Brenner and God (10 page)

You should know, there’s a right moment for everything. For plants, when to plant them, when to water them, when to harvest them; for animals, when to feed them, when to milk them, when to slaughter them; for children, when to make them, when to nurse them, when to kick them out on their own; for fingernails, when to cut them, when to file them, when to polish them; and hair, too, very important. But only a very few know how important the right moment is for the detective counterquestion.

“What do you two have to say about her?” Brenner placed the photo that Knoll had given him on the table.

“Jailbait,” they said almost in unison—a well-rehearsed
team. But they were of no help to Brenner because they didn’t recognize the girl. The security guard just got excited at the prospect of proving his professionalism to Brenner. Because he immediately pulled out his cell phone and took a photo of the photo. “In case I come across her, I’ll let you know.”

“But only after you come on top of her,” the foreman said with a smirk, and Brenner wondered whether it was his smirk that was crooked or if it only came off that way because his freckles were so unevenly distributed.

“Of course,” the nicotine-nursling said, bringing up the rear of the joke again. “Only after I’ve come on top of her.”

But then his freckled smirk got even more crooked, so crooked that it was like they’d passed the nicotine pipe around and the substance in the pipe was distorting Brenner’s vision. His vision wasn’t the problem, though, because Brenner: A-plus vision. If this weren’t the case, then when he finally turned around and followed the freckled asshole’s glance, he wouldn’t have seen as clearly as he did what was playing out in front of the Lilliput Café’s only window.

“Thanks for the warning,” he called out to the two of them from the bathroom, while outside, Kressdorf and Congressman Stachl were climbing out of Kressdorf’s jeep, which was parked right next to his Mondeo. The joke was on him, that much is obvious, because the two of them knew the whole time that they were waiting there for their boss.

No way out now except through the bathroom window. Then Brenner walked along the Hauptallee a bit and listened to Knoll’s voicemail, because he didn’t dare make his way back to the Mondeo until Kressdorf was gone.

My dear swan, Brenner hadn’t been in a funk like this
in a long time. And the fact that the idiot watchdog and his Pippi Longstocking had let him fall right into it could only bear half the blame for why his mood just soured with every step. Above all there was the crap that Knoll Jr. was whining about to Knoll’s voicemail. Because that was a burden that would have merited half a year’s psychological counseling right off the bat for any civil servant—and from the most attractive police psychologist no less.

Brenner wasn’t an impatient man otherwise, but he was on the search for a kidnapped child, and with something like this you’ve got to hurry. You can’t just listen to voicemails until the kidnapped victim is old enough to say,
I choose of my own free will to remain with my kidnapper because I’ve gotten used to him
. No, you’ve got to be swift. Neverending voicemail messages are hard enough to endure in normal life, but in Brenner’s situation it could be filed, strictly speaking, under “accomplice to murder.” His ear practically fell asleep listening, and although on principle he was one to always hold the phone to his left ear, he actually switched briefly to his right. He wondered whether Knoll ever listened to these messages at all. Or maybe it was just a personal hotline where he let the church ladies talk. For those times when it’s necessary to request of an excessive talker:
speak your interesting thoughts into a plastic bag, then place the bag before my door, I’ll listen to them later
.

But as Brenner was about to turn the phone back off, a message came in that interested him. And I don’t mean the message where Knoll called and offered the honest finder a finder’s fee of a hundred euros for bringing his lost cell phone to his office, because that one came right at the start.
No, pay attention: a man’s gravelly voice said to the inbox, “Saturday, nine a.m. One million and no further negotiations.”

Thirty-five hours after Helena disappeared from her Zone of vehicular Transparency, and five hours after Brenner got sent out into the rain by the police, and four hours after Knoll stressed that it wasn’t him but rather the good lord who might have called Helena back to him, Brenner became aware that he still had an irrational fear in his bones of the good lord. Now how did he become aware of this? Believe it or not, for one second, or maybe just for a hundredth of a second—a thousandth of a second if you ask me—the gravelly voice sent by the satellite to the voicemail really did sound like a voice from beyond. Just listen: “Nine a.m. One million and no further negotiations.”

And the voice named a Schrebergarten that Brenner didn’t know. But an old woman who was out strolling explained to him that he had to go back the other way because Greenland, the colony of garden plots in question, was on the other side of the Lilliput Café, just a little ways from where the Lilliput train loops around. Absolutely correct information, and then he found
Greenland
on a park map, too. Pay attention, if you’re coming from the Lilliput train, the colony is situated right behind Happel Stadium, or if you’re coming from the underage prostitutes along the Baby Strip, it’s behind the velodrome. Best you take note of the address right now, because that’s where Brenner was going next: the Greenland Schrebergarten in Prater Park, second gate, first row, third plot on the left.

Schrebergartens are a topic all their own, of course. Much has been said about them because it’s widely accepted that their trees and shrubs grow so well on account of a corpse being the best fertilizer. I don’t count myself among the people who say,
more dead bodies in Schrebergartens than in cemeteries
, but the particular burden of waste is greater in any case. Because at normal cemeteries they take the worst stuff out of the deceased, the batteries from their pacemakers, the artificial joints, the dentures, and the silicone parts, so that the groundwater doesn’t suffer too much. But Schrebergarten corpses are mostly buried hush-hush and in a hurry, batteries and all. Oddly enough, the plants don’t seem to mind—they thrive like blazes—but long term, the groundwater’s got to be paying for it.

It took Brenner roughly half an hour to find the right gate, but only half a minute to get into the cottage.

That he got in so easily wasn’t necessarily a bad sign yet, in case you’re thinking
if the Schrebergarten cottage is this poorly secured, then no kidnapping victim’s going to be found here
. I could tell you about one case after another where kidnapping victims were held in completely normal houses—no waterfalls, no spring gun, no anything. And no discussion anyway with a two-year-old child. There doesn’t have to be
any high-security apparatus, because the only important thing’s that nobody comes up with the idea to look there.

Brenner was cautious of course, because when you’re a stranger in a Schrebergarten, you always fear for your life, no need to throw a kidnapping into the bargain. But not cautious in the sense that he would’ve wound himself around the doorframe with a Glock in both hands or danced a wide arc around a booby trap like he was at the world tango championship. First of all, he didn’t have a gun on him anyway, and besides, in a situation like this you only make everything worse by having a gun, because without a gun, worst case, you can always talk your way out of it somehow should you run right into the kidnapper’s arms.

Unfortunately, though, neither kidnapper nor Helena in the living room. Just a completely deserted living room. Never in his life did an abode appear quite so godforsaken. And it could have been stated without exaggeration that this godforsaken weekend hell depressed Brenner to death—if he wasn’t already in such a mood that it would’ve been a huge improvement for something to depress him to death.

And the kitchen, too, godforsaken. And the bathroom, godforsaken. And upstairs in the tiny attic, godforsaken. And that little bit of a cellar, also godforsaken. The word “godforsaken” engraved itself methodically into Brenner’s brain. You can see how the worm was nagging at him again—this time with the fear that it could be the good lord himself who was leaving him there to wallow until nine the next morning.

He set up camp in the tiny attic bedroom and looked through the blinds at the walkway below. There were still twelve hours until the handover at nine o’clock. Or better
put, three hours. Not what you’re thinking, though, that the handover got moved up. No, Brenner was so utterly exhausted after this dreadful day and the sleepless night at the police station and the conversation with Knoll and the encounter with the South Tyrolean and the escape from the Lilliput Café and the trip out to Klosterneuburg, that he fell asleep thinking that he would in no way fall asleep here.

Now, what had he been looking for in Klosterneuburg tonight? You should know, when Bank Director Reinhard called Brenner that afternoon, he was calling about an appointment in Klosterneuburg, saying, “Would you fancy paying me a visit at eight o’clock in my domicile?”

Because “domicile” and “refuge,” that’s the kind of language Reinhard used, but the padded expressions suited his big persona. Besides the central bank and two or three restaurants, his domicile in Klosterneuburg and his refuge at the Imperial were the most important addresses for his driver. He slept nights at the domicile and days at the refuge. Because these days, when you lead an enterprise of 10,000 employees, you have to get every last drop out of your leisure time; otherwise you might as well pack it in.

At first Brenner was even glad to have something else to do that evening, because thirteen hours in a Schrebergarten cottage waiting for money to change hands isn’t that interesting. But then, as he was standing in front of the domicile with Reinhard, he asked himself what it was that he was looking for there. Reinhard acted as if the conversation had never been about the prospect of becoming his driver. He was only interested in having Brenner telling him in minute detail again about the kidnapping at the gas station.

He took Brenner to a pleasant little place in the garden and ordered drinks from the house by phone. And believe it or not, Congressman Stachl brought the drinks out. Because with tabloids and scandals everybody’s the same, the nobodies and the somebodies, they all want to know as firsthand as possible exactly what it was like. At least Reinhard let Brenner tell his story in peace, whereas the Congressman kept interrupting him. He wanted to understand very thoroughly. But his questions didn’t get him anywhere. Because naturally Brenner didn’t mention anything about Knoll or the planned handover in the Schrebergarten cottage. Congressman Stachl could have been a little friendlier instead of just glowering out from beneath his bushy eyebrows, as if nothing surrounding his city development project had happened in a long time that was as troublesome to him as this kidnapping.

Brenner sat there telling them exactly what they already knew until they got bored. Then the bank director accompanied him back to his Mondeo and gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder in farewell, i.e.,
things will look up again
. And at the last second he reached into his jacket pocket and pressed an envelope into Brenner’s hand. “Perhaps this will be of some help to you.”

Brenner was still holding the envelope in his hand when he woke up in the Schrebergarten attic. Counting the envelope containing his last month’s pay that Natalie had brought him, this now made the second envelope of money in one day, and slowly it began to seem to Brenner that he really was the kidnapper, getting paid the ransom in installments.

Interesting, though: he not only still had the envelope in his hand upon waking up, but also the thought still in his mind that he could in no way fall asleep here. And this thought is the best proof of how the wakeful mind often doesn’t do its best thinking. Because,
don’t fall asleep here
, any bloody layman could have given him this advice—pivotal mistake, as it were—never fall asleep at the scene of the handover, where the gangster might show up early and kill you. But one thing you can’t forget: Brenner’s greatest strength was exactly that. The detective half-sleep. Because he wasn’t sleeping deeply of course, just half-sleeping. And with the other half he watched over the house and over himself, sleeping.

Now, you should know, the best thoughts of Brenner’s life always came to him while he was half asleep. It’s a great misconception that people have—the more awake, the more concentrated, the more rested, the better for their heads. Because just like a light that’s too bright can be bad for the eyes, so, too, can a mind that’s too awake be not at all good for the thoughts. And in truth a half-asleep person can always outmatch an awake person by a long shot, no discussion. Far too many thoughts get in the way of thinking with an awake person, but the good lord whispers directly into the mind of the sleeping person. Only you can’t fall asleep completely, or else you might not hear him.

Watch closely: while he was half asleep it occurred to Brenner that he had overlooked one little thing amid the onslaught of voicemails. Because place and time for the hand over of money had been made known to Knoll one day before the kidnapping!

So when shortly before nine an old man opened the garden gate, Brenner had been wide awake for a while. The old man didn’t have Helena with him, and he didn’t come off as a kidnapper, either, but nonetheless—to be feared. Because the typical Schrebergarten pensioner, without any kidnapping or murder thrown in, already fills the bill more than amply, i.e., overweight, limping, lawn-mowing, fence-painting, grilling, TV-watching, politicizing, groaning, weeding, car-washing, undershirt-wearing, opinion-expressing, hard-of-hearing crankiness personified.

But let’s not be unfair. Because the old man being hard of hearing, that alone was an enormous advantage for Brenner. Hard of hearing an advantage, and the heavy breathing an advantage, too. Because once he’d shuffled into the living room, the heavy breathing prevented the Schrebergartener from making any effort to go up to the attic. And his being hard of hearing resulted in Brenner being able to understand nearly every word from the attic when Knoll arrived at nine sharp with a briefcase of money and a stooge in tow.