Rain Girl (18 page)

“This girl,” she said. “Ben’s girl. Her name is Marie. She’s the one who was murdered.”

He gaped at her incredulously.

“Think about the moving out thing,” he said eventually, softly. “You don’t have to go. There’s enough room. Ben will need us both.”

She left. She’d think about it. Not everything was lost yet.

43

He grabbed a bottle of water, got in the car, and drove out of the parking lot, out of town.

Onto the autobahn toward Berlin, past the exit for Lenting, past the rest area. Then he stopped, as he had every day since.

Everything had gone wrong, so damn wrong. But it wasn’t his fault; she was to blame. Why had she even started this . . . thing?

It had been great at first. They’d seen each other in the crazy rhythm she dictated. She inspired him and gave him strength. Suddenly he could see clearly again, everything made sense.

But then she’d become more reserved, distant, and she looked at him in a way he didn’t like. He didn’t know why or when she’d started to change, it had probably been gradual.

Sometimes he had the uncanny feeling she knew who he was and what role he’d played in the life of her mother and how it had ended. But the thought was absurd; everything had been over and done with a long time ago. She couldn’t know. He’d never said anything about it, and he knew her mother wouldn’t.

She didn’t talk about her family anyway, which suited him just fine. Things had happened—black stains on a white background. After all, they’d received piles of reports from social welfare and psychologists—but he was of the opinion things like that were better swept under the rug. He never had wanted to read all the gory details.

He got out of the car and walked slowly to the shelter with the benches and the table. A young couple was sitting on one of the benches, English. They were wearing hippieish clothes, probably on their way to the festival in town starting tomorrow. He gave them a nod, and they smiled back and didn’t pay any more attention to him.

He sat down with his back to them and leaned against the edge of the table. He unscrewed the top of his water bottle and took a cigarette out of the pack.

So this was the place.

He closed his eyes and leaned forward. The images came flooding back. He sobbed and shuddered briefly, and then it passed. It had happened here, the first part at least, the part for which he’d already forgiven himself.

“Are you OK?” The couple turned around, looking at him worriedly.

He lifted his arms reassuringly. “Oh, yes, I’m fine. Thank you.” They turned away, and he was by himself again.

It was at the corner of the table where the English girl was sitting now, that Marie had sat at first—before either of them knew how it would end. Maybe if she hadn’t sat in such a dangerous spot, with the pile of rocks behind her, maybe . . .

No, he thought, and shook his head. There’s no point wondering what might have been. What’s done is done. She shouldn’t have started with this, with this . . .

He had called her that afternoon before it started to rain. He wanted to see her after the party, take her out to a fancy restaurant like she deserved. It was supposed to be her night. But she’d made him beg.

She didn’t want anything from him anymore. She was going to take the entrance exams, and she’d pass them. It was over. She was going to Berlin and nothing and no one could stop her. It was over, and he’d have to get used to it.

That’s what she’d said, her voice firm and steady.

He was dumbstruck. He had begged, pleaded, cried, called her up a second time, and a third time. He felt everything repeating itself; fear was consuming him. It had made a crybaby out of him; it was as if the past had only been yesterday. He felt how everything repeated itself. He talked as if his life depended on it. Finally she said yes.

Then they’d met after her party, and she’d looked so beautiful. He’d imagined it was for him.

44

Franza put the bear on Felix’s desk. She set the scraps of paper with Ben’s attempts at poetry next to it.

The surprise in Felix’s face quickly changed to understanding, and he held up the bear. “So this is what you found in Marie’s room? This is what gave you such a shock?”

She nodded and pointed at the pieces of paper. “Those were in Ben’s room.”

He nodded. “The big love. So it’s Ben.”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s my Ben.”

“And you can’t get hold of him?”

She straightened her shoulders and closed her eyes for a moment. “That’s right. Not since that morning.”

He got up, went to the window, and looked out. She knew what he saw, knew the view like the back of her hand: the fork in the road, the house across the way, the window with the torn curtains that were never opened, the small balcony full of bright geraniums, and the woman who regularly plucked out the dead flowers.

“I know you’re worried,” he said finally, and turned around briskly. “Can you do it?”

“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”

“You know usually . . .”

She interrupted him. “Yes, I know. But I can’t be taken off this case. You understand, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Of course I understand. But we’ll discuss everything in advance—no solo actions.”

She nodded.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s analyze this. You know your son quite well—and so do I. Do you really believe he’d be capable of cold-bloodedly dragging someone out of his car and knowingly letting her stumble to her death? The first injury is one thing. Things like that happen in the heat of the moment, they had a fight, arguing back and forth, and one lashes out. We’ve seen it a million times. You can fix it if you do the right thing. But what followed—no, that isn’t Ben! Ben would have done the right thing. Ben’s not a murderer!”

He paused and looked thoughtfully at the door, past Franza.

I love you,
she thought,
I love you. Thank you my Felix
.

“On top of that,” he continued, “Arthur found a bunch of new cigarette butts in the parking lot yesterday. If I’m not mistaken—if I’m not completely wrong—there’ll be some matching the ones from Tuesday.”

She looked at him questioningly.

“The man,” he said slowly, “who helped you through your panic attack yesterday, I think that’s our man. Can you describe him? Did he seem familiar?”

She shook her head with surprise. “No. No, I was . . .”

She fell silent, and he realized she was embarrassed. “That happens to the best of us,” he said. “Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

She smiled gratefully. “I barely remember anything, can you imagine? It’s horrible.”

He nodded. She thought about his questions. “No,” she continued. “I couldn’t really see him, he was standing . . . behind me the whole time, if I remember correctly.” She sighed. “But what makes you think he’s our man?”

Felix scratched his freshly shaved chin. “Firstly, he acted strangely. Secondly, it’s just a hunch. Third, it would exonerate Ben. If it had been him there yesterday, you would have known—even if he’d tried to prevent you from recognizing him.”

She nodded thoughtfully.

“Have you thought of getting a DNA analysis?”

“Of course,” she said and pulled a small plastic pouch out of her bag. It contained hair she’d taken from Ben’s brush that morning.

“Does he even smoke?”

She sighed. “Yes, sometimes. That made me worry even more.”

“Well,” he said. “Half the population smokes. Or a third, at least.”

“True,” she said. “Though something actually did seem familiar about the man. Something—but what? A smell, an odor?”

“Really?” Felix asked excitedly. “Go on. Focus.”

She tried, but without success.

“It doesn’t matter, we’ll find out,” he said. “And Robert will be watching the rest area from now on. Maybe he’ll be back. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

45

He wouldn’t go back there again. It was too dangerous.

Ever since he’d run into that policewoman with the strange name the rest area had become a dangerous place, a place to be avoided. This annoyed him a little, because it had been his and Marie’s last place together and he thought he had a right to be there, but he knew he had to be careful now.

But he was absolutely certain she didn’t recognize him. He made sure she couldn’t see him, staying behind her the entire time. Her awareness had been so limited that there wasn’t any real danger.

He knew what an attack like that felt like, how great the loneliness was—the fear of death—and how you weren’t aware of anything going on around you.

Overall, he’d become more relaxed. He was no longer starting out of his dreams bathed in sweat or beating himself up for losing Judith—because a life with her would’ve changed everything.

He had a good life, after all. What else did he want?

His wife let him have her when he wanted, the kids didn’t annoy him too much, he went for a run along the Danube every night until he was dripping with sweat, and his job was under control.

Wasn’t that all he needed? What else could anyone want? To be consumed by ambition? What for?

But there had been Judith. And then Marie. And now no one.

This morning he’d noticed his first gray hairs, just two, behind his right ear. He’d pulled them out. Maybe everything would just blow over.

46

“Oh, shit!” Felix said, reaching for his cheek. “I forgot Max, the appointment. Because of all that drama with Lauberts!”

He gingerly examined the location of yesterday’s suffering with his tongue, and looked surprised. “Strange, it doesn’t hurt anymore. I think I don’t need to . . .”

“It’s fear,” Franza interrupted him. “Fear of the drill. You’ll see; your tooth won’t let you sleep tonight.”

“You think?” Felix was genuinely alarmed.

Franza nodded. “I
know
. But don’t worry, Borger will be here soon. Maybe
he
can have a look. He’s watched Max a few times, just out of interest, you know? He hasn’t for a while now, but you know, a doctor like him can do anything. Do you want me to ask him? As a favor?”

She smiled.

“Don’t you dare, you nasty woman!” Felix said and picked up his phone.

Franza pictured Frau Brigitte. She was like part of the furniture sitting at the front desk in Max’s office. She had been there since forever, always insisting on being called
Frau Brigitte
. Franza could imagine her indignant look and how hurt she would be by the unreliability of mankind as evidenced by Detective Inspector Herz forgetting his appointment.

Felix switched on the hands-free device so Franza could hear Frau Brigitte’s rant. She listened with amusement as Felix stammered for a bit at first but soon resigned himself to listening in silence in the face of Frau Brigitte’s thorough reprimand. She’d fit him in specially, just because the doctor had asked her so nicely that morning, and now this! If everyone acted this way—no, really—they’d all be drowning in chaos. But thank God, thank God she was there, Frau Brigitte—it was her vocation to keep things in order and running. When was he coming now, anyway, the Herr Inspector? Was she supposed to just sit and wait for him to tell her—and what was all the exciting news from his job anyway? Did they have the murderer yet—he knew the one she meant—and why didn’t he tell her a little bit about the case and this murderer? The Frau Inspector never told her anything, she hardly ever showed her face at the office—please give her regards—and was he going tell her when he’d be coming in? Did he think she had all the time in the world!

Felix breathed a sigh of relief when he was done and had an appointment for late that afternoon. Now he needed a schnapps—though less to numb his tooth than to calm his nerves, which were strained enough already thanks to Lauberts, that asshole.

Franza shrugged. “That’s our Frau Brigitte,” she said. “Priceless. Lauberts is another story.”

Lauberts hadn’t turned up at the agreed time to have his statement taken down. Not too late and not too early would have been OK, but not at all—no.

They had called, but Lauberts didn’t pick up, so they sent a uniformed colleague, who came back empty-handed. There was no one home. So they had gone there themselves and opened the door with a lock pick pulled from the depths of Felix’s desk drawers, where it led a peaceful existence until it was needed for an occasion like this one.

It got them inside, but the apartment was empty. As empty as an apartment can be when no one’s there.

Felix had been furious. “Goddamn it! We should’ve kept him! We should’ve booked him right away! How stupid can you get?”

Franza had tried to bring him back down to earth. “You know very well that Brückl would never have issued a warrant without any evidence.”

“But he didn’t have an alibi!”

“So what? That’s not nearly enough! Even a rank amateur lawyer would have cut us to pieces.”

Felix heaved a sigh of resignation. “So what do we do now?”

“Well, put out an APB,” she had said succinctly. “What else?”

He calmed down, breathing deeply. “What did he say? Where’s his wife again?”

Franza shrugged. “No idea! Wasn’t it . . . Italy?”

“Yes, shit! Italy!” Felix shook his head, furious again. “Huge country!” He sighed. “If this isn’t an admission of guilt, I’ll eat my hat.”

Franza had called and made the necessary arrangements to get a search for Lauberts under way. Once again she thought of the DA and the scene after Bohrmann’s shooting.

“Just what Brückl’s been waiting for,” she said. “He’ll eat us alive. Finally the case he’s been looking for to make his mark: a beautiful young girl murdered—her face perfect for the front pages and TV—and right during the midsummer lull. And we let the murderer get away. What a blow!” She sighed.