13

Moritz was terrified. He sat on the floor, his head between his knees. He looked up at Wegener and began stuttering an apology. “I made a mistake . . .”

“Only one?” Herr Wegener said mockingly.

Moritz corrected himself. “Many, many mistakes, too many, Herr Wegener, and I don’t know how to apologise . . .”

Wegener took the automatic from his belt. “If you say the word ‘apologise’ one more time, I’ll put a bullet through your head. Marlene saw you. Did you realise that?”

It was pointless lying. “Yes.”

“When?”

“A couple of days ago.”

“Are you sure?”

“Maybe a week.”

“And you didn’t say anything to me.”

“I wanted to be sure, sir. I didn’t want you to . . .”

“Get any strange ideas?”

“I don’t know anything about the burglary, sir. It was an oversight on my part. I was distracted. Your wife . . . I’m as surprised as you are.”

“So you also think it was Marlene?”

Moritz swallowed a couple of times.

Wegener began pacing up and down the shed. Three steps forward, then an about-turn. “Tell me about your distraction.”

“It was because of the boredom. Frau Wegener always did the same thing every day. She’d go to work, break for lunch at one o’clock and be back by two. Then at six o’clock she’d go home. Sometimes she’d have coffee in the café next to the boutique with Herr Kerschbaumer and the other employees. Everything was very regular. Always the same route to work and back. Never a deviation.”

“She never met anyone?”

“I’d have told you.”

“You’d have reported it.”

“Of course, sir.”

Herr Wegener brought his face close to Moritz’s. “And how the fuck do you expect me to believe you?” he barked.

“I give you my word, I—”

Herr Wegener grabbed him by the hair, forced him down onto his hands and knees and banged his forehead on the concrete floor, once, twice, three times, until he drew blood. A lot of blood.

Wegener let go of him. Moritz put his hands to his forehead and rolled his eyes.

“Does it hurt?”

“I deserve it.”

Wegener took the safety catch off the gun and pointed it at him. Moritz stretched out his hands. “Please . . .”

“What’s the name of your distraction?”

Moritz replied quickly.

Too quickly.

“There’s nobody, there’s—”

Herr Wegener fired.

The bullet hit Moritz in the ankle. Georg stuck his head around the door of the shed, took a quick look and vanished. Moritz was curled in a foetal position, screaming. Wegener pressed the barrel of the gun to his temple.

“My teacher used to say that shooting isn’t a good method for obtaining information. A gunshot wound reduces the thinking process to nothing and renders a person unable to cooperate. I don’t agree. I think a bullet can produce miracles. Do you want to know how a bullet can turn into a miracle?”

“Yes, sir,” Moritz replied, his face drained of blood, dripping with sweat and tears. “How?”

“You’ll tell me the truth, and I’ll be satisfied. Georg will take you to a doctor, and you’ll have a two-week holiday. When you get back, we’ll shake hands. You’ll limp for the rest of your life, but it’s better to limp than be dead. And if that’s not a miracle, then what the hell is?”

“Helene.”

“The housekeeper?”

“We . . .”

Of course. It was obvious. The housekeeper was an attractive woman. With a little make-up, she would be more than attractive. Wegener could picture the whole thing: the intimacy that comes from working side by side, the exchange of glances, the touch of hands, a stolen kiss.

Then something more daring.

Man is programmed to keep raising the stakes. And it’s also in his nature to get bored once passion has waned. The sex becomes less steamy, the craving turns into a habit, then a bother. And so you get an idea for rekindling your desire: break up the endless hours of surveillance with the thrill of a secret meeting. Danger is the most powerful of aphrodisiacs.

Oh, yes, Wegener could picture it.

He almost didn’t hear the gunshot.