Dead Woods (3 page)

Lina shrugged. “Frau Ansmann’s shoes are size 41 and she loves exclusive clothes. They must have money. Huge apartment, parquet everywhere, expensive furniture. Philip Birkner’s home office could easily serve as a second living room and bedroom.” She paused to take the last sip of coffee. “Any idea how much a software developer and an executive consultant make?”

Max signaled and turned left after the oncoming traffic had passed. “More than we do.”

“You don’t have to tell me that, but is it enough to afford such an apartment?”

With a shrug of his own, he said, “Maybe one of them has rich parents, or got an inheritance, or won the lottery. I know you don’t like career women, but the simple fact that Katja Ansmann has money doesn’t in itself make her a suspect.”

“I’ve got nothing at all against career women, but . . .”

“Lina, it’s way too early to speculate. You have to wake up first.”

Max was right. Lina could be sloppy in the mornings—she might seem awake, maybe even speak in complete sentences, but half of what she said made no sense at all. She sat in silence, crushed the paper cup in her hands, and looked out the window while they were on their way to bring the news to the dead man’s parents.

The money for the apartment did not come from Philip Birkner’s parents. That much was clear to them as soon as they arrived in the Wandsbeck district and stood in front of the redbrick co-op so typical for Hamburg. Even though the apartment on the second floor had been recently renovated and was surprisingly roomy, it was as different in class from their son’s grand abode in Rothenbaum as a VW Golf is from a Porsche.

Both parents were at home when the detectives arrived. The father, either retired or close to it, looked ill. He sat on the sofa with a book by his side. Frau Birkner, a petite woman wearing a simple light summer dress, offered coffee, which Lina and Max politely declined.

Philip’s mother buried her face in her hands when she heard of Philip’s death. The father stared at Max with wide-open eyes and then lowered his head. In his calm voice, Max told them the essentials: Niendorfer Gehege, last night, a blow to the head; no, he probably didn’t suffer. The last part may not have been true, but there was no reason for him to deny this final solace to parents. As it turned out, they knew very little about their son’s life, seldom saw the grandson, much too rarely, as Lina could hear between the lines.

“Frau Birkner, Herr Birkner, do you know whether your son had any enemies? Did he have problems at work or with acquaintances?” Lina asked.

“Philip? Oh, no, he wasn’t one to have enemies. Who would want to do him any harm?” said the mother. “He’s such a good boy! Everyone likes him and he’s welcome everywhere. And he’s so smart! He’s a computer expert, you know, and he has a good job.”

Lina frowned but did not say anything. She discreetly looked around the room. A three-part wall unit with a glass display case for the good china; light-colored upholstery that smelled of cleaning spray; a thick, fluffy carpet in various shades of brown; a gathered curtain at the windows; and two orchids on the windowsill. On the wall next to the television were pictures of Philip and Leon—typical amateur shots. Katja Ansmann was in only one of them. Other pictures were of a man who seemed to be a few years older than Philip, together with his wife and two children.

“Does Philip have a brother?” Lina asked the parents, pointing to the photos.

“Yes. Lukas. He lives in Eppendorf, not far from Philip.”

“Did the two get along? Would he know if your son had any kind of problems?”

“Philip had no problems,” the mother insisted. Her voice was a little shrill. She was sitting upright at the edge of the sofa and her lips were pressed together.

“You’re probably right, Frau Birkner,” Max said gently. “After all, you know your son better than we do. We just have to look at all angles to find out who did that to Philip.”

The woman seemed to relax.

“He was always lucky,” the father said quietly. “He even found a new job quickly when his own company didn’t work out.” The way his wife looked at him spelled trouble and he looked down without saying more.

“Philip used to have his own company, you know. But it went bust; not that it was his fault,” Frau Birkner said to Max. “One of his employees made a mistake and Philip had to suffer for it.”

Remembering the large, comfortable apartment, Lina thought that the punishment was quite lenient. Herr Birkner said nothing and continued to look at a spot on the carpet. He was slightly overweight and was sweating in the warm room.

Max leaned forward and said, “We’ll leave you alone now. Before we go, could you give us the address of your second son?”

“What do you want with Lukas? He has nothing to do with Philip’s death!” The mother’s shrill voice cut into Lina’s ears.

“There’re just some routine questions, I can assure you. I know you want us to find your son’s murderer. Every hint we get can help us.”

“Well, in that case you should investigate that girlfriend of his! That ice-cold bitch! I’m sure she’s involved. That’s a . . .”

“Gisela . . . ,” Philip’s father said sharply.

“Frau Birkner, it’s best not to utter such accusations lightly,” Max said, delivering his slight reproach in a soft voice. “I understand that you’re agitated, but to accuse your son’s girlfriend of having been involved with his death . . . You’d have to have good reasons.”

“This . . . this stuck-up princess.”

“Leave Katja alone already, Gisela,” Herr Birkner said, tension in his voice.

“She doesn’t even let us see our grandson regularly,” Frau Birkner continued as if she hadn’t heard her husband. “She claims that Leon is bored at our place and that we spoil him too much. Not true. She just thinks we aren’t good enough for her and Leon. She comes from good stock—her parents live in Blankenese, and they come loaded with mountains of presents every birthday and Christmas. Of course we can’t compete with that.” She straightened up even more on the edge of the sofa. “Ha! Guess who’s spoiling the little guy!”

“Gisela . . .” Herr Birkner put a hand on his wife’s arm, but she brusquely shook him off.

“And Katja, that bitch . . . You should’ve seen how she treated me! As if I were her maid!” Frau Birkner said indignantly, wiping tears from her eyes, tears of anger and of sorrow. “Once, they were here for coffee and I had to wait on her hand and foot. No way would she help in the kitchen or clearing the table. Fat chance. She’s too elegant for that.”

“Lately Philip visits us by himself,” Herr Birkner said. “Sometimes he brings Leon, but not often.” He looked up for a moment. “In the beginning, we sometimes visited them, but that was even worse . . . We had to be happy to settle for a cup of coffee. We were never welcome there.”

“Not even when your son was at home?” Lina asked.

The Birkners looked at each other.

“Well, he . . . ,” began the man.

“This woman has him completely under her thumb. He does whatever she wants. He never would have moved into such a showy apartment on his own. But Katja insisted on it and Philip did her bidding.” Frau Birkner’s face had turned red and she was breathing heavily now, as if she wanted to emphasize her words. But then her color changed from one second to the next when she remembered that her son was dead. She collapsed and started to cry quietly. Her husband helplessly patted her back.

Max and Lina looked at each other.

“Can we call anyone to come and stay with you?” asked Berg.

Herr Birkner shook his head. “Not necessary. We’ll call Lukas right away and he’ll be here at once. He’s a good boy, just like Philip.”

Chapter 3

On the way to the car, Max’s phone rang. It was Reiner Hartmann.

“This might interest you. We found a receipt from the Waldschänke in the dead man’s wallet. That’s a bar very close to the crime scene. It’s from last night.”

“Thanks,” said Max and clicked the car doors open. “Did you already check his phone?” Those things were invaluable if you wanted to find out what someone was doing, what someone was interested in. Max could hear the rustling of papers.

“Of the last five calls he made, two were to a Tanja Fischer. They last talked at six o’clock last night.” Max jotted down the number. “I’ll send you the detailed list later.”

“Thank you,” said Max. “Anything else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, did you find anything else? Any other clues? Fiber samples, fingerprints . . .”

“You must be joking! We just left the crime scene half an hour ago and you already want results? Are you dreaming?” Max could almost see Reiner Hartmann’s face in front of him. They had been classmates in the criminal justice training program and his colleague later specialized in forensics. Now, he was probably frowning and shaking his head.

“Okay, okay,” replied Max. “I know that it takes six weeks if we follow official channels. But is there any chance I could get some results before Christmas?” He looked at the sparkling blue sky. The long summer break would be over next week.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Did Sotny tell you when he’s doing the autopsy?”

“This afternoon. Wanna come?”

“No, thank you.” Max grimaced. He had attended an autopsy once and had nightmares for months afterward. He was content with reading the report when it was done or, even better, having Sotny explain the results in person. When it was just the two of them, the coroner could dispense with the jargon that rattles your brain while important information gets lost in a sea of words.

They ended the call without saying good-bye. Max looked at Lina, who was leaning against the car, her face to the sun.

“Now we know where Birkner was last night,” he said. “At the Waldschänke, in the Niendorfer Gehege.”

Lina turned to him. “I know that joint. They have concerts there regularly, sometimes far-out stuff.” She took out her phone and quickly found what she was looking for, and read aloud, “‘Ingenia. Indian sounds on western instruments. Familiar rhythms with exotic airs. Five musicians enchant and pleasantly confuse their audience with a crossover through time and space. Waldschänke. Show time at 7:30 p.m.’ Sounds intriguing.” She looked up. “Let’s head over there right now. We’ve got the picture his parents gave us.”

Max shook his head. “Birkner called a woman named Tanja Fischer shortly before the concert. Her name shows up on his call history quite often. I’ll try to locate her and have a chat.” He smiled. “And I’ll let Hanno know.”

Lina nodded. Hanno Peters was her immediate boss: early sixties, an easygoing hulk of a man who waited for his retirement and only left police headquarters when it was time to quit in the evening. The rest of the time he spent at his desk, “collecting threads,” as he called it. He would occasionally call a team meeting, but on the whole he gave his people a free hand.

“How do you plan to get there? We only have one car,” Lina asked.

“Drop me at the subway.” They changed seats and it took Lina awhile to adjust the seat and the mirror. Max was grinning. The next driver would be puzzled. Lina had to push the seat all the way forward and even then it looked as if she could barely reach the gas pedal.

“You didn’t tell me what Frau Ansmann told you about Philip’s bankruptcy,” Lina said after merging with the traffic.

“She said she didn’t know much about it. A crucial mistake was made. Birkner blamed Frank Jensen and then fired him. He gave him a lousy referral, which made Jensen mad at Birkner. Jensen apparently called his former boss on a regular basis for months, swearing at him.”

Lina checked the rearview mirror and signaled. “I bet she hated it that he lost his company. After all, she comes from such good stock.”

Max remained silent while they waited at a light. Maybe Lina had a point, but he didn’t want to strengthen her antipathy against Katja Ansmann. When they saw the subway station, he said, “You can stop over there.” Once he was outside, Lina waved and then she was gone, her head barely visible above the steering wheel.

It didn’t take long to reach the Niendorfer Gehege. She turned into the parking lot of the Waldschänke shortly after eleven. The forest lay on one side and on the other side were meadows, on which ponies from a nearby stable were grazing. On weekends, when the weather was good, the place was packed, but now only three vehicles were visible.

The restaurant didn’t open until 11:30, but from the kitchen one could hear the rattling of dishes. Lina walked around the wooden building to a side entrance and knocked. No response. She knocked again, louder. The door flung open. A huge man with a sweaty face towered over her and scrutinized her with knitted eyebrows. “We’re still closed. Why don’t you walk around for another hour?”

Before he could slam the door shut, Lina put a foot forward and flipped her badge. “Major Crimes, Hamburg. Homicide Division. I’d like to talk with your boss.”

The cook looked at her ID, then at Lina, and almost imperceptibly shook his head. “They’re hiring children now,” he mumbled under his breath before shouting, “Bertram! Somebody’s here from the police.”

The cook stood in the door until a man in black trousers, a white shirt, and a black vest appeared, drying his hands on a dish towel. When he saw Lina, he puckered his lips.

“Yes, hello. What’s the problem?”

Lina held her badge in front of his face, and the words
Homicide Division
produced the desired effect. Bertram grew pale, asked her in, and led her through the kitchen into the restaurant. A small podium served as a stage and to its right, in the background, was the bar. Small bistro tables in the middle of the room were framed by long tables along the walls. It was customary for guests who did not know each other to sit there together.

Originally, the Waldschänke had been a restaurant with a rustic atmosphere and down-home German cooking popular with hikers. Things changed after a new owner took over two years ago. The menu had become more international and instead of simply brewed coffee, a wide assortment of specialty coffees, drinks that really deserved to be called “special,” was offered now. The massive wooden beams were brightly varnished, and the heavy, dark tables had been replaced by lighter furniture. The room appeared larger and had a more urban look. Pictures of bellowing stags on the walls had been replaced with works by young artists. On weekends, and sometimes also on Thursdays, there were concerts or dramatic presentations that one would rarely find in more mainstream venues. The Waldschänke was well on its way to becoming an insider’s tip within the cultural scene of Hamburg.

Lina sensed the innkeeper scrutinizing her, but stayed focused. She knew that she looked less than commanding and that her faded jeans and rumpled T-shirts hardly met the image people had of an officer of the law. She was glad that the tattoo on her shoulder wasn’t visible. She had long gotten rid of the neon green strand of hair, right after joining the homicide squad. “Just imagine you’ve got to inform someone that a loved one has been killed,” Hanno Peters had told her on her first day. “You simply can’t show up like this. Just stop this adolescent nonsense.” She had been mad as hell at first, but when Hanno Peters was right, he was right. She could not close her eyes to rational arguments.

“Are you the owner of the Waldschänke?” she asked Bertram, who had still not introduced himself.

“Yes, Vogt. Bertram Vogt. How can I help you?”

“The body of a man was found near here this morning. He had a receipt from your place on him, from last night. Do you remember him?” She had taken out Philip Birkner’s photo and now showed it to Vogt.

“So that’s why police were everywhere this morning. Where did they find him?”

Lina gestured vaguely toward the forest. “Over there, behind the railway embankment.”

Bertram Vogt looked at the picture and tilted his head. “I really don’t know. I’m not good at remembering faces. It’s possible he was here, but I was behind the bar and from there I don’t see much of the guests.”

“What about your waiters? I’m sure you weren’t the only one working last night.”

“No, of course not. There were five of us; two behind the bar and three women serving the tables. Jule and Sabrina should be here any minute. Antje is off today.”

“Who was behind the bar with you?”

“My wife, Ulrike. She’s also off today.”

“Good. I’ll wait for your employees,” Lina said and climbed onto one of the barstools. “I’ll also need the address where I could reach the third one—does Frau Antje have a last name?—and your wife.”

Bertram Vogt leafed through an address book behind the bar and gave her the information. Lina glanced yearningly at the espresso machine, which made the innkeeper laugh. “I’ll have to turn it on anyway. Would you like a coffee?”

Lina nodded. “That would be great. Was it very crowded last night?”

“We weren’t sold out, but it was a successful evening,” he said while he worked at the machine, which produced an infernal din. “What would you like? Espresso, cappuccino, latte macchiato—”

“An espresso, please,” Lina interrupted him before he could recite the entire litany from his coffee menu. “Can people purchase tickets in advance?”

“Yes, of course. We always do that. It helps us to get an idea how full we’ll be, even though we’ve never sold out in advance.”

“May I have a look at the list?”

“Sure.”

He pulled out another book, a calendar this time, and turned to the page for last night. “Here.” Then he busied himself with her espresso.

Just as he was putting the tiny cup on the counter in front of her, she found the name Birkner and a phone number next to it. Two tickets had been ordered under that name. “When was this order made?”

Bertram Vogt glanced at the list. “We started advance sales four weeks ago. I’d guess this entry was made a week ago, but I can’t say for sure.”

“Were you the one who took this reservation?”

“No. That’s my wife’s handwriting. Whoever is free to answer the phone writes the name, the number of tickets, and the telephone number under the date. Look, the handwriting is always different. This was written by my wife. This is Antje’s handwriting, and that—”

“That’s all right. I don’t need to know this,” Lina said before sipping her espresso, which was so hot and strong that she felt her brain finally jolt wide awake.

Bertram Vogt was about to close the book, but Lina put her hand on the open page. “I’m sorry if I was impolite. If I’d had your espresso before, it wouldn’t have happened.” She smiled and the innkeeper’s furrowed brow smoothed. “Could you make me a copy of this?” She fluttered her eyelashes, a trick she always found a little much but which always worked, or almost always.

The innkeeper flashed a smile and disappeared into a nook behind the bar, which probably served as an office. When he came back, Lina went through the list once more. “The name is crossed out. Does that mean the two tickets were picked up?”

“Not always. It means that we no longer have to hold on to them. He might have called and canceled, but that’s not likely. It can also happen that people order more tickets than they need.”

“So he could have been here alone?”

“Possibly, but who attends a concert alone?”

They heard voices from the kitchen. Assuming that the cook wasn’t talking to himself and using different voices, one of the other employees must have arrived. Lina looked at Bertram Vogt, who disappeared again. She heard his deep voice and shortly afterward two women came to the bar. That was lucky.

Jule Wollschütter looked like a typical business student. She wore her long blond hair in a braid. Sabrina Prost looked older, but maybe only because of her staid appearance. She was small and rotund, with short brown hair. She recognized Philip immediately.

“Oh sure, he sat back there,” she said and pointed to one of the long tables on the left of the entrance. “With two women.”

“Two women? Are you sure?” Lina asked.

“Well, anyway, he had a lively conversation with the one who sat next to him. They seemed to know each other, and the woman knew the other one.”

“Did the three arrive together?”

“Sorry, that I don’t know. Antje sat at the cash register last night.”

“Are you sure they knew each other? Could it be they just met by chance?”

Sabrina Prost thought about it. “Could be,” she conceded after a while. “However, the two of them, the man and one of the women, were pretty familiar with each other for people who just met. If you get my drift.”

Lina had an idea what the woman meant, but hunches didn’t go over well in a police report. “No, I don’t quite get it. What do you mean by ‘familiar’?”

“Well, they were making out with each other. Lost to the world.”

“And the second woman just sat there?”

“After a while, she wasn’t there anymore. Jule, did you see the second woman later?”