The Ice Queen: A Novel (37 page)

“Quite the contrary,” replied Pia. “You’ve kept most of it secret from us.”

Bodenstein kept silent in the background. Ritter’s eyes shifted back and forth between him and Pia. Yesterday, he’d made the mistake of underestimating her. That wasn’t going to happen today.

“Oh, really?” He was trying to act nonchalant, but the nervous flickering in his eyes betrayed his true state of mind. “Like what, for instance?”

“Why were you at Mr. Goldberg’s house on the evening of April twenty-six, one day before he was murdered?” Pia asked. “What did you discuss with Robert Watkowiak in the ice-cream parlor? And why did Vera Kaltensee really fire you?”

With an abrupt movement, Ritter stubbed out his cigarette. The cell phone lying next to his computer keyboard warbled the first chords of Beethoven’s Ninth, but he didn’t even glance at the display.

“What’s this all about?” he said suddenly. “I visited Goldberg, Schneider, and old lady Frings because I wanted to talk to them. Two years ago, I came up with the idea of writing a biography of Vera. At first, she was very enthusiastic and dictated to me for hours what she wanted to read about herself. After a couple of chapters, I realized that it was boring as hell. Twenty sentences about her past, that was it. What people really wanted to read about was her past, her aristocratic background, the dramatic flight with a small child, the loss of her family and the castle—not about business deals and charity crap.”

The cell phone rang again with a single beep.

“But she wouldn’t hear of it. Either I wrote the story as she wanted it or not at all. Unwilling to compromise, as always, the old vulture.” Ritter snorted with contempt. “I tried to convince her, suggested making a novel out of her life story. All the failures, victories, high points, and setbacks in the life of a woman who had personally experienced the events of world history. We ended up arguing about it. She forbade me categorically to do any research, she forbade me to write, and she became more and more suspicious. And then the incident with the trunk happened. I made the mistake of defending Nowak. That did it.” Ritter sighed.

“I was pretty well screwed,” he admitted. “I had no prospect of a decent job, a nice apartment, or any sort of future.”

“Until you married Marleen. Then you got it all back.”

“What are you trying to imply?” Ritter retorted, but his indignation didn’t seem genuine.

“That you made advances to Marleen in order to get revenge on your former boss.”

“Nonsense!” he countered. “We met each other purely by accident. I fell in love with her and she fell in love with me.”

“Why didn’t you tell us yesterday that you’d married Siegbert Kaltensee’s daughter?” Pia didn’t believe a word he was saying. Compared to the elegant brunette who was there when they came in, the mousy-looking Marleen clearly came off second best.

“Because I didn’t think it was any of your business,” replied Ritter aggressively.

Bodenstein intervened. “Your private life doesn’t interest us. What about Goldberg and Watkowiak?”

“I wanted information from them.” Ritter seemed relieved at the change of subject and gave Pia a hostile look before completely ignoring her. “A while ago, somebody asked me whether I would be interested in writing a biography—a
true
account of Vera Kaltensee’s life, with all the dirty details. They offered me a lot of money, firsthand information, and the prospect of … revenge.”

“Who was it?” Bodenstein asked.

Ritter shook his head. “I can’t tell you,” he replied. “But the material I received was first-class.”

“In what way?”

“Vera’s diaries from 1934 to 1943.” Ritter smiled grimly. “Detailed background information about everything that Vera absolutely wanted to keep secret. When I read the diaries, I came across quite a few inconsistencies, but one thing was clear to me: There is no way Elard can be Vera’s son. The writer of the diary had no fiancé or suitor until December 1943. And she hadn’t had sexual relations, so there was no question of her having given birth to a child. But…” He paused for effect and looked at Bodenstein. “Vera’s older brother Elard von Zeydlitz-Lauenburg was carrying on a love affair with a young woman named Vicky, the daughter of the estate steward, Endrikat. In August 1942, she gave birth to a son who was baptized Heinrich Arno Elard.”

Bodenstein received this news without comment.

“And then?” was all he said. Ritter was oddly disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm.

“The diaries were written by a left-handed girl. Vera is right-handed,” he concluded abruptly. “And that’s the proof.”

“The proof of what?” Bodenstein asked.

“The proof that Vera is not really who she pretends to be!” Ritter couldn’t sit still any longer and sprang up. “Just like Goldberg, Schneider, and Frings. Those four have shared some dark secret, and I want to find out what it is.”

“And that’s why you went to see Goldberg?” Pia asked skeptically. “Did you really think he’d be willing to tell you everything he’d kept secret for over sixty years?”

Ritter ignored her objection.

“I went to Poland to do research there. Unfortunately, there are no witnesses left to consult. Then I went to see Schneider and Anita, too, but I kept getting the same answer.”

He grimaced in disgust.

“All three of them acted dumb, those self-righteous, arrogant old Nazis with their comrade evenings and their old-fashioned adages. I couldn’t stand them even before, any of them.”

“And when those three didn’t help you, you shot them,” said Pia.

“Precisely. With the Kalashnikov I always carry around. So arrest me,” Ritter challenged her sarcastically. He turned to Bodenstein. “Why would I have bothered to kill those three? They were ancient; time would do the job for me soon enough.”

“And Robert Watkowiak? What did you want from him?”

“Information. I paid him to tell me more about Vera. Besides, I was able to tell him who his real father was.”

“How did you know that?” Pia asked.

“I know quite a bit,” replied Ritter condescendingly. “The story that Robert was the illegitimate son of Eugen Kaltensee is a fairy tale. Robert’s mother was a seventeen-year-old Polish maid at Mühlenhof. Siegbert had repeatedly assaulted her, until the poor girl got pregnant. His parents sent him off at once to college in America and forced her to have the baby in secret in the basement. After that, she disappeared, never to be seen again. I presume that they bumped her off and buried her somewhere on the grounds.”

Ritter was talking faster and faster, and his eyes shone as if from a fever. Bodenstein and Pia listened in silence.

“Vera could have given up Robert for adoption as an infant, but she preferred to let him suffer under the assumption that he was an unfortunate indiscretion. At the same time, she enjoyed the way he admired and worshiped her. She has always been arrogant, considering herself untouchable. That’s why she never destroyed the trunk with all its explosive contents. Too bad for her that Elard happened to form a close friendship with a contractor who specialized in restorations and came up with the idea of having the mill renovated.”

Ritter’s voice sounded full of hatred, and Pia only now realized the full extent of his bitterness and desire for revenge.

He laughed maliciously. “Oh yes, and Vera has Robert on her conscience. When Marleen fell in love with Robert, of all people—her half-brother—then they were in dire straits. Marleen had just turned fourteen and Robert was already in his mid-twenties. After the accident in which Marleen lost her leg, Robert fled from Mühlenhof. Shortly thereafter, his criminal career began.

“Your wife lost a leg?” Pia asked, recalling that Marleen Ritter had actually dragged her left leg behind her when she walked.

“Yes. As I said.”

For a while, it was totally quiet in the little office, except for the humming of the computer. Pia exchanged a quick glance with Bodenstein; as usual, she couldn’t tell by looking at him what he was thinking. Even if Ritter’s information was only half true, it was definitely dynamite. Had Watkowiak had to die because he had learned the truth of his origins from Ritter and had then confronted Vera Kaltensee?

“Will that also be a chapter in your book?” Pia inquired. “It sounds a little risky to me.”

Ritter hesitated, then merely shrugged. “It certainly is,” he said without looking at her. “But I need the money.”

“What does your wife say about you writing something like that about her family and her father? I wouldn’t think she’d be pleased.”

Ritter pressed his lips together to a narrow line.

“The Kaltensees and I are at war,” he replied histrionically. “And in every war, there are victims.”

“The Kaltensee family won’t take this lying down.”

“They have already arrayed their troops against me,” said Ritter with a forced smile. “There is a temporary restraining order. And an injunction has been filed against me and the publisher. In addition, Siegbert has issued numerous threats against me. He says that I’ll have no more joy from any of my royalties if I ever make my claims public.”

“Give us the diaries,” said Bodenstein.

“They aren’t here. Besides, the diaries are my life insurance. The only insurance I have.”

“I hope you’re not making a mistake.” Pia took a test tube out of her shoulder bag. “You certainly don’t have any objection to a little saliva test, do you?”

“No, I don’t.” Ritter stuck his hands in the seat pockets of his jeans and sized her up disparagingly. “Even though I can’t imagine what use it will be.”

“So that we can identify your corpse more rapidly,” Pia replied coldly. “I’m afraid you’re underestimating the danger you’ve gotten yourself into.”

The look in Ritter’s eyes turned hostile. He took the cotton swab from Pia’s hand, opened his mouth, and drew the swab across the inside of his cheek.

“Thank you.” Pia took the test swab and sealed the tube in accordance with regulations. “Tomorrow we’ll send our colleagues by your place to pick up the diaries. And if you feel in any way threatened, call me. You have my card.”

*   *   *

“I don’t know if I believe everything Ritter told us,” Pia said as they crossed the parking lot. “The man is obviously obsessed with revenge. Even his marriage is pure vengeance.”

Suddenly, something occurred to her, and she stopped abruptly.

“What is it?” asked Bodenstein.

“That woman in his office,” said Pia, trying to remember her conversation with Christina Nowak. “Beautiful, dark-haired, elegant—it could be the same woman that Nowak met in front of the house in Königstein!”

Bodenstein nodded. “You’re right. She seemed familiar to me, too. I just couldn’t place her.”

He handed Pia the car keys. “I’ll be right back.”

He went back inside the building and ran up the stairs to the top floor. He waited for a moment outside the door until he was no longer snuffling like a walrus, then rang the bell. The receptionist batted her fake eyelashes in astonishment when she saw him.

“Do you know the woman who was in Dr. Ritter’s office earlier?” he asked. She looked him up and down, tilted her head, and rubbed her right forefinger and thumb together.

“Could be.”

Bodenstein got it. He took out his wallet and pulled out a twenty-euro bill. The woman’s contemptuous frown changed to a smile when a fifty appeared.

“Katharina…” She snatched the bill and held out her hand again. Bodenstein sighed and handed her the twenty, too. She slipped both bills into her boot.

“Ehrmann.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice confidentially. “From Switzerland. Lives somewhere in the Taunus when she’s in Germany. Drives a black BMW five with Zürich plates. And if you happen to know anyone who’s looking for an experienced secretary, think of me. I’ve had enough of this outfit.”

“I’ll ask around.” Bodenstein, who took it as a joke, winked at her and stuck his business card in the keyboard of her computer. “Send me an e-mail with your CV and references.”

*   *   *

Bodenstein hurried along the rows of parked cars as he checked his e-mail on his cell. He almost ran into a black panel truck. Pia was thumbing a text as Bodenstein returned to his BMW.

“Miriam is going to check whether what Ritter just told us is correct,” she explained, fastening her seat belt. “Maybe there are still some church records in existence from 1942.”

Bodenstein started the engine.

“The woman who was in Ritter’s office before was Katharina Ehrmann,” he said.

“Oh yeah? The one with four percent of the vote?” Pia was astonished. “What does she have to do with Ritter?”

“Ask me something easier.” Bodenstein maneuvered the BMW out of the parking space and pressed the multifunction key on his steering wheel to activate the callback function. A moment later, Ostermann checked in.

“Boss, all hell is breaking loose here,” his voice said over the loudspeaker. “Nierhoff and the new woman are planning to set up special investigations for the pensioners and for Monika Krämer.”

Bodenstein, who had expected something like this to happen, but much earlier, remained calm. He glanced at the clock. One-thirty. From the Hanauer Landstrasse, it would take him about thirty minutes at this time of day if he took the road across the Riederwald and then the Alleenring.

“We’re meeting in half an hour at Zaika in Liederbach for a situation meeting. The complete K-Eleven team,” he told Ostermann. “Order me carpaccio and chicken curry if you get there before I do.”

“And a pizza for me!” shouted Pia from the passenger seat.

“With extra tuna and anchovies,” Ostermann said, completing her order. “Sure. See you.”

For a long while, they drove in silence, both busy with their own thoughts. Bodenstein was thinking about the accusation that his former boss in Frankfurt had often made. Detective Superintendent Menzel had claimed, preferably in front of the whole team, that he was inflexible and not a team player. Without a doubt, he was right. Bodenstein hated wasting time in meetings, squabbles over credentials, and stupid power plays. That was one of the reasons he’d been glad to transfer to Hofheim, to a manageable department with only five people. He still believed that too many cooks definitely spoiled the broth.