‘But she had a daughter, we gather,’ said Münster. ‘Who lived with her, is that right?’
‘That’s right,’ said Traut. ‘Mar. . Monica.’
‘Monica Kammerle?’
‘Yes.’
‘How old?’
Traut flung out his arms.
‘I don’t really know. In her teens. About fifteen or sixteen, I’d guess.’
‘And presumably you had no contact with her either?’
‘None at all.’
‘And who was Monica’s dad?’
Traut frowned and tried to think.
‘I can’t remember his name. Apart from Kammerle, of course. Yes, they were married, Martina and him, but he died. Four or five years ago, I’d say, but time passes so quickly. Car accident. He fell asleep at the wheel — that’s what they say, at least. I only met him once, briefly. . Ah yes, his name was Klaus of course, I remember now. I think things have gone downhill for Martina since she’s been on her own. Hasn’t been able to hold down a proper job and so on, that’s what my old lady says in any case. No, she didn’t exactly lead a happy life — but that it should end like this is. . well, a bit much, don’t you think?’
He looked at Reinhart and Münster in turn a few times, as if he was expecting them to enlighten him on how things really stood.
‘Do you know if she had a job at the moment?’ asked Münster.
‘Keine Ahnung, as they say in France,’ said Traut. ‘I think it would be better if you talked to my old lady about this. She’s taken it pretty hard, but of course she’d be pleased to give you any help she could. What kind of a loony could do something like this? I mean, you read about it in the papers and see it on the telly, but you don’t believe-’
‘We’ll talk to your wife in the next few days,’ interrupted Reinhart. ‘Possibly even tomorrow. Do you know if there’s anybody else who might be able to give us information? Anybody who knew Martina Kammerle or knows a bit more about her?’
Traut shook his head.
‘Or her daughter?’
‘No, no, I’m sorry. It’s as I said, we haven’t been in touch very much at all. There were six years between the sisters as well, and Martina was never easy to handle, you must be clear about that.’
‘How do you know that if you’ve hardly ever been in contact with her?’ wondered Münster.
Traut seemed to be thinking that one over.
‘The old lady told me,’ he said. ‘She keeps ringing her, although all she gets back is nearly always a lot of shit. . Or used to get a lot of shit, I should say. We’ve lent her money a few times, by the way, but we’ve never received anything back. Not even any shit. A pretty crappy investment, I must say. .’
‘When was that?’ Reinhart asked. ‘When you lent her money.’
‘Ages ago,’ said Traut. ‘Before she got married. Twenty years ago, something like that. . She’d just come out of a home, and we lent her some money so that she could get a flat. Not the kind of sum to make a fuss about, of course, and we didn’t do so.’
‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart, looking at the clock. ‘It’s getting a bit late. I gather you have a hotel room for tonight, and intend driving up to Chadow tomorrow morning, is that right?’
‘Exactly,’ said Traut. ‘The Palace in Rejmer Plejn. If you need me for anything else I’ll be there until about eleven tomorrow morning.’
‘Excellent,’ said Reinhart. ‘I think we can leave it at that for now. I suppose there’s no point in asking you what you think might have happened — who might have murdered your sister-in-law, that is?’
‘No,’ said Traut, displaying the palms of his hands again. ‘How the devil would I know?’
‘Two questions,’ said Reinhart when Traut had left them alone. ‘If you can answer them, maybe we can get somewhere.’
‘Only two?’ said Münster. ‘I have a hundred. And we haven’t even started yet.’
‘No,’ said Reinhart. ‘We haven’t. But I can’t help wondering about the daughter. Where the hell is she? A fifteen-or sixteen-year-old girl can’t simply disappear into thin air. Did you notice that Traut didn’t even seem to be able to remember her name?’
Münster stood up and wriggled his way into his jacket.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I noted that. But even if people have forgotten about you, it’s a bit hard simply to go up in smoke. Do you think she’s lying in another rubbish bag somewhere? Or do you think she strangled her mother after a row over pocket money?’
Reinhart snorted, but didn’t answer.
‘What was your other question?’ asked Münster. ‘You said you had two.’
‘Traut,’ said Reinhart. ‘I have the feeling he’s keeping something from us, but I can’t work out what.’
Münster nodded.
‘I had the same impression, in fact. Anyway, I don’t suppose we’ve seen him for the last time. Shall we say goodnight now? It’s past midnight.’
‘Goodnight,’ said Detective Chief Inspector Reinhart. ‘I expect to see you here at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. As clear in the head as a chess computer.’
‘I’ve always thought that Monday mornings have a special shimmer about them,’ said Münster. ‘Especially at this time of year. Was it half past nine you said?’
14
Ewa Moreno took an early flight and was in Chadow by eight o’clock.
The town was shrouded in smoke from the factory chimneys, sea mist and the grey light of dawn which seemed to be reflecting her own inner landscape. November, Monday morning and blocked sinuses. She had a quick breakfast in the lugubrious cafeteria in the airport terminal, as no food had been served on the flight, and took a taxi to Pelikaanallé, where Barbara Traut lived.
Three children had just been sent off to various schools, and fru Traut asked Moreno if she could have a shower before they started their conversation — she had hardly slept a wink during the night, she explained, and after all, they had the whole morning at their disposal.
Moreno abandoned all hope of catching the eleven o’clock flight back home, and assured fru Traut that there was no hurry. She sat down at the half-cleared breakfast table with yet another cup of tea and the local morning paper, which was called the Kurijr. She glanced absent-mindedly through its pages, and wondered — as she had done on the plane — about points of contact between Barbara Traut and herself.
Or point of contact, rather: on the basis of what little she had seen of fru Traut, she hoped there was only one.
Having lost a sister.
On her own part Inspector Moreno had not actually lost a sister — not in the horrendous way that her hostess had, at least. But it was over three years since she had heard from Maud, and there were certainly reasons to assume that she was unlikely to appear again in Moreno’s life. Good reasons.
No, not good ones. Awful reasons. Rootlessness. Drugs. A constant shortage of money and consequential prostitution — plus some sort of warped and inadequate relationship with her family that presumably was at the bottom of it all, and that Moreno preferred not to think about: all those desperate factors that seemed somehow to be legion among her generation, and dragged Maud relentlessly down into the cold, man-eating swamp that seemed to claim so many victims in the late twentieth century. That was simply the way it was. Perhaps she was clinging to a sort of life in one of those big cities where there was still a need for broken people with no safety net who could be ruthlessly exploited. In the social machinery that nobody was servicing any more, or bothered to oil.
As she had seen it described somewhere.
Or perhaps she’s dead, Moreno thought. Vanished in the anonymous and unidentified way that people, young people, are simply wiped off the ethnographical map of the new Europe. Victims, victims of the post-modern age.
Without leaving any trace behind.
Lives as substantial as footprints in water.
Yes, Maud has no doubt vanished for ever, she decided with the same cold bitterness as always. Dead, or enduring a living death. There was nothing Moreno could do about it: a continuation of the amusing and happy thirteen-year-old that had been her little sister when she flew the nest was simply non-existent. Moreno had realized that several years ago: the fact that she thought about it now was simply due to the parallel she had now come across. What happened to be on today’s agenda. Barbara Traut and Martina Kammerle.