Black Ice Read online

  Maubach smiled. “Just suppose, Herr Scholten, you take out those planks and nail strips of wood to them all the way round. You let the strips come a little way above the planks, and you waterproof the whole thing, say with insulating tape. Do you know what you get then?”

  “How would I know?”

  “You get a kind of basin or dish, understand? And then you fill it with water, an inch or so deep, and you put it in a freezer. Guess what you have on that plank next morning?”

  Huygens said: “Black ice.” He shook his head. “Amazing. Unbelievable.”

  Maubach looked at Huygens. “Our colleagues in the TCI tried it. We wanted to make sure. And it really does work.”

  Scholten said: “Who tried it?”

  “Sorry, TCI is our abbreviation. The Technical Criminal Investigation department.”

  “They can be wrong, I suppose.”

  Maubach laughed. “Not them, Herr Scholten. Not with something of this nature. They’re wise to anything, they are.”

  “Maybe. But suppose Herr Wallmann simply says it isn’t true. How are you going to prove it when he has an alibi?”

  “Ah, don’t you understand, Herr Scholten? He has an alibi for the time when his wife fell off the steps, yes. But the planks could have been prepared and fitted beforehand. That’s the clever part of this ruse: he wasn’t there when it happened, and by the time he came back and called the police the ice had long since melted. Now do you get it?”

  “Get it? Of course I get it. But you still can’t prove it. Even if it’s true. You’ll never be able to prove it.”

  “I wouldn’t say ‘never’. But it will be very difficult, I have to admit that you’re right there. And that’s why we’re here. We need your help, Herr Scholten.”

  “My help?”

  Scholten noticed that his voice sounded rough and cracked. He tried to suppress his despair again just for a minute, shake it off, feel free for one brief moment. “How could I help you? You don’t think Herr Wallmann invited me to watch him, do you?”

  “Of course not. But we’re aware that you not only know your way around the firm, you’re familiar with the house up there too. You’ve often done odd jobs in it. You’ve bought DIY materials for Herr Wallmann.”

  “So?”

  Maubach said firmly: “Herr Scholten. Can you, for instance, remember thin wooden strips of any kind going missing up there? Or insulating tape? People often need such things in a house like that. Or did you find any remnants lying about? You were working up there for a few days at the end of April, something odd might have struck you. Of course it is clear to us that Herr Wallmann, if he did what we think he did, will have cleared away everything he used. He had plenty of time. He could burn the wooden strips in the fire, for instance. But perhaps you can tell us about anything that was missing afterwards, Herr Scholten. You and only you can do it, I feel pretty sure. You’re the one with the overall view.”

  Scholten stared out of the veranda. The lights on the beach promenade were switched on, and there was a black sky behind them. A very narrow, pale green streak on the horizon divided the sky from the black sea.

  The strips of wood. He ought to have driven back on Saturday to burn them, and then he ought to have called the local policeman and reported her missing. Why hadn’t he gone back on Saturday? He ought to have done everything exactly as Wallmann had.

  They couldn’t pin anything on Wallmann. He had burned the strips at once, after fitting the planks in place. Yes, but he couldn’t have done that with Hilde. Wallmann had been alone in the house, but Hilde wouldn’t have a fire in the hearth. “We’re not having that fire lit.”

  Hilde. He’d always known she would be the death of him some day.

  Maubach cleared his throat. He said: “If he did what we think he did, then he needed ten strips of wood measuring twenty-eight inches each, and ten measuring nine and a half inches each. Or a little longer. Strips around two inches wide. In all he’d have needed about ten or eleven yards of thin wooden strips. And probably the same amount of insulating tape, or some other waterproofing material, Herr Scholten. Is there anything like that missing from the house? Take your time, Herr Scholten. Think about it carefully.”

  Huygens said: “It’s very important. That could be conclusive evidence, you see. Our man can’t be convicted without it.”

  Maubach said: “It is indeed very important, Herr Scholten. As you know, Herr Wallmann is in the Bahamas. I’ll tell you something else to put you fully in the picture. I know you’re a reliable and trustworthy man, and I can talk frankly to you.”

  He cleared his throat. “Over the past few months, Herr Wallmann has been transferring money abroad. Quite a lot of money. We suspect he’s planning to leave the country some time. Perhaps by now he’s beginning to doubt whether he really did commit the perfect murder. Perhaps he’s scared and thinking of disappearing in the near future. And then he’ll be gone, you understand? And heaven knows whether we’ll ever be able to put him behind bars.”

  Scholten took a deep breath. He coughed, but the pressure did not lift from his chest. His eyes slid over Maubach, went from Maubach to Huygens. Then he looked out at the dark again.

  Yes, that was it. That was about it. They couldn’t pin anything on Wallmann. He had burned the strips and the insulating tape. And the ice had melted long ago. All of six months ago it had melted to water and evaporated in the sunlight and fallen again as rain – several times, perhaps. There was nothing now, nothing at all, they could pin on Wallmann. “What do you say about that, Herr Wallmann?” About what, pray? There was no evidence.

  They would never get their hands on Wallmann.

  Scholten took a deep breath. He looked at Huygens and then at Maubach. He said: “Can I make a phone call?”

  “A phone call? Of course.”

  Scholten went up to the bar. He asked if he could make a long-distance call to Germany. The landlady put the phone in front of him. He passed one hand over his face, stared at the dial then began to dial the number of the weekend house. The engaged signal interrupted him twice in the middle of the dialling code. On the third try he got through.

  He stared at the bar counter. He listened impassively to the ringing tone. He had no hope left.

  When the connection was automatically broken he pressed down the rest, held it there for a moment, took a deep breath, dialled the number of his apartment. The ringing tone came. He stood there as if with his mind on something else. He waited again until the ringing tone was automatically broken.

  27

  He went back to the table, sat down. Maubach and Huygens were looking at him intently.

  Scholten said: “It was exactly the way you said. He did it with black ice. He used five wooden strips each measuring seven feet. And about ten yards of insulating tape. I know exactly what was in the house before. The wooden strips and the insulating tape were missing.”

  Maubach’s voice suddenly sounded hoarse. “When? When you were up there in April?”

  “Yes. I can tell you more too. He bought new bolts. He used them for the substitute planks.”

  “What do you mean, substitute planks?”

  “There are half a dozen old planks up in the garage. I fitted new ones in the autumn. He put the old planks back in the stairs when he took out those five and put them in the freezer. Or someone might have noticed the hole in the flight of steps.”

  Maubach nodded, attending closely. “Of course.”

  “And I can tell you something about the alibi. He planned it ahead, in detail. He left those files in the office on purpose. He had locked them up so that no one could find them and Erika couldn’t bring them with her for him. Or perhaps he secretly took them with him after all. He did it so that he could say he had to go back to town. And he got drunk on purpose at the bowling club. So Sauerborn would say he couldn’t drive back to the house that evening.”

  Huygens said: “Fantastic. That’ll get Herr Wallmann behind bars. Congratulations, Herr Maubach.
”

  Scholten said: “And he fixed it all to make sure Erika went down the steps. The sailing trip. The mainsheet had jammed, he said – nonsense. He hit the tackle with a hammer so that he’d have to have a new one. I saw the bill from the yachting basin. Erika was supposed to think he was having difficulty getting his bit of fluff out of the place early enough. Fräulein Faust, I mean. The idea was for Erika to think she could catch him with Fräulein Faust. And she did think so too. She went down the steps, and then she fell. He killed her, the bastard.”

  Scholten’s voice broke. He sobbed aloud, put a hand over his eyes and wept.

  Maubach laid a hand on his back. He said: “There, there, Herr Scholten. We’ll get him. And with your help I think we can convict him. I’m almost sure of it, in fact. Do calm down, Herr Scholten. I can understand you taking it so badly. You were a good friend of Frau Wallmann, weren’t you?”

  Scholten nodded, his hand over his eyes.

  Maubach stood up. “Well, I must make some phone calls.” He went to the bar.

  Huygens said nothing. Not until Scholten leaned back and looked for his handkerchief did he say, “Herr Scholten, you have helped the police a great deal. If only everyone was like you we’d have an easier time. And the criminal fraternity would have a much worse one.”

  Scholten wiped the tears from his eyes, blew his nose.

  Maubach came back. He said: “The wheels have started moving. I must set off. Thank you very much indeed, Herr Scholten.” He offered his broad hand. “When will you be back?”

  Scholten shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow would be good. Anyway, please call me as soon as you’re home.” Maubach handed him a card. “And mind how you drive. We’ll be needing you again.” He laughed. Huygens shook hands with Scholten and clapped him on the shoulder.

  Scholten dropped back on his chair. He watched them leave through the glass of the veranda. The landlady came up to the table, stacked the empty glasses on a tray. “Anything else?”

  Scholten stared at her then shook his head. “No, nothing more thank you. Alstublieft. Dank u wel.”

  “Alstublieft, meneer.” She smiled. “Anneke will be in again tomorrow.”

  Scholten nodded. When she had already gone he said: “Yes, yes. Dank u wel.”

  After a while he stood up. He bent ponderously, picked up the basket, made sure the cat’s leash was still in it. He went out. There was no one to be seen in the pale light of the street lamps. The wind blew in restless gusts over the beach promenade, carrying moisture on it. Scholten could hear the breakers. He stopped and listened.

  He went a few steps, stopped again. Suddenly he called: “Manny!” He listened. All he could hear was the breakers and the moaning of the wind.

  He turned up his coat collar and hurried on. As he approached the house he ran. He heard the TV from the living room. He climbed the stairs, carefully opened the door, put one hand in and switched on the light. The cat wasn’t there. The little curtains fluttered at the window.

  He looked down at the yard, which was all dark, a few blurred outlines, a puddle shining. “Manny? Are you down there? Come up at once!” He listened. Then he went back, switched the light off, closed the door and went downstairs. He knocked at the living-room door.

  “Come in!”

  He looked in. The old lady was in her armchair in front of the TV set. Scholten said: “The cat?”

  “The cat?” She shook her head, gestured with both hands. No, she hadn’t seen the cat, she said; she’d looked for it but she hadn’t found it. She began to get up.

  “No, no, don’t get up, Granny. I’ll go and look. Alstublieft.”

  He stopped outside the house. There were lights in the living-room windows of the little houses all around. The wind scattered a few raindrops on his forehead. He looked up at the sky. Black, not a star to be seen.

  He called, “Manny! Come along now!” His voice dropped, he said: “This is much too cold for you. You’ll fall sick on me if you run around in this. And it’s beginning to rain – listen to me, will you?”

  He listened. He heard something, he didn’t know if it was the wind or just the blood racing in his ears. He went a few paces.

  Suddenly fear and despair broke over him like a huge wave, unexpectedly rolling up. He stopped, held on to the garden fence. Head drawn in, chin on his chest, he waited for the wave to recede. He coughed.

  He went on, at first tentatively, trying to find his way through the dark, then faster and faster. He turned off on the path leading into the wooded dunes. Now and then he stumbled, saved himself, went on without slowing his pace. Twigs whipped into his face. At regular intervals he called, “Manny! Little Manny!”

  Sometimes he whistled too. He called once again, “Come here, boy! I’m here! You don’t need to go looking for me.”

  His heart took a mighty leap, relief and happiness ran through him when he felt a light touch against his shoes, his legs, something clinging to him and following him. He bent down. It was a twig that had blown off a bush. Tears came into his eyes.

  He went on, tried to take his handkerchief out, gave up, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Little Manny! Come along, do!”

  Finally the path left the wood, wound up the slope of the dune through grasses and low bushes, went down to the beach on the other side.

  Scholten stumbled down the slope through drifts of sand. His knees buckled, he recovered, staggered, climbed on down blindly in the darkness. He fell on his knees, propping himself on both hands as he kneeled there.

  The sand was wet and cold. Scholten wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, tried to make something out through the veil of tears blurring them. That must be the sea over there; the surf breathed with a rumbling sound. He thought he could see the white border of foam shimmering in the dark.

  A sob tightened his throat. He swallowed violently, coughed. Then he called, in a strange, thin, high voice: “Manny! Where are you, little boy? Why did you run away? Come back, do, little Manny!”

  He bowed his head and gave himself up to tears. He kneeled there for a long time, his hands in the damp cold sand, weeping quietly. His shoulders shook only now and then. He said, his chin on his chest: “You’ll be ill, little boy.”

  After a while he struggled up again. He tottered a few steps down the slope, stumbled and fell. He did not try to break this fall. He fell with his face in the sand.

  He raised his head and said: “Manny. Dear boy. Come along now. Let’s go home.”

  BITTER LEMON PRESS

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2005 by

  Bitter Lemon Press, 37 Arundel Gardens, London W11 2LW

  Reprinted 2008

  www.bitterlemonpress.com

  First published in German as Glatteis by Bastei Verlag Gustav H. Lübbe, Bergisch Gladbach, 1982

  © Diogenes Verlag AG Zurich, 2001 English translation © Anthea Bell, 2005

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced in any form or by any means without written

  permission of the publisher

  The moral right of Anthea Bell has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

  eISBN : 978-1-904-73890-9

  Typeset by RefineCatch Limited, Broad Street, Bungay, Suffolk

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

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