Self's punishment (15 page)

16

Dad’s dearest wish

More and more pieces of the jigsaw puzzle were fitting together. Yet they still didn’t add up to a plausible picture. I now understood what Mischkey’s file was: a collection of everything he could muster against the RCW. A wretched collection. He must have been playing high-stakes poker to impress Danckelmann and Thomas as much as he obviously had. But what did he want to achieve or prevent by this? The RCW hadn’t told him to his face that they had no intention of instituting proceedings against him with the police, court, and prison. Why had they wanted to exert pressure? What were their intentions towards Mischkey, and what was he arming himself against with his feeble insinuations and threats?

My thoughts turned to Grimm. He’d come into money, he’d had a strange reaction that morning, and I was fairly certain he had talked to Danckelmann. Was Grimm the RCW’s man in the RCC? Had the RCW initially assigned this role to Mischkey? We won’t go to the police, and you’ll ensure our emissions data are always squeaky clean? Such a man would be valuable indeed. The monitoring system would be rendered obsolete and wouldn’t interfere with production.

But none of this necessarily made the murder of Mischkey plausible. Grimm as the murderer, wanting to do business with the RCW and to have Mischkey out of the way? Or did Mischkey’s material contain some other dynamite that had eluded me thus far, that had provoked the deadly reaction of the RCW? But then Danckelmann and Thomas could scarcely have overlooked such an act, and they wouldn’t have spoken so openly to me about the conflict with Mischkey. And while Grimm might make a better impression than in his safari suit, even with his pencil moustache I couldn’t picture him as a murderer. Was I looking in completely the wrong direction? Fred might have beaten up Mischkey under contract from the RCW, but also from any other employer, and he could have killed him for them. What did I know about all the ways Mischkey could have entangled himself through his confidence tricks? I’d have to talk to Fred again.

I took my leave of Aristotle. The courtyards of the old factory worked their magic again. I walked through the archway into the next courtyard, its walls glowing in the autumnal red of the Virginia creeper. No Richard playing with his ball. I rang the bell of the Schmalzes’ work apartment. The elderly woman, whom I recognized by sight, opened the door. She was dressed in black.

‘Frau Schmalz? Hello, the name is Self.’

‘Hello, Herr Self. You’re joining us for the funeral? The children will be collecting me any minute.’

Half an hour later I found myself in the crematorium of Ludwigshafen Cemetery. The family had included me in the mourning for Schmalz senior as though it were perfectly natural, and I didn’t like to say that I’d stumbled upon the funeral preparations just by chance. Along with Frau Schmalz, the young married Schmalz couple, and their son Richard, I was driven to the cemetery, glad to be wearing my dark-blue raincoat and the muted suit. During the drive I learned that Schmalz senior had died of a heart attack four days ago.

‘He looked so sprightly when I saw him a few weeks ago.’

The widow sobbed. My lisping friend told me about the circumstances that had led to his death. ‘Dad kept on tinkering with old vans and trucks after retiring. He had a part of the old hangar by the Rhine where he could work. Lately he didn’t take care. The cut in his hand didn’t go that deep but according to the doctor he had heavy bleeding in the brain, too. After that Dad felt a tingling in the left part of the body all the time, he felt terribly unwell, and he didn’t want to get out of bed. Then the heart attack.’

The RCW was well represented at the cemetery. Danckelmann gave a speech. ‘His life was the Works’ security and the Works’ security was his life.’ In the course of his speech he read out a personal farewell letter from Korten. The chairman of the RCW chess club, where Schmalz senior had played third board on the second team, asked Caissa’s blessing on the deceased. The RCW orchestra played ‘I Had a Comrade’. Schmalz was so moved, he forgot himself and lisped at me, ‘Dad’s dearest wish.’ Then the flower-wreathed coffin glided into the furnace.

I couldn’t get out of the funeral tea. I did manage, however, to avoid sitting next to Danckelmann or Thomas, although Schmalz junior had intended this seat of honour for me. I sat next to the chairman of the RCW chess club and we chatted to each other about the world championship. Over cognac we started a game in our heads. By the thirty-second move I lost my overview. We came round to the subject of the deceased.

‘He was a decent player, Schmalz. Although he was a late starter. And you could depend on him in the club. He never missed a practice or a tournament.’

‘How often do you practise?’

‘Every Thursday. Three weeks ago was the first time Schmalz didn’t come. The family said he’d over-exerted himself in the workshop. But you know, I believe the bleeding in the brain happened before then. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been in the workshop, he’d have been at practice. He must already have been off-balance then.’

It was like any other funeral meal. It starts with the soft voices, the studied grief on the faces, and the stiff dignity in the bodies, lots of awkwardness, some embarrassment, and a general desire to get it over with as quickly as possible. And one hour later it’s only the clothing that distinguishes mourners from any other gathering, not the appetite, nor the noise, nor, with a few exceptions, the expressions and gestures. I did grow a little thoughtful though. What would it be like at my own funeral? In the first row of the cemetery chapel, five or six figures, among them Eberhard, Philipp and Willy, Babs, perhaps Röschen and Georg. But it was possible no one at all would learn of my death and, apart from the priest and the four coffin-bearers, not a soul would accompany me to the grave. I could picture Turbo trotting behind the coffin, a mouse in his mouth. It had a bow tied round it: ‘To my dear Gerd from his Turbo.’

17

Against the light

At five I was back in the office, slightly tipsy and in a bad mood.

Fred called. ‘Hello there, Gerhard, do you remember me? I wanted to ask you again about the job. Do you already have someone?’

‘I’ve a couple of candidates. But nothing’s finalized yet. I can take another look at you. It would have to be straight away, though.’

‘That suits me.’

I asked him to the office. Dusk was falling, I switched on the light and let the blinds down.

Fred came cheerfully and trustingly. It was underhanded, but I got the first punch in immediately. At my age I can’t afford a clean fight in such situations. I caught him in the stomach and didn’t waste time removing his sunglasses before hitting his face. His hands flew up and I delivered another punch to his underbelly. When he ventured a half-hearted counterpunch with his right hand, I twisted his arm round behind his back, kicked the hollow of his knees and he sank to the ground. I kept my hold on him.

‘Who contracted you to beat up a guy in the War Cemetery in August?’

‘Hey, stop. You’re hurting me. What’s all this about? I don’t know exactly, the boss doesn’t tell me anything. I . . . aagh . . . let up . . .’

Bit by bit out it came. Fred worked for Hans who got the jobs and made the arrangements, didn’t name any names to Fred, just described the person, place, and time. Sometimes Fred had caught wind of something. ‘I did some stuff for the wine king, and once for the union, and for the chemical guys . . . stop it, yes maybe that was it at the War Cemetery . . . stop it!’

‘And for the chemical guys you killed him a few weeks later.’

‘You’re crazy. I never killed anyone. We messed him up a bit, nothing more. Stop, you’re pulling my arm off, I swear.’

I didn’t manage to hurt him so much that he’d prefer the consequences of an admission of murder to riding out the pain. Besides I found him credible. I let him go.

‘Sorry I had to manhandle you, Fred. I can’t afford to take anyone on who’s mixed up in a murder. He’s dead, the guy you took care of back then.’

Fred scrambled to his feet. I showed him the sink and poured him a sambuca. He gulped it down and was in a hurry to leave.

‘That’s fine,’ he mumbled. ‘But I’ve had enough, I’m out of here.’ Maybe he found my behaviour acceptable from a professional point of view. But we’d never be best friends.

Another piece to fit in, but the picture was no less blurry. So the confrontation between the RCW and Mischkey had reached the stage of professional thugs. But from the warning beaten into him at the War Cemetery to murder was a huge step.

I sat down at my desk. The Sweet Afton had smoked itself and left nothing but its body of ash. The traffic raced by in the Augusta-Anlage. From the backyard I could hear the shrieks of playing children. There are days in autumn where there’s a whiff of Christmas in the air. I wondered what I should decorate my tree with this year. Klärchen loved the traditional way and decked the tree year in, year out with shiny silver baubles and tinsel. Since then I’ve tried everything from matchbox cars to cigarette packs. I’ve got a bit of a reputation for it among my friends, but I’ve also set standards I’m stuck with now. The universe doesn’t have an endless supply of little objects that can be used as Christmas tree decorations. Cans of sardines, for example, would be ornamental, but are very heavy.

Philipp called and demanded I come and admire his new cabin cruiser. Brigitte asked what I was planning that evening. I invited her round to dinner, ran out and bought a fillet of pork, boiled ham, and endives.

We had braised pork, Italian style. Afterwards I put on
The
Man Who Loved Women
. I knew the film already and was curious to see how Brigitte would react to it. When the womanizer, chasing after beautiful women’s legs, ran in front of a car, she thought it served him right. She didn’t particularly like the film. But when it was over she couldn’t resist posing in front of the floor lamp, as if by accident, showing her legs off to advantage against the light.

18

A little story

I dropped Brigitte off at work at the Collini Centre and drank my second coffee at the Gmeiner. I didn’t have a smoking gun in the Mischkey case. Naturally I could keep on looking for my stupid little jigsaw pieces, trying them helplessly this way and that, and combining them to make some picture or other. I was fed up with it. I felt young and dynamic after the night with Brigitte.

At the sales counter the boss was fighting with her son. ‘The way you’re carrying on makes me wonder if you really want to become a pastry cook.’ Did I really want to follow my leads the way I was carrying on? I was timid about those that led to the RCW. Why? Was I afraid of discovering I had delivered Mischkey to his death? Had I messed up the trails deliberately out of consideration for myself and Korten and our friendship?

I drove to Heidelberg and the RCC. Grimm wanted to deal with me quickly, on his feet. I sat down and fetched Mischkey’s computer printout from my briefcase.

‘You wanted to take another look, Herr Grimm. I can leave it with you now. Mischkey really was a helluva guy, broke into the RCW system again although the connection was already cut. I suspect via telephone, or what do you think?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He was a bad liar.

‘You’re a bad liar, Herr Grimm. But that doesn’t matter. For what I’ve got to tell you it’s not important whether you’re a good one or a bad one.’

‘What?’

He was still standing, looking at me helplessly. I made an inviting gesture. ‘Wouldn’t you care to take a seat?’

He shook his head.

‘I don’t have to tell you who the red Ford Escort HD-S 735 sitting in the parking lot down there belongs to. Exactly three weeks ago to the day on the bridge over the railroad between Eppelheim and Wieblingen, Mischkey plummeted in his car onto the tracks after being hit by a red Ford Escort. The witness I managed to unearth even saw that the number plate of the red Escort started with HD and ended with 735.’

‘And why are you telling me this? You should go to the police.’

‘Quite right, Herr Grimm. The witness should have gone to the police, too. I had to explain to him first that a jealous wife is no reason to cover up a murder. In the meantime he’s ready to go to the police with me.’

‘Yes, well then?’ He folded his arms over his chest in a superior manner.

‘The chances of finding another red Escort from Heidelberg with a number plate that fits the description are perhaps . . . Ah, work it out yourself. The damage to the red Escort appears to have been minimal and easy to repair. Tell me, Herr Grimm, was your car stolen three weeks ago, or did you lend it to someone?’

‘No, of course not, what a lot of rubbish you talk.’

‘I would have been surprised anyway. You’ll certainly know that when a murder occurs you always ask, who benefits? What do you think, Herr Grimm? Who benefits from Mischkey’s death?’

He snorted contemptuously.

‘Then allow me to tell you a little story. No, no, don’t get impatient, it’s an interesting little story. You still won’t sit down? Well, once upon a time there was a large chemical plant and a Regional Computing Centre that was supposed to keep an eye on the chemical plant. It was in the chemical plant’s interest that they didn’t keep too careful an eye on it. Two people in the Regional Computer Centre were crucial for monitoring the chemical plant. An awful lot of money was at stake. If only they could buy off one of these supervisors! What wouldn’t they give for that! But they would only buy off one because they only needed one. They sound out both. A little later one is dead and the other pays off his loan. Do you want to know how high the loan was?’

Now he did sit down. To compensate for this mistake he acted outraged. ‘It’s appalling what you’re ascribing not only to me but to our most respected and venerable chemical enterprise. I’d best pass this on to them; they can defend themselves better than a minor employee like me.’

‘I can well believe that what you’d most like to do is run to the RCW. But at the moment the story concerns only you, the police, myself, and my witness. The police will be interested in knowing your whereabouts at the time, and like most people, you too, three weeks
post festum
, won’t be able to provide a solid alibi.’

If there’d been a visit with his poor wife and his doubtless disgusting children at his parents-in-laws’ Grimm would have come out with that. Instead he said, ‘There can’t be a witness who saw me, because I wasn’t there.’

I had him where I wanted him. I didn’t feel any fairer than I had yesterday with Fred, but just as good. ‘Right, Herr Grimm, nor is there a witness who saw you there. But I have someone who will say he saw you there. And what do you think will happen then? The police have a corpse, a crime, a culprit, a witness, and a motive. It may be that the witness finally cracks during the trial, but long before that you’re finished. I don’t know what they give you for taking bribes these days, but along with it comes detention awaiting trial for murder, suspension from work, disgrace for your wife and children, the contempt of society.’

Grimm had turned pale. ‘What is this? What are you doing to me? What have I done to you?’

‘I don’t like the way you let yourself be bought. I can’t stand you. Moreover there’s something I want you to tell me. And if you don’t want me to ruin you, you’d better play along.’

‘What do you want?’

‘When did the RCW contact you for the first time? Who recruited you, and who is, so to speak, the person who runs you? How much have you received from the RCW?’

He recounted the whole thing, from the initial contact Thomas had opened with him after Mischkey’s death, to the negotiations over performance and pay, to the programmes, some of which were still only ideas and some of which he’d already written. And he told me about the suitcase with the crisp new notes.

‘Stupidly, instead of paying back my loan bit by bit so as not to raise suspicion, I went to the bank straight away. I wanted to save on interest.’ He took out a handkerchief and mopped away the sweat, and I asked him what he knew about Mischkey’s death.

‘So far as I could gather, they wanted to put him under pressure after you had turned him in. They wanted to have the cooperation they’re now paying me for, but they wanted it for nothing, in exchange for keeping quiet about his hacking into the system. When he died they were somewhat disgruntled because then they had to pay. Me.’

He could have gone on talking for ever, probably wanted to justify himself, too. I’d heard enough.

‘Thank you, that’s plenty for now, Herr Grimm. In your place I’d keep our discussion confidential. If the RCW get wind of the fact that I know, you’ll be useless to them. Should anything more about Mischkey’s death come to mind, call me.’ I gave him my card.

‘Yes, but – don’t you care about what’s going on with the emissions control. Or are you going to go to the police anyway?’

I thought about the stink that so often caused me to shut the window. And about what was there, even though we couldn’t smell it. Nonetheless it left me indifferent for the time being. I packed away Mischkey’s printouts that were lying on Grimm’s desk. When I turned to leave, Grimm stretched out his hand towards me. I didn’t take it.