Fatal Lies (6 page)

Liebermann arranged the photographs in a neat pile and stroked the straight edges.

‘Then it looks like the boy has either been tortured, or . . . he has taken part in some bizarre rite of initiation.'

‘Scars are deemed a sign of honour and distinction among duelling fraternities.'

‘Yes, but only if those scars were acquired while in pursuit of what is termed satisfaction. This scarring,' Liebermann tapped the photographs, ‘is of a very different kind.' The young doctor lit a cigar and eased back into his chair. ‘The oldest wounds are to be found on the victim's chest. More recently the boy was cut under his arm and on his upper thigh. The latter two areas seem to have been selected for the purpose of concealment. But if so, why was concealment not a consideration when the first wounds were inflicted?'

Rheinhardt shrugged.

‘And why are there three sets of cuts?' Liebermann continued. ‘Surely, an initiation ritual would take place only once?' Liebermann shook his head, as if annoyed by the number of questions that were crowding his mind. ‘And what on earth are we to make of those crural lacerations – so conspicuously close to the genitals?'

Rheinhardt twisted the horns of his moustache.

‘Strange things happen in military schools. Some boys gain extraordinary power over their peers. I have heard of some cadets ruling over their comrades like tyrants – meting out punishments, extorting
levies, devising sadistic games. Perhaps Zelenka was unfortunate enough to have become the victim of one of these juvenile despots.'

Liebermann flicked through the photographs and found an image of Zelenka in the infirmary. It was a close-up of his face. Although his features were square and masculine there was something in his expression that suggested sensitivity, intelligence.

‘I abhor bullying,' said Liebermann, ‘and it is most distressing to contemplate the depredations of institutional life – the utter misery that some boys must endure; however, Professor Mathias has concluded that Zelenka died of natural causes. The cuts on his body, whatever they represent, and however they got there, are an irrelevance! All that you can do is notify the school of your findings and trust that they will eventually find and expel the culprit. You cannot proceed with a murder investigation, Oskar, if there has not been a murder.'

Rheinhardt sipped his brandy.

‘But . . .' The Inspector shifted uncomfortably. ‘I have a feeling . . .'

Liebermann rolled his eyes.

Rheinhardt continued worrying his moustache: ‘There's something about this that doesn't smell right.'

‘My dear friend, your feelings of unease are very easily explained – and can be attributed to your strong protective instincts. You are resistant to the idea that Zelenka died naturally, because of his youth. If you accept that such a thing can happen to him, you must also accept that it can happen to others: namely, your two daughters. Naturally, this is such an awful consideration that a defensive mechanism has come into play. By denying the existence of latent and fatal pathological processes, you experience less anxiety and preserve a comforting illusion. Moreover, if you can prove that Zelenka was murdered you will vitiate Professor Mathias's conclusions, making it seem even less likely that the same fate could affect your loved ones. But unfortunately, Oskar – the “
Erlkönig
” is a reality: a reality not of the spirit
world, but of the material world. And he comes, not in the shape of an Elven King, but as minute lesions in the brain, and freakish electrical discharges that disturb the beating of a young heart.' Liebermann looked at his friend and compassion creased the skin around his eyes. ‘Oskar, I wish that it were otherwise.'

Rheinhardt sighed.

‘You are right, of course. I dare say there
is
something in my soul that rages against the death of children – and for the very reasons you so eloquently describe. Be that as it may, I cannot free myself of the gnawing suspicion that there is more to Zelenka's death . . .' His voice trailed off into uncertainty. Then he added: ‘I will continue with the investigation, in spite of Professor Mathias's findings.'

Liebermann offered Rheinhardt another cigar.

‘I very much hope, Oskar, that when the time comes, you will be able to satisfy Commissioner Brügel. He will want to know why the resources of the security office have been used to discover the identity of a . . . sadistic schoolboy, which I fear, may be all that this investigation is destined to reveal.'

Rheinhardt took the cigar and repeated: ‘I have a feeling.'

IT WAS A
dull morning: the sky was layered with massy strips of dense grey cloud. Rheinhardt took care as he negotiated the damp cobbles, which descended at a steep angle towards a scrubby, waterlogged field. On either side were squat bungalows, the walls of which were mottled and streaked with an algal slime. In the distance, he could see four gas towers: enormous structures that loomed beyond a misty veil of persistent mizzle.

Rheinhardt found the bungalow he was looking for. It was cleaner than its neighbours, but was not in good repair (the gutter was leaking). A lever pump was situated just outside the entrance, and a number of metal buckets were hanging in a neat row under the eaves. An empty birdcage – swinging forlornly – had been suspended in a recessed casement.

The door was opened by a woman. She was wearing a simple black dress and the flesh around her sharp, intelligent eyes looked swollen. She had been crying.

‘Frau Meta Zelenka?' The woman nodded. ‘I am Inspector Rheinhardt.'

‘Of course,' she said, dabbing her cheeks with a handkerchief. ‘I'm sorry – please come in.'

Rheinhardt stepped across the threshold into a dark room that felt oppressively compressed due to its low ceiling. Sitting at a table was a large man with short reddish hair. He wore a brown jacket over a
vest, the top buttons of which were undone. On seeing the Inspector, the man rose, but very slowly – an uneasy coming together of body parts – such that the simple act of standing appeared to require monumental effort. Rheinhardt noticed the man's hands. They were labourer's hands – oversized, the white knuckles like eggs, the skin leathery, the veins raised and twisted.

‘My husband,' said the woman. Her German was nuanced with a Slavic accent. ‘Fanousek, this is Inspector Rheinhardt.'

The man bowed, although the movement seemed to involve nothing more than a pained hunching of his shoulders.

Beyond the table was a sideboard on which stood a devotional candle and a crucifix.

‘Forgive me for intruding on your grief,' said Rheinhardt.

Fanousek lowered himself back into his chair and Meta drew up a seat beside him. Her slender hand travelled across the surface of the table until it reached her husband's, whereupon his long fingers opened and closed tightly around hers.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see me,' said Rheinhardt, sitting opposite the couple. ‘And please accept my heartfelt condolences.'

‘What do you want, Inspector?' said Fanousek. Like Meta's, his German was accented; however, the question – although blunt – was not discourteous, merely direct.

‘Information. About yourselves – and about Thomas.'

‘Why?'

‘I must complete a report. For the Commissioner.' It was not the precise truth – but it was true enough. Rheinhardt couldn't very well declare: ‘
I'm here because of a presentiment, a feeling . . .
'

Rheinhardt took out his notebook.

‘You are both Czech?'

‘Yes.'

‘And how long have you been living in Vienna?'

‘Ten years . . .'

Theirs was a typical story – of hardship in rural Bohemia, the promise of prosperity in Vienna, then factory work, and finally disappointment. Fanousek worked in a warehouse, Meta sold cheap rye bread imported from Hungary at a Saturday market.

‘With respect,' asked Rheinhardt, hesitantly, ‘how could you afford to send your son to St Florian's?'

‘We couldn't,' said Meta. ‘Thomas was awarded a scholarship.'

‘Really? How did that happen?'

‘Thomas spent a great deal of time in the company of our priest, Father Hanak. He encouraged Thomas, gave him books, even gave him free lessons at the presbytery: Latin, calligraphy, mathematics . . . Then the good Father found out that one of the breweries, one of the
Czech
breweries, sponsored a place at the
Oberrealschule
for a boy born in Bohemia and . . .' Meta swallowed her pride and continued ‘. . . from an impoverished household.'

Rheinhardt gestured to indicate that the Zelenkas' pecuniary circumstances, however straitened, were of little consequence as far as he was concerned.

‘Was Thomas happy at St Florian's?'

‘Yes, as far as we know. He enjoyed his studies – particularly the scientific subjects. He did complain once or twice about having to do drill every day, but that was all.'

‘What about the other boys? Did he say anything about them?'

‘No.'

‘He must have mentioned his friends?'

‘Thomas was a quiet boy. Thoughtful. He didn't say much.' She glanced at her husband and produced a gentle smile. ‘Like his father.'

Through a square window, Rheinhardt saw sheets of rain blowing across the bleak industrial landscape.

Meta opened a drawer in the table and removed a photograph. She looked at it for a moment and said: ‘He was so handsome in his uniform . . .' She pushed it across the table. ‘A fine-looking young man: a soldier.'

The photograph had been taken in a studio. The boy was wearing a low shako with a leather peak, a tunic with stiff high collars, trousers and boots. His right hand rested on the hilt of his sabre. He was standing in front of a painted backdrop of giant fern leaves and exotic creepers. Unfortunately, the photographer's tropical tableau was spoilt somewhat by a strip of patterned carpet in the foreground.

‘May I take this?' asked Rheinhardt. Meta's expression became anxious – almost fearful. ‘I promise to return it later today. I would like to make a copy for submission with my report.'

Meta's eyes softened.

‘Yes . . . you can take it.'

‘Thank you,' said Rheinhardt. ‘Thomas appears so . . . so very healthy. Had he suffered from any illnesses in the preceding year?'

‘No,' said Fanousek. ‘And he was as strong as an ox. He used to help me down at the warehouse, lifting heavy crates. The men used to comment on it.'

Rheinhardt remembered what Nurse Funke had said about Thomas always having colds: he slipped the photograph into his notebook.

‘Where did Thomas sleep?'

Fanousek jerked his head back towards a closed door.

‘Would you object to me taking a look?'

‘No,' said Meta. ‘But we cannot come with you. It is too distressing. We have left things . . . as they were.'

‘Of course,' said Rheinhardt.

The boy's room was very small, with most of the floor space taken up by a low bed, a washstand, and a chest. On the windowsill was an
orderly row of books, arranged according to size. Rheinhardt examined some of the titles: Homer's
Odyssey
, Ranke's
History of the Popes
, a Latin primer, and a well-thumbed edition of
Les Tentations de Saint Antoine
. Above the bed was a garish print of Christ on the cross – a close-up portrait, showing the Messiah's anguish in dreadful detail, blood streaming from his wounds.

Rheinhardt knelt down and opened the chest. It contained some old clothes, which he carefully removed and laid out on the bed. Beneath these he discovered a penknife, some old exercise books, a bottle of ink, a pack of playing cards and two letters. Both were addressed to Thomas Zelenka and were written in the same, scrawly hand.

Dear Friend . . .

The letter had been written the previous summer, and the correspondent was a boy called Isidor Perger. He was, evidently, another pupil at St Florian's who – at the time of writing – was holidaying on the Traunsee with his family.

Thank you for your assistance with the Latin.

I don't know what I would have done without you . . .

Rheinhardt skipped over a paragraph in which the author lamented his poor mathematics results, then another, in which he described walking along the esplanade at Gmunden.

Suddenly a sentence seemed to resolve itself more sharply against the yellow background.

Needless to say, I do not want to go back.

Rheinhardt peered at the jagged script, trying to decipher its violent oscillations.

Rheinhardt stood up.

I care
, he thought.
I care very much
.

LIEBERMANN HAD DECIDED
to buy himself a new fountain pen. He drifted through Alsergrund, inspecting the displays in stationery-shop windows, until a distinctive line of town houses came into view. He found himself standing on a corner, looking up a very familiar road – the road where Miss Lydgate lived.

At that moment it occurred to him that, perhaps, he had never
really
intended to a buy a new pen. Indeed, it seemed just as likely that his need to make such a purchase had been a convenient fiction, permitting him to draw ever closer to a woman for whom his complex feelings were becoming increasingly troublesome.

Liebermann's impromptu self-analysis was confirmed when the justification for knocking on the Englishwoman's door presented itself with minimal effort. Miss Lydgate had asked him to recommend a dancing teacher, and he had replied: ‘
Herr Janowsky.
' It would be perfectly reasonable for him to call on Miss Lydgate, in order to give her Herr Janowsky's address.