Raven Sisters (Franza Oberwieser Book 2) (19 page)

They fell silent, suddenly unable to think of what to say, merely sitting together wordlessly. Eventually she began to talk about Lilli. Then the wine bottle was empty, and she craved a cigarette.

“Since when have I been able to talk to you about something like this?” she asked as they sat outside on the balcony, puffing away. He shrugged.

“You always could.”

She laughed out loud. “Wow,” she said. “You haven’t lost your touch for twisting the facts!”

He laughed, too. “Ah well,” he said. “It was just that you obviously needed someone to listen to you today, so I did.”

“Today?” she asked, thunderstruck. “I needed it today? And I never did before?”

“No, not before. Normally you’re completely in control of things. You don’t always need someone to listen.”

“Oh,” she said, still amazed. “That’s very interesting. Is it something you’ve known for long?”

“Forever,” he replied, looking at her. She let him. Silence like twilight, like a red light in the sky, like
. . .

“I sometimes consider the eventuality
. . .
” Max finally broke the silence.

“The eventuality?”

“Of sleeping with you again.”

He said it carefully, adding that he was afraid she’d take it the wrong way. After all, she was in a relationship. And her lover was a good-looking man. And probably a virile one too, considering his youth. And Max really didn’t know if he could live up to him, but was it possible? With the lover soon disappearing over the horizon
. . .
Well, only for a few weeks and perhaps not
over
the horizon, but heading in that direction. Quite a distance away. If you thought about it.

She began to laugh. “Max, you’re out of your mind!”

“Yes,” he said, “it’s possible. I’m out of my mind. I’m going a bit out of my mind with all these thoughts.”

She was speechless. But she’d sensed it, deep down.

“Max, I
. . .
” she began, but he shook his head.

She sat in silence, looking up at the moon, that semicircle shining like neon.

He eventually continued. Lover-boy would be gone for a while. Think about it. Him. Yes. If he was being honest. About the eventuality. He’d been afraid of saying it to her, but now it was out, now the words were spoken. He was fed up with his life as it was, lonely, cold. Fed up with the female students the university sent him for internships, who knew nothing of life and nothing of love. They had certain abilities, sure, their hair shining, their lips smooth, their spirits gentle and unsullied and free from any corruption, and that was a good thing. She shouldn’t misunderstand him—it was good; as things should be.

He paused, breathed deeply, ran his fingers through her hair, and continued speaking softly, saying he wanted to feel love again, deep in his bones. He might not be the smartest man in the world, but he understood things, and when he closed his eyes
. . .
When he did that, and he did it often, then he saw his life before him and he saw her in it—Franza.

She closed her eyes and shook her head imperceptibly.

“Don’t say anything right now,” he said. “That’s not what I intended, you’ve got to believe that. I didn’t intend to say all that to you, it just happened.”

And then he continued, talking about how he wanted to make being alone more bearable for her, even though he now knew that she was not alone. They both knew that it was about him, Max, about his solitude, his loneliness.

He had never before in his life been so open, so damned open. Not even to himself. And he would love to see her regularly, and eat half her evening meal. Because she would surely regret it the following day if she ate it all herself. And then she’d stand in front of the mirror, overcritical of herself. Not that he thought she should. No, on the contrary. He had not forgotten her hips. How beautiful they were. Soft and lovely. And beautiful.

She held the glass in one hand and her cigarette in the other. It had burned out without her smoking it. She crushed it into the ashtray, set the glass carefully down on the table, and breathed deeply.

“I’m sorry,” Max said. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t meant to turn into a confession.”

“We drank too much,” she said.

He nodded. “Yes, we certainly did.”

“People say things like that when they drink too much.”

“Yes, they do.”

She turned to him, looked him in the eye, the faint light falling on them from the living room. She placed her hand on his cheek and looked at him.

“Max,” she said. “Oh, Max.”

No, she didn’t hold anything against him. Not now. Perhaps tomorrow, but not yet. Maybe tomorrow.

No, this eventuality was not an eventuality. Perhaps there was the tiniest possibility—an extremely tiny one. An extremely teeny, tiny one. But probably not. Or only in the moment. A moment when they had emptied a bottle of wine, no, perhaps even two, and smoked a pack of cigarettes and it was already so late, so damned late, probably already tomorrow, not today anymore.

What would she think about it tomorrow—or even today
. . 
.

“Let’s see,” she said. “But probably not. Better not.”

He moved toward her. She shook her head, but let him. He slipped his hand beneath her sweater, beneath her bra, and laid it on her left breast—he had always had a weakness for the left. His hand was warm and soft and as Franza remembered.

“Still the right size,” he said, trying to make light of it. “Still as if made for me.”

She smiled. “What you’re doing there, it’s
. . .
”

“I know,” he whispered, burying his nose in her hair. “But it’s so familiar.”
Yes
, she thought.
Familiar, so familiar.

“I have a lover,” she whispered. “A boyfriend, a partner.” She shook her head.

“I know,” he whispered. “Of course I know. And I hate it.”

She thought of Port and the fact he would be spending those few weeks in Vienna and what things would be like afterward, and she suddenly felt
. . .
that she was a little alone after all, more alone than before.

“Will you come to bed with me?” Max whispered. “Can we just lie together for a while?”

She thought about it, and thought about it some more, and then, her limbs heavy from the wine, she shook her head and nodded despite herself. They went into the bedroom, left the light off, undressed, slipped between the sheets.

They embraced, held each other tight, remembering how it used to be, before. For a moment Franza almost regretted it
. . .
but then
. . .

“You’ve put on a tiny bit of weight,” she said quietly, amazed, teasing. “A tiny, tiny bit. It makes you
. . .
almost soft, cuddly.”

“Oh, well,” he said awkwardly, but clearly delighted. “Time doesn’t stand still. But you, Franza, you’re beautiful.”

She laughed a little sadly.

“Oh, get away,” she said. “I’m not beautiful. We’re all approaching our fifties.” And it occurred to him that it would be her birthday in a few weeks.

“When I look at myself,” she said in a slightly steely voice, “and I think of certain faces I remember from the old days and then see them after ten years or more, and I notice how they’ve changed, it scares me. It scares me so much. And then I imagine my own face, how it would look to me if I hadn’t seen it for ten years, if I were seeing it for the first time in ten years.”

He said nothing, merely stroked her hair. She smiled wistfully at him.

“But sometimes,” she said, “sometimes, I feel beautiful. Now, for example.”

They did not sleep together. Instead, they gave in to their sadness, their melancholy.

They thought of their failed marriage, of their son whom they saw so rarely, of Port, of the young women with whom Max had the occasional brief affair, of the house that, perhaps, would soon no longer be theirs.

“The house,” he said. “They’re going to take it.”

Shit,
she thought.
Shit!

“Does it make you
. . 
. ?”

“Yes,” she said. “It does.”

“Me too.” They were silent for a moment.

“When?” she asked.

“As soon as we give the word.”

She nodded. “Life is sometimes
. . .
”

“I know,” he said.

Silence fell again. They were overcome by sadness. They lay in each other’s arms to get through it. They felt a deep tenderness, an affection that enabled them to withstand the loneliness for a while.

“I wanted to kill you,” she said.

He knew straightaway that she was talking about the young woman who had stayed with them as an au pair and, over the year, became his lover and then the mother of his second child. A lifetime ago, so many years—and still sometimes the same thorn in the same flesh.

“I know,” he said. “Thanks for not doing it.”

“It hurt,” she said. “It really hurt.”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t forgive you for a long time.”

“I know. Have you been able to?”

She looked at him in the dark and smiled. “I’m going home now.”

42

The weather had gotten worse. A slight drizzle was veiling the world. It was a tired Monday morning, the fourth day after the body was found. September 15. Christian Rabinsky had been summoned to the police station for questioning.

They now knew Gertrud’s husband had told a white lie or two. It had not been easy to find out, his friends had closed ranks—the three couples Felix had interviewed after leaving Frau Beuerle had confirmed her husband’s version of the events, but the information she had given Felix was enough to call Rabinsky in again.

He looked tired, his mood suiting the gray day and the drizzle outside the window.

“Good morning,” Franza said as they entered the interview room, where Felix was already pouring coffee and water.

“Why am I here?” Rabinsky asked. “What do you want from me? I’ve told you everything. Why don’t you leave me in peace? My children need me. They’ve just lost their mother, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“No,” Franza said, “we haven’t forgotten. But there’s something you’ve forgotten to tell us. Namely, where you were during the period between ten o’clock and midnight.”

Rabinsky gasped. “So you actually suspect me of having murdered my wife?”

“We have to investigate all the possibilities,” Felix said calmly. “At the moment we have the feeling you’re not in a particularly strong position, Herr Rabinsky.”

“I have an alibi,” Rabinsky said. “I’ll say it again—I spent the whole evening with my friends. You only need to ask them!”

There was a tremor in his voice. He noticed it himself and tried to suppress it, but failed.

“Will you please answer our question?” Franza asked. “Herr Rabinsky, you do not have an alibi for the time in question. Where were you?”

They saw him falter for a fraction of a second. They saw him fight for breath as he sought to regain his composure. They gave him time.

“How do you come to that conclusion?” he asked eventually, still with the tremor in his voice. Franza saw it spread slowly through his body.

“A witness,” Felix said. “A witness refuted your alibi.”

Rabinsky nodded. The fear that had settled in his eyes slowly disappeared, to be replaced by anger and a deep helplessness.

“Rieke,” he said. “It’s Rieke, isn’t it?”

Felix nodded. “Yes. Rieke.”

“But she’s lying,” said Rabinsky. “Rieke’s lying.”

“Why would she?”

“Because
. . .
because
. . .
”

“Yes?”

He shook his head. His shoulders drooped as he stared vacantly into space. He remained silent.

Franza leaned forward, her arms on the table. “We found particles of skin beneath your wife’s fingernails that most probably came from the murderer. If a person is threatened, they defend themselves, injuring their attacker. Scratches. Grazes. Do you have any marks like that, Herr Rabinsky? Do you have any scratches on your skin?”

He swallowed.

“No,” he said. “I don’t. And I didn’t kill my wife. I was away from home from seven o’clock. I went for a meal with my friends. We were celebrating Lars’s birthday. A waiter spilled red wine over me. So I drove to the office, took a shower, changed, smoked a cigarette. I wanted a few moments to myself.”

He fell silent, stared into his coffee mug, and then continued. “Then I went back to the others. To Jealousy. From there I went back to the office. And I came home the following morning. That’s when I found her. But I’ve already told you all that. That’s what happened. I don’t know who killed my wife. Probably Hanna. Hanna Umlauf. I didn’t do it. I loved her.”

“Please, will you show us your arms, Herr Rabinsky?”

“Do I have to?”

Franza shook her head. “No, you don’t have to. But you should if it could exonerate you.”

He didn’t react.

“Otherwise we’ll have to ask you to agree to a DNA test.”

He looked up. “A DNA test?”

“The skin particles. We’ll compare them with your DNA.”

“And if I refuse?”

“We get a court order.”

He fell apart. Folded into himself. Sank into silence. They watched him go pale, his strength crumbling away like sunbaked sand.

“Very well,” he whispered. “Very well.”

He rolled up his shirtsleeve and held his arm out to them. It was covered in scratches.

“You can save the expense,” he said. “No need for DNA comparisons. It’s true. She did scratch me. The skin beneath her fingernails is mine. But I didn’t kill her. She was alive when I left. And Hanna was still there.”

“Where is Hanna now?”

“I don’t know,” he said wearily. “How should I know that?”

Franza stood and walked around behind him. She laid her hand on his shoulder, hoping she could transfer some of her calmness and warmth to him, stabilize him a little.

“What happened?” she asked. “Just tell us. It will do you good.”

But he wasn’t ready yet. Still needed time. He took three gulps of water. Four. There was despair in his eyes. He shook his head, incredulous. He supported his face in his hands, trying to still the trembling of his body. Then
. . .
at last.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, I was there. Shit, I’ll say it again—I was there. I wish I hadn’t been. I wish that stupid waiter hadn’t spilled that damned wine
. . .
” He ran his hands over his face. “I wish I hadn’t seen it. I wish
. . .
”

He broke off, shook his head, momentarily covered his eyes with his hands.

“What did you see?” Franza asked softly. “What was it?”

He remained silent, fighting with himself. A few more moments passed.

“They were
. . .
together. I saw them together. My wife and Hanna. They were lying in the bed on their sides. Gertrud behind Hanna. Gertrud had her arm around Hanna, her face laid on her shoulder. They were completely still, just lying there cuddled up. There was
. . .
a really peculiar tension. A really peculiar tension. Something very gentle, intimate.”

His face was sad.
He’s going to cry,
Franza thought.
It’ll do him good.

He cried. They let him. It did him good.

“I said nothing,” he whispered. “I just stood in the open doorway and said nothing. I simply left.”

“Left?”

“Yes. Left.”

He pulled at a thread hanging from the fabric of his sleeve. “You know, I always felt that there was something, something going on inside her that had nothing to do with me. Nothing to do with me. I’m no prude, I can imagine a lot. But
. . .
she’s
. . .
she was my wife. I loved her.”

A painful tug around his mouth, a soft sob.

“What happened then?”

He shrugged. “They noticed me. When I backed away. I must have bumped against something. I went down to the kitchen. I drank a glass of water, I think. She came after me, Gertrud did. She said something like, I shouldn’t have found out that way—something like that. I didn’t want to listen. I wanted out of there. But she tried to hold me back. I pushed her away. ‘You don’t understand at all,’ she yelled, ‘you don’t understand at all. It’s all so complicated.’”

More silence, concentration. The detectives could see his mind working furiously.

“And she was right. I didn’t understand. How could anyone understand that?”

He looked up imploringly. His expression contained a despair that made Franza shudder.

“She wanted to explain. I grabbed her hands, shook her, wanted to hold her, wanted to hold her—she was my wife, after all—but she
. . .
she suddenly said, so quietly, so clearly, ‘I’m going away with Hanna.’”

There was amazement now in his voice, echoing the amazement of the moment he was remembering.

“And then we heard Hanna’s voice from the top of the stairs. And she said no. She said, ‘No, Gertrud, that’s not going to happen. You won’t do that. It’s a misunderstanding. Don’t send him away!’”

Another pause. He drank a mouthful of water. His hand was shaking.

“Gertrud froze for a second. Hanna came downstairs, came nearer. ‘You’re my sister,’ she said, ‘and he’s your husband.’ And that was when Gertrud flipped.”

He shook his head. The amazement had turned to bewilderment. He kept shaking his head.

“She screamed, just screamed. No words. Only screams. And set on me. Like a Fury. She attacked me. Scratched me and hit me.”

He showed them his arm again, and continued speaking. “Hanna came over to her and put her arms around her, holding her. As soon as she felt Hanna she melted on the spot. Started crying like a little child. I’ve never seen her like that before.” He swallowed, sniffed. Tears flowed down his face. “Hanna finally said I should go. I should just go. It would all calm down with time.”

He fell silent, wiped his hands over his face and laid them flat on the table.

“And I went,” he said softly. “I went back into town, to my colleagues. Got tanked up. And when I came home the next day, she was lying in the kitchen, dead. And Hanna had vanished.”

He breathed deeply.

“That’s all.” He leaned back, his arms hanging down limply as though they didn’t belong to him.
Now comes the weariness,
Franza thought.
After the telling comes the weariness. I can see it now in his eyes.

“And we’re supposed to believe that?” Felix asked. “Isn’t it rather the case that you were fighting and suddenly found yourself in the kitchen? And your wife said she wanted to leave you and you saw red. Suddenly, there was the knife in front of you—a sharp, gleaming knife. You picked it up and you stabbed her. Something like that happens suddenly. You lose all sense of reason, you’re beside yourself, and then all it takes is one word.”

Rabinsky shook his head.

“No,” he said wearily. “That’s not what happened. It
could
have happened like that, I’ll grant you that, but it didn’t. Believe me, please.”

“What have you done with Hanna? Where’s Hanna?” Felix’s voice had an edge to it.

“Hanna? Nothing! I didn’t do anything, I swear! Hanna sent me away. And I went.” Rabinsky raised his hands. “I drove back into town, like a madman, like a lunatic. I just wanted to get away, away, away.” He slumped into himself. “It must have been Hanna. There was no one else in the house. Hanna must have killed her. They probably got into a fight and then when she saw Gertrud lying there in a pool of blood, she got scared. And ran off. She’s good at that. Running away. It’s what she’s always done.”

He stood. “Can I go home now? I’ve got to get to my children.”

Felix looked at him thoughtfully. Franza shook her head slowly.

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry. We’ll have to place you under arrest. You’re suspected of having murdered your wife. The first step will be remanding you to custody.”

He was stunned. His face turned pale.

“What?” he said. “What? Are you crazy?”

“The evidence against you is simply too strong,” Felix said. “You’ve lied to us. You’ve given us a false alibi. You have the best possible motive anyone could think of—jealousy. And we’re going to find your skin particles beneath your wife’s fingernails. What would you think if you were in our shoes?”

“What about Hanna? Don’t you suspect her at all? It’s all cleared up, is it? I think you’re oversimplifying things!” Rabinsky fought for breath.

“We’ll continue looking for her,” said Felix. “Don’t you worry about that.”

“And who knows?” said Franza. “Perhaps she’ll be able to confirm your statement, Herr Rabinsky. Then, of course, you’ll be free to go.”

“What about now? Do you consider the case closed? Are you arresting me as the murderer? I loved my wife! I didn’t kill her!”

He still couldn’t grasp it.

“No,” Franza said. “Nothing’s conclusive. Would you like to call an attorney? And do you want to call your mother-in-law, so she can look after Moritz?”

“No,” he said. “I can’t. I just can’t. How can I explain to her
. . 
. ?”

He was like a helpless child who had given up defending himself.

“Then I’ll do it,” Franza said. “Don’t worry about Moritz.”

“Don’t worry?” he protested once again.

“An officer will read you your rights,” said Felix, summoning a uniformed officer in. “Take him away.”

They watched him go down the corridor with the officer. Once he had gone from view, they sat down and looked each other in the eye.

“I don’t know,” Franza said. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

Felix said nothing.

They got it wrong sometimes. It wasn’t unusual to get something wrong, to think it was all pointing in one direction, only to find that direction was false. To smell a rat, but the wrong rat.

They made mistakes, and for those who were the victims of their errors, it was probably the worst experience of their lives. They were caught up in a machine that ground, ground, ground them down, and in the worst cases did not leave much behind.

Both Franza and Felix wondered how you could know the truth on the spot, how you could always know what was wrong and what was right. How could they see the way if it was veiled in fog, a mist of uncertainty through which they could only penetrate gradually?

They had to stick to the facts, to whatever was tenable and provable in the course of their investigations. But facts were not always the truth.

“You don’t want it to have been him,” said Felix.

Franza nodded. “No, I don’t want it to have been him. It could have been him—all the indications point to it—but, you’re right, I don’t want it to have been him. And I don’t believe it was him.”

Felix nodded. “I know.”

“If only because of the children,” she said. “They’ve had a terrible enough experience as it is.”

“I know.”

They were silent. What could they do? Nothing. Suddenly, Franza had an idea.

“Listen, on the road out of town there’s a speed camera. I was caught by it once. If he really raced off like he said, perhaps we have a photo of him and could rule him out from being there at the time the murder was committed.”

“Good idea. Let’s see if he’s had a bit of luck, the poor bastard.”