed to be ignoring him. Again, he pressed the button, this time harder and for longer. Again nothing happened. “Damned technology,” he said and fumbled with the door until he got it open. He wondered when he had last manually unlocked the car.

He threw his backpack, which served as a briefcase, onto the passenger seat and was about to get in when he heard someone shouting his name. He turned around and saw Röhrich hurrying toward him. Berger took a step toward Röhrich when something hit him in the back with great force; staggering, he tried to stay on his feet. He didn’t understand what was happening to him. A loud detonation echoed in his head. Although murderous heat seemed to envelop him, he felt no pain. All he perceived was Röhrich’s horrified face and mouth, which were frantically moving. Berger heard nothing. The sky over him began to rock and move toward him; then hellish pain set in. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. In a moment of surprising clarity, he realized Röhrich was dragging him away. But why? His instinct had been correct: the captain was innocent, he still thought. Then an impenetrable blackness displaced all coherent thought and released him from the pain raging everywhere in his body.