‘Lechtenbrinck?’
Hans-Ulrich’s voice was unmistakeable. Nasal, almost as if he had a cold, and far too high-pitched for a sixty-year-old professor.
From a single word Emma had recognised the head of the forensic medicine department at the Charité clinic.
She, by contrast, tried to disguise her voice so Professor Lechtenbrinck didn’t guess who he was really talking to, even though it was unlikely he would remember her. They’d rarely spoken in the past.
‘My name is Detective Superintendent Tanja Schmidt,’ Emma introduced herself, using the name of the police officer who’d questioned her earlier in the living room. She gave the name of the department responsible for the Stein/Palandt investigation. ‘The body of Anton Palandt, victim of an attack in Westend, was brought in to you this evening.’
‘Where did you get this number from?’ Lechtenbrinck asked angrily.
‘It’s in the computer,’ Emma lied. In fact it was stored in the speed dial memory of their phone: button 9. Philipp and Lechtenbrinck had cooperated for some time on the puzzle murderer case. Over the course of several months a Berlin serial killer had put a victim’s body parts in plastic bags and left them in public places. In the final week, shortly before the killer was apprehended, they’d telephoned each other almost daily and their professional connection became a casual friendship, which was why Lechtenbrinck’s private number was still stored in the phone.
‘This is outrageous!’ the forensic scientist objected. ‘This number is only for emergencies and a select few individuals. I demand you delete it at once.’
‘I will,’ Emma promised. ‘But now I’ve got you on the line…’
‘I’m in the middle of a post-mortem.’
Excellent!
‘Listen, I really don’t want to interrupt you. It’s just that we’re about to question the suspect, Emma Stein, a second time and it would be of great help to us if we knew the cause of death of the female victim in the organic waste bin.’
‘Puh…’
Just from this exhalation Emma knew that she’d cracked him. Forensic scientists couldn’t stand the fact that in books and films they were generally portrayed as oddballs who were only ever deployed when it was all too late. They tended to feel that their work was undervalued. After all, they didn’t just cut up corpses, but often played a key role especially in the questioning of witnesses and suspects. On one occasion Lechtenbrinck had been able to nail a suspect thanks to a telephone connection between the autopsy room and the interrogation room at the police station. Whenever the murderer tried to depict the death of his victim as a tragic accident, by analysing the wounds Lechtenbrinck was able to advance proof to the contrary, in parallel to the interrogation.
And now the renowned expert didn’t seem to want to pass up the opportunity to have a decisive influence on another investigation.
‘Well, the cause of death is fairly unspectacular. The report isn’t yet cut and dried, but I’d lay money on multiple organ failure as a result of age-related ischaemia.’
‘Are you… having me on?’ Emma almost cried, her panic making her forget to disguise her voice when she next spoke. ‘A natural cause of death? The woman was chopped up.’
‘Post-mortem. Looks like a classic case of benefits fraud.’
Emma wondered whether Lechtenbrinck had suffered a stroke. Or if she had, because his words made no sense unless he was trying to pull her leg.
‘A classic case of fraud whereby the cheat climbs into a bin without legs?’
‘Not the cheat. That’s Anton Palandt, of course.’
‘I don’t understand.’
Lechtenbrinck was breathing heavily again, but he seemed to be relishing his role as the experienced scholar able to teach a thing or two to a naïve policewoman.
‘Look, Frau Schmidt. I haven’t seen the crime scene, but I bet you ten to one that our perpetrator lives in poverty. One day he comes back home and finds his mother dead in bed—’
‘His mother?’ Emma interrupted Lechtenbrinck, who added with palpable irritation, ‘Didn’t I mention that? The corpse in the waste bin is almost certainly Palandt’s mother. We’re still waiting for the final dental analysis, but she’s over eighty at any rate.’ Then he elaborated on his theory, which Emma listened to as if in a diving bell: muffled, with numbed ears.
‘Anyway, after a moment of sorrow, the son says, “Bloody hell, I’ve got access to Mama’s account. Who says I have to ring the police just because she’s dead?” He decides to keep his mother alive, as far as the authorities are concerned, so he can cash in on her pension.’
‘I haven’t got any money!’
‘He tells the neighbours about a lengthy stay abroad, spending time at a health resort or something like that, but to tell you the truth in Berlin nobody wonders if an old person stops showing their face. At some point the smell becomes noticeable, which is why the perpetrator organises a burial in a waste bin. He just stuffs the remains into the container, which is a bit of a mess as corpses usually don’t fit in without amputations. Then he leaves the waste bin in the cellar or shed, and chucks in cat litter or sprays litres of air freshener. The classic case.’
So my dream put me on the right track, Emma thought.
Palandt wasn’t the Hairdresser and she hadn’t killed a ripper, but at most a hot-tempered benefits cheat who’d done nothing worse than to prevent his mother from resting in peace just because he needed the money.
Which meant the danger is still very much present!
Emma wasn’t sure how she’d managed to avoid bellowing this last thought down the line. She thought she thanked the doctor and said a rapid goodbye, but she couldn’t recall another word that was said. Exhausted, she fell back into the cushions and pillows.
I killed a person!
Not the Hairdresser!
Palandt didn’t have the slightest thing to do with him.
His wig, the medication, the package… In her paranoia she’d bent the facts, which had cost an innocent man his life.
Emma closed her eyes and couldn’t help thinking of the blood that had spurted from Palandt’s body. After she’d stabbed him again and again.
Which in turn reminded her of the pool of blood she’d had to wipe up in the living room this morning.
Samson!
She hadn’t thought about him once since she’d woken up. In the uneasy hope that he, at least, was better, she dialled the number to access her voicemail from the landline. Her mobile had been confiscated as evidence by the police.
‘You have three new messages,’ the robotic voice announced. And indeed the first was from Dr Plank, reassuring Emma that Samson was over the worst. Thank God. But they’d have to wait for the definitive results on Monday before she could pick him up, and what was happening now about payment?
The next was from Philipp, sounding concerned and informing her that he’d be back home in a few minutes.
And finally she heard another voice that sounded so agitated that Emma didn’t recognise it at first. It didn’t help that Jorgo was practically whispering either.
‘Emma? I’m sorry about earlier. I mean that I lied to you. Of course I gave you that note.’
The note!
Something else that Emma, in her distress, had temporarily forgotten. The telephone beeped because the battery was low. It needed to be put back on the dock, but then she wouldn’t be able to make any more calls, which is why Emma decided to go downstairs where she hoped the second handset would be waiting fully charged.
‘Your husband has a spy program on his mobile,’ she heard Jorgo say. ‘It automatically records every incoming call.’
A spy program? What the bloody hell is that about?
It beeped again three times before she got to the bedroom door.
But there was just enough juice left in the battery for a few more words from Jorgo.
‘I didn’t want your husband to find out about the note when he listened to our conversation later on. So please call me on my mobile. Please. It’s important. We found out something. Philipp doesn’t want to tell you, but I think you ought to know. In the hotel, in Le Zen—’
Beep.
The line was dead and the display as dark as the hallway on the ground floor.
Emma felt her way to the light switch as Jorgo’s final words echoed slowly in her head.
‘We found out something…’
She went into the kitchen first, but the second handset wasn’t in the dock.
‘Philipp doesn’t want to tell you…’
On the way into the living room Jorgo’s voice went quiet, but now she thought she could hear the buzzing of the shaver in her head, only that this time it wasn’t a long, penetrating drone, but an intermittent stutter.
‘In the hotel, in Le Zen…’
Like a drill.
An insect.
Emma went over to the desk where that afternoon she’d ripped open Palandt’s package. She couldn’t find the second house phone here either, although she did locate the source of the buzzing: Philipp’s mobile.
With every ring it rotated to the rhythm of the vibrations. The caller’s name flashed ominously.
Emma turned around, but the vague inkling that her husband would suddenly be standing there was unfounded.
She hesitantly picked up the mobile and pressed the green symbol to take the call.
‘What did you find out in the hotel, Jorgo?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Help me!’ screamed the voice on the other end.