Fatal Lies (9 page)

Liebermann lifted the letter and tilted it in the light.

‘At that point – where he mentions running away – it is possible to detect a faint tremor in the script. He was terrified. Whatever he was hoping to escape from, it made his hand shake.'

Rheinhardt leaned across the table and looked at the letter more closely.

‘It all looks the same to me.'

‘There is a definite tremor.'

Rheinhardt sat back in his chair, a mote of scepticism still glimmering in his eye.

‘I thought about interviewing some of the other boys – but there are over three hundred of them. It would be pointless to select names randomly from the register. Do you think you could persuade Perger to disclose the identity of his persecutors?'

‘Perhaps.'

‘Would you hypnotise him?'

Liebermann shrugged. ‘Perhaps.'

The young doctor's economic response – combined with his arch expression – suggested to Rheinhardt that he had already thought of a possible solution.

Liebermann lit a cigar and exhaled a large nimbus of smoke.

‘Of course,' he said, ‘none of this new information shines further light on the death of Thomas Zelenka. Which, I believe, was your original purpose.'

‘That is true. But in spite of your analysis of my unconscious motives, the defensive denial of premature death, and so forth, I cannot rid myself of a persistent conviction that, if I continue with
this investigation,
something
relevant,
something
explanatory with regards to Zelenka's death, will eventually arise.'

Liebermann took another puff of his cigar.

‘Well . . . you might just be right.'

‘What?' said Rheinhardt, turning his head in disbelief. ‘Have you changed your mind, then, about policeman's intuition?'

‘Not at all.' Liebermann tapped his cigar on the ashtray. ‘However,
if
there is something new to be learned about Zelenka's death – and it is a very substantial
if –
then I am afraid to say, Oskar, that you have failed to interview someone who – in my humble opinion – merits the closest questioning.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘The mathematics master.'

‘What makes you think he's important? I haven't even told you his name. You know nothing about him!'

‘I know enough,' said Liebermann, smiling into his brandy.

DREXLER STUBBED OUT
his cigarette and immediately lit another. They were a cheap Turkish brand that produced pungent wreaths of fulvous smoke. He had sunk deep into a wicker chair and was hunched over a well-thumbed volume of E. T. A. Hoffmann's short stories, the print of which was illuminated by a candle. His only other source of light was a paraffin lamp, some distance away, suspended from a beam.

‘Do you know why you're here, Stojakovic?' It was Kiefer Wolf's voice, emanating from a dark recess on the other side of the room.

Drexler lifted his head. A scrawny Serbian boy was standing between Barend Steininger and Odo Freitag. Steininger was tall, big-boned, and mature enough to sport a downy moustache and fuzzy sideburns. Freitag was much shorter but stocky with it, possessing a thick, muscular neck and facial features that thrust forward like those of a pit bull terrier.

The Serbian boy peered into the shadows and blinked.

‘Come on, Stojakovic,' said Steininger, digging his elbow into the boy's side.

‘Yes, come on, Stojakovic,' Freitag repeated, clapping his hands on his shoulders.

The Serbian boy opened his mouth, but no sound escaped.

‘I asked you a question, Stojakovic!' Wolf's disembodied voice grew louder.

‘He did,' said Steininger, grinning. ‘Wolf asked you a question.'

‘Yes, don't be impolite, Stojakovic,' said Freitag, tightening his grip. ‘Be a good fellow and answer Wolf.'

The boy glanced at Drexler – but it was a wasted appeal. Drexler shook his head.

‘I don't know what passes for good manners in your country, Stojakovic,' Wolf barked. ‘But it is our custom to give an answer when asked a question.'

‘Very true,' said Steininger. ‘Very true.'

The boy's mouth opened again. He produced an unintelligible wavering noise.

‘What did you say?' asked Steininger.

‘I'm . . .' the boy croaked. ‘I'm sorry . . . What was the question?'

‘I don't believe it,' said Steininger.

‘He wants you to repeat the question, Wolf,' said Freitag.

‘Are you hard of hearing, Stojakovic?' said Steininger. ‘A little deaf, perhaps?'

The boy shook his head.

Steininger bent down and looked into the boy's ear.

‘Then perhaps your ears are dirty?'

Freitag looked into the boy's other ear.

‘Yes, I believe they are.'

‘Were you, by any chance, raised on a farm, Stojakovic?' asked Steininger.

‘I think he must have been,' said Freitag.

‘That would explain a great deal,' said Steininger.

‘Indeed,' said Freitag.

‘I wonder, do you have soap and water where you come from, Stojakovic?' said Steininger.

They suddenly burst out laughing and looked to Drexler for approval, but his face remained impassive.

‘Have you lost your sense of humour, Drexler?' said Freitag.

‘Quite the contrary,' Drexler replied. ‘I find Hoffmann
very amusing.
'

‘Oh well, if your sense of humour is still intact,' said Freitag, ‘you'll enjoy this – the latest Serbian joke.'

‘Careful, Freitag,' said Drexler. ‘Some of my ancestors were Serbian.'

‘Don't worry,' said Freitag. ‘I'll speak very slowly . . . Now, how do you get a one-armed Serb down from a tree? No idea? All right – you wave at him.'

Steininger slapped his thigh and guffawed loudly.

Freitag turned to address their captive: ‘Why do you Serbians bring a bucket of shit to your weddings?' Before the boy could answer Freitag added: ‘To keep the flies off the bride, of course.'

Again, Steininger fell about laughing.

‘Enough!' Wolf shouted, clapping his hands slowly.

Steininger collected himself and assumed a more serious expression.

‘Stojakovic!' Wolf continued. ‘I will ask you once more. Why have you been brought here?'

‘I don't know,' said the Serbian boy – his denial sounded like a desperate plea.

‘Then I'll tell you,' said Wolf. ‘You have been indiscreet, Stojakovic.'

‘Now, that is bad,' said Steininger.

‘Quite unacceptable,' murmured Freitag.

‘Did you really think,' said Wolf, ‘that you could blab to Lang in the middle of a calligraphy class and not be overheard!'

‘I didn't—'

‘Speak up!'

‘You are mistaken.'

‘Don't lie, Stojakovic!'

The sound of Wolf's footsteps preceded his appearance. He emerged from the outer darkness between two columns of smoke that turned
slowly in the displaced air. His mouth was a horizontal slit – its linearity suggesting boredom. He had a thin, hungry face, and dull grey eyes. However, his hair was bright yellow – like a cap of gold.

Wolf drew on his cigarette and stepped up close to the Serbian boy. They were roughly the same height, and their noses almost touched. Wolf exhaled a cloud of smoke and said, quite calmly: ‘You have attempted to make trouble for us and you must be taught a lesson. It is your own fault – you understand? You brought it upon yourself.'

The boy could not maintain eye contact, and looked down at the floor. Wolf trod on his cigarette, turned, and marched towards Drexler.

‘Get up!'

‘Why?'

‘Because I want to sit down.'

‘I'm reading.'

‘Drexler! I won't tell you again!'

Drexler sighed, got out of the chair, and leaned against the wall.

Wolf reached into the battered suitcase and removed something – an object. The others could not see what it was because Wolf concealed it with his hands.

‘Now, Stojakovic,' said Wolf. ‘You will do exactly as I say and no harm will come to you; however, if you choose to disobey me . . .' Wolf raised his arm. He was holding a revolver. ‘. . . I will shoot you.'

Steininger and Freitag looked at each other and laughed.

‘Where did you get that from, eh, Wolf?' said Steininger.

Wolf waved the revolver from side to side, indicating that his two lieutenants should withdraw.

‘Hey, be careful,' said Freitag. ‘Is it loaded?'

‘Of course it's loaded, you fool!'

‘Where did you get it from?' Steininger repeated his question.

‘I found it.'

‘Where?'

‘Never you mind.' Wolf thrust the revolver forward at Stojakovic. ‘Take your clothes off. Don't just stand there – you heard what I said. Take your clothes off. Hurry up – all of them.' His voice had become agitated and flecks of spittle sprayed out of his mouth.

The Serbian boy undid the buttons of his tunic and fumbled with his belt. His hands were shaking.

He hesitated when he reached his undergarments.

‘What are you waiting for?' asked Wolf. ‘Get on with it!'

The boy peeled off his woollen vest and stepped out of his long johns. He stood, completely naked, in a cone of milky luminescence. He was a thin, pale boy, with alabaster skin and dark hair. His genitals were barely visible, having retreated into a luxuriant tangle of wiry pubic curls. The effect was quite disconcerting. Stojakovic looked feminine, submissive, sexually ambiguous, and the rapidity of his breathing betrayed the magnitude of his terror.

Steininger laughed. It wasn't a comfortable laugh. It had a hysterical quality – ending abruptly, and leaving a tense, uneasy silence in its wake.

‘Now what?' said Drexler, snapping his book closed.

Wolf's eyes flashed at Drexler. They were filled with latent fire, an admixture of malevolence and anger. Drexler, who ordinarily experienced the world as if everything in it was somehow removed or distant, felt his sense of privileged detachment slip. It surprised him – like a jolt of electricity. The sinister cast of Wolf's lineaments had reined him in.

Wolf got up and walked purposefully towards the Serbian boy. When he reached his side, he inspected his face.

‘Are you crying, Stojakovic?' Wolf asked.

The boy's head moved – a minute, almost imperceptible shake.

Wolf lifted the boy's chin with the barrel of the revolver. Stojakovic's cheeks were streaked with silver.

‘Now, what did I tell you about lying, Stojakovic? If you lie to me, you will be punished. It's your own fault – you leave me no choice.'

Wolf pulled the revolver hammer back with his thumb. It clicked loudly. Then he pressed the barrel against Stojakovic's temple.

Time stopped.

Drexler tasted metal in his mouth. The silence pulsed in his ears. A seeping, vitrifying cold spread through his limbs. He could not move, and felt that if he tried to he would shatter.

A loud hissing sound filled the room.

At first, Wolf appeared confused. He looked quizzically at the others, then downwards. Urine was flowing in wide yellow rivulets down Stojakovic's legs, feeding an expanding circular puddle, the circumference of which had made contact with the soles of Wolf's shoes.

‘You Serbian dog!' Wolf cried, his mouth twisting in disgust. He struck Stojakovic on the head with the butt of his gun. ‘You animal, you damned animal!'

The boy fell to his knees, blood streaming from a deep gash on his forehead.

Drexler ran across the room and grabbed Wolf's arm, preventing him from delivering a second blow.

‘Stop it Wolf.'

‘Drexler?' Wolf was no longer angry. Rather, he seemed surprised – as though disorientated after waking from sleep.

‘You've made your point,' said Drexler. ‘Now that's enough.' Drexler pulled the Serbian boy to his feet. ‘Pick up your clothes, and get out. And no more loose talk in future, you understand? Get out.'

Stojakovic scooped up his clothes and ran into the darkness. They listened to him getting dressed: ragged breathing, the clink of his belt and, finally, the trapdoor opening and closing.

Drexler looked into Wolf's eyes. The strange light had died, and Wolf's expression was blank. His thin lips were straight again. Slowly, something like a smile began to appear on his face.

‘Drexler! You idiot! I wasn't going to kill him. You're losing your nerve!'

Wolf looked over at Steininger and Freitag. It was a collusive look – an invitation. They responded with laughter: fits and starts, encouraged by Wolf's widening smile, mounting, until their lungs and vocal cords were engaged in the production of a continuous asinine braying.

‘He wasn't going to kill Stojakovic, Drexler!' Steininger cried, ‘Whatever were you thinking?'

‘Yes, Drexler,' Freitag echoed. ‘Whatever were you thinking?'

It was a good performance. But their relief was palpable.

RHEINHARDT'S HEAD WAS
buried in his copy of the latest edition of the police journal, which contained an extremely interesting article on the work of Jean Alexandre Eugene Lacassagne – a professor of medicine at the University of Lyon, who had made extraordinary advances in the identification of decayed corpses. As he read, Rheinhardt became increasingly aware of piano music: music of incomparable lightness. An innocent, profoundly beautiful melody leaped an octave, before making a modulating descent over a flowing left-hand accompaniment. It charmed him out of the dark, morbid world of mortuaries and rotting cadavers. When the melody climbed again, he lifted his head – as if watching the ascent of a songbird.

His eldest daughter, Therese, was seated at the instrument, her slim fingers negotiating the naive geography of Mozart's Sonata in C major. On the other side of the parlour, seated at the table, were his wife Else and his youngest daughter Mitzi, engaged in some needlepoint. Mitzi was humming along with the tune. None of them were conscious of Rheinhardt's benign scrutiny.