Time Heals No Wounds (14 page)

“In other words, he rues the day he sold Ms. Ternheim her penthouse!”

“Not just that, he probably regrets meeting her at all. And that’s why I’m going to find him.”

T
HURSDAY AT
N
OON

Hannes felt uneasy as he left the city. He had little desire to see the crazy old painter or his paintings again, especially on his own. Since no unmarked vehicle was available, he was stuck with a patrol car. At least it meant Old Ternheim would immediately recognize him as a police officer and refrain from attacking.

Even if he didn’t really suspect Ben of having something to do with the leak, Hannes had called him a few minutes ago, anyway, only to get his voice mail.

It was ninety-one degrees outside, and the air-conditioning was on full blast. After speeding past the Olsen farm, Hannes abruptly slammed on his brakes and did a one-eighty. He thought it might be a good idea to pay the farm another visit. Since the press had already divulged the victim’s identity, he no longer had to withhold that piece of information.

Hohenberg Farm seemed deserted as he pulled up in front of the big barn. The sun beat down from its perch, and Hannes left the air-conditioned vehicle. He smelled manure and heard the animals in the barn. The front door opened just before he reached it, and Mrs. Olsen came out to meet him, wiping her calloused hands on her apron.

“I heard it this morning on the radio,” she said. She blushed and looked at him with big eyes. “When they mentioned the businesswoman had been found on a secluded beach, I immediately said to my husband: that must be the dead woman from our beach! Poor old painter. That means he found his own daughter dead. My God, how awful! I immediately sent my husband over in case he might need something. His daughter was the only one who took care of him.”

“Did your husband see Merlin? Because I’m on my way there.”

“Oh, that’s nice of you to look after him. No, he didn’t see him, but he visited about two hours ago. He put a basket with food by the door. Now he’s out on his combine harvester.”

“Mrs. Olsen, did you or your husband remember anything else? Ms. Ternheim unfortunately had very few acquaintances, so we don’t know much about the deceased yet.”

She wrinkled her forehead. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there. In all these years, she only once bought eggs from us, and she was very curt when she did. Apparently, she was in a hurry.”

“When was that?”

“Oh, it must have been two or three months ago. Otherwise I just saw her pass by in her car.”

“How long would she normally stay with her father?”

“Usually not very long, maybe an hour. She mostly came on weekends. Not that I’m a busybody, but it’s very rare that someone comes out here. Not to mention that she also drove a flashy car. Lately, though, she was coming here more often and staying longer.”

“When did you last see her driving here?”

Mrs. Olsen thought hard. “It must have been last Wednesday morning, because the farm machinery salesman visited us shortly thereafter. We’re thinking of buying a new tractor. Yes, I’m sure of it. She was heading back just as he drove away.”

“So that means she didn’t drive by on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday?”

“I don’t think so. I was at the farm the entire time and would have noticed when she came or went. But of course I don’t sit by the window all day.”

If Ms. Ternheim had committed suicide—and with each passing hour, he was even less inclined to believe this—how would she have gotten to the beach? She definitely didn’t walk. There was no way she could have made it from the nearest town to the beach in a business suit and high heels. And where was her sports car?

“I just thought of something else,” Mrs. Olsen said. “I’ve told you before that it’s rare for people who don’t live in the area to come here. But I’ve repeatedly seen a young woman. Sometimes walking with a backpack, other times on a bike.”

“Hmm.” That didn’t strike him as too out of the ordinary. But in the absence of any other useful leads, he asked, “Does the woman behave strangely? When was the last time you saw her?”

“I’ve always wondered what she does out here. I saw her last Saturday. She was walking along the road with her backpack, heading toward the lighthouse.”

According to Maria’s calculations, Ms. Ternheim was presumably dispensed with on Saturday.

“Around what time?”

“Oh, sometime late in the morning. I’m not sure of the time, and I didn’t see her come back.”

“Did you ever speak to her? Do you remember what she looks like?”

“No, I’ve never spoken to her. She looks young and walks at a very lively pace. She’s slim, with long brown hair—I can’t remember much more about her.”

Hannes thanked Mrs. Olsen. He got back behind the wheel and dialed the number for directory assistance. Within a few seconds, he was connected to Lagussa’s main switchboard and then put through to Mr. Ternheim. The head secretary answered.

“Hello, Ms. Wagner, this is Officer Johannes Niehaus, Mr. Janssen’s colleague. This question might strike you as a little strange, but could you tell me if Ms. Ternheim’s car is parked in the company lot or anywhere nearby?”

“I don’t know. If the car’s here, then it would be in her reserved parking spot.”

“Could you please check to see if Ms. Ternheim’s car is parked in the lot?”

For a moment, there was silence. “I’ll send Irene down to the parking garage. What’s the best number to reach you?”

While Hannes waited for her call, he contacted Fritz. From the corner of his eye, he could see Mrs. Olsen looking through the window at him.

“Hello, Fritz, it’s Hannes. When you were at Ms. Ternheim’s penthouse last night, did anyone see her yellow sports car?”

“No, not that I remember. Why?”

Hannes quickly shared his thoughts and Mrs. Olsen’s observations.

“I see,” Fritz said. “We should’ve thought of that sooner. I guess I’m getting ripe for retirement. I’ll send a couple of colleagues over to her apartment to look around there again.”

“Have you found any trace of Schneider?”

“No, I just went to the doctor. I’ve been having problems with my back again today. I have to go. I’ll be on it shortly.”

“Just one more thing, Fritz,” Hannes said and informed him about the young woman Mrs. Olsen had told him about.

“Nothing seems to escape her attention. I’m not sure if it’s a lead or not. So the woman is often in the area . . . Maybe she just really likes that lonely stretch of beach. But it’s conceivable that she could provide us with some clues. Could Mrs. Olsen describe her to our sketch artist?”

“All she can remember is a slender body and long brown hair.”

“Then while you’re out there, keep an eye out for her. After all, it’s your specialty.”

Fritz hung up. Hannes had been so busy with the case these last few hours that he had completely forgotten about Fritz’s health problems. His condition had been deteriorating over the last few days, even if he did his best to hide the pain. His face had grown more gaunt and ashen with each passing day, and he appeared to be losing weight. Hopefully, he could hold out until the case was solved.

Hannes’s cell phone rang. “Johannes Niehaus.”

“Hello, Mr. Niehaus. It’s Irene Maler from Lagussa. I enjoyed our lovely chat earlier today.”

He rolled his eyes. Not only did Ms. Wagner think it beneath her to go check the parking lot, but she had also delegated the return call.

“That’s nice of you to call back so quickly. Have you checked on Ms. Ternheim’s car?”

“Of course! I’m glad to help the investigation. At least it gives me something to do other than type up letters.”

“And? Is the car there?”

“No, of course not,” she said.

In the background, he could hear Ms. Wagner scolding her.

“Unfortunately, I have to go now.” She sounded annoyed. “There’s some extremely important correspondence waiting for me.” She lowered her voice. “But maybe I could help more with the investigation this evening . . .”

“That’s really nice of you, but right now there’s a lot going on. I’ll get back to you if I still need you to do something for me. Thanks, and see you soon!”

Hannes hung up. He had always been particularly bad at saying no. He started the engine, waved to Mrs. Olsen—who had still not given up her seat by the window—and turned onto the road leading to the lighthouse. Just as the old structure appeared around the curve, his cell phone rang again.

“Fritz sent us to Ms. Ternheim’s place to search for her car. It’s a yellow sports car, right?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Hannes said and pulled to the side of the road. “Did you find it?”

“No. We looked in the garage and surrounding streets. No vehicle fit that description.”

Hannes thanked his colleague for the information and shifted into first gear. He wondered why the car had disappeared.

As he pulled up, Hannes noticed that the basket from the Olsens wasn’t by the door of Merlin’s dilapidated house. Nothing in the clearing had changed since his last visit, though the book was no longer on the porch table.

Hannes wanted to get this visit over with quickly. He knocked on the door. He had deliberately parked in front of the house so the old man would see the police car. He was about to knock a second time when he heard a key turn in the lock. A moment later, the door opened, and Helene Ternheim’s father stood before him.

He seemed a little more hunched over than before, but otherwise nothing about his appearance had changed. His woolen cap was still pushed to the side; his threadbare corduroys flapped against his thin legs. He also wore a tattered wool sweater not meant for the summer heat. His clothing and face were dotted by small splashes of color, and the brush in his clawlike hand explained what the old man had been doing.

Merlin stared at Hannes. His gaze wandered between the green eye and the blue eye.

“Forgive me for ambushing you. I’m sure you remember me. I’m a police officer and was here on Tuesday with my colleague. I’d like to discuss something with you—calmly. Shall we sit here in the sun for a minute, Mr. Ternheim?”

Hannes deliberately addressed him by his given name and pointed to the chair on the porch. Merlin shuffled over to it and downed a half glass of vodka. After placing it on the table, he stared ahead at an imaginary point.

Hannes looked at Merlin’s large birthmark, and he remembered Fritz telling him that Merlin’s son also had a birthmark under his right eye. Did the murdered Ms. Ternheim inherit something similar? Hannes could not remember.

He sat diagonally across from Merlin on the porch and leaned against the rotten railing. “Mr. Ternheim, I’m sure you can guess why I came here. It’s about the dead woman you found Sunday on the beach. Do you know who it was?”

The old man only stared into the distance.

“Your son Christian reported his sister, in other words your daughter Helene, missing yesterday. Unfortunately, the dead woman was your daughter. I’m very sorry, Mr. Ternheim.”

There was still no reaction.

“There are some things we don’t understand. Your daughter had bleached hair, which surprised your son. We also found traces of a sedative in her blood, and her car has disappeared. There was one more anomaly: your daughter had recently gotten a tattoo on her left forearm.”

Finally Hannes had his attention! The old man turned his head and looked into his eyes. His facial muscles twitched. But when he remained silent, Hannes gave up all hope of getting him to talk.

“Does this tattoo sound familiar to you? And did your daughter have it for a while? The last time she visited you was on Wednesday of last week, correct?” Hannes realized he was getting nowhere. “We can’t make out what the tattoo is supposed to represent, but we believe it’s a group of six or seven numbers.”

The old man’s eyes widened, and his right hand was trembling so much that small drops of paint flew from the brush.

“Mr. Ternheim! We need your help, otherwise this investigation will go nowhere! You know something, I can see it. I’m begging you. This is about your daughter.”

Merlin rose from his seat and walked back to the door. He staggered, and Hannes resigned himself to the fact that the old man would slam the door in his face again. But at the door, Merlin turned around. He motioned with his head for Hannes to come inside.

Hannes jumped to his feet and was relieved that his knee wasn’t bothered by this sudden movement. He looked forward to training again soon. Then he felt ashamed. He was standing in front of a dead woman’s confused father, thinking about sports. He followed Mr. Ternheim inside.

Just like last time, the hallway was very dark because the shutters were closed. Hannes wondered how it was possible to paint in the dim light and reluctantly followed him into the room where the demons and flames had jumped out at him. But the room had changed. White sheets hung over all the frames. Only one image was not covered. Merlin stood in front of it. Without turning around, he waved Hannes over. Hannes looked over his shoulder and caught his breath. It was a black-and-white drawing unlike any of the old man’s paintings. A strikingly beautiful woman stared back at Hannes. Despite the lack of color, she almost seemed alive. Her face was drawn with soft, almost loving strokes, and even though she appeared younger in the painting, he immediately realized it was a portrait of Helene Ternheim.

Merlin stepped aside so Hannes could see the whole painting. Hannes gasped. The scene continued below, turning more and more nightmarish the lower he looked. Helene’s body was likewise drawn in a realistic fashion, and at her feet blazed images of immense horror that were reminiscent of the ones depicted in Merlin’s other paintings. Several hands clutched at her ankles, attempting to drag her into the depths. Farther down were scenes of people being slaughtered and houses burning while figures standing at attention, their right arms outstretched, watched from the sidelines.

Hannes looked over at Merlin. From an artistic point of view, the painting was certainly a masterpiece—even Hannes recognized that. At the same time, it was incredibly disturbing. What did Merlin want to say with the painting? Hannes forced himself to take a closer look and saw women being raped, the faces of children crushed by heavy boots, and kneeling men resigned to their fates, guns pointed at the backs of their heads by Nazis.