Tretjak (28 page)

A new stimulus also sets off a second effect in the human brain: once the shocking event has been digested, the blockage is lifted. Then the reverse happens: the brain has a particularly acute perception of everything that is happening.

‘I'm going to bring the story to an end now,' Gabriel Tretjak said. ‘And your silence won't help you. I will find out the truth. Everything, even whether you had an affair with my father.'

Charlotte Poland looked at him. She felt a sensation rise inside her, which she initially couldn't identify. But then it became clear to her: it was the urge to laugh. Was that his question? Was that what was bothering him? She looked him in the eyes and the urge to laugh was gone. No, she wanted to say. There was nothing going on with your father. But in that moment she understood that that his eyes were not fixed on her, but on a point directly behind her.

 

The forensic pathologist hadn't been able to reach Inspector Maler, and had already left two messages on his voicemail: ‘Please call me back, Inspector, I've got news for you.' Strange, she thought, that he doesn't get in touch. Normally it didn't take him more than 20 minutes.

Then she sent an email to Rainer Gritz. She remembered that he had once told her, don't call me, send me an email, that's much faster. Firstly, she wrote that the results of the new post-mortem of the three exhumed bodies were ready. In brief: there were no signs of poison in any of the bodies, and the knife wounds to the liver and the heart remained the causes of death. From her point of view, there was no connection between the first three murders and the violent death of the bank employee.

Then she wrote:
Secondly: I have noticed something curious. No idea whether it means anything. I've checked the DNA samples of Paul Tretjak one more time, which he left behind after his suicide – and compared them to the traces of DNA previously found on the first three bodies. It is without any doubt Paul Tretjak's DNA on those three bodies, as we had said before, but there is something else. In all three cases, something is added to the DNA, a sort of massage oil, or an essence of it.
She pondered for a brief moment whether to include a concluding sentence, whether anybody would wonder how she knew that, and then she wrote: It is the kind of oil that is frequently used during sex.

 

I am the best. Even the police have to learn this now. This Inspector Maler can come in his bathrobe if he wishes. You didn't recognise me, Gabriel. What do you think: would everything have been different, if you had looked at your tax inspector and had simply said my name, like you did back then on the terrace?
Nora, yes, let's play ball.
Dimitri also didn't recognise me, the pig. He didn't have much time, that much I have to admit. Old men are so vain, can't face the fact that they are no longer in charge. Why else did he tell the inspector about my father? To be important one more time, to be a part of it one more time. It was not good for you, Dimitri. My father had also thrown money in his direction so he would suffocate the investigations, which would have led the Russians to us. Father was so desperate, he was so afraid of the Russians, once I even saw him cry. What would they have done to him if they had found out that you cheated them all, that you collected the money for nothing? Brazil. Are you still thinking, Gabriel? You don't need to anymore. Your money is already on its way there, I arranged it all today. But it's travelling in my name. Nora. Do you remember?

 

She heard his voice through the door. He talked about the piece of paper she had given him, which she told him she had seen in Charlotte Poland's handbag during the funeral and had later stolen during dinner in the restaurant. He probably didn't know how valuable the sheet that he held in his hand was. But all that was of little consequence now. Downstairs in the Piazza a car honked. She herself stood completely still, directly behind the door. Between her nose and the metallic numbers 405 were only ten centimetres. She sensed her heartbeat slip downwards to her wrists. Stay calm, she thought, totally calm. Assume an outside perspective. Who is standing here? A woman, who knows what needs to be done. Who knows how to do it. A woman, who is not to be dissuaded. Name: Fiona Neustadt. A woman, who, after all this, won't exist anymore. Who has nothing to lose. She was rummaging around in her pockets. Knife. Stiletto needle. Telephone. Pistol.

 

Why doesn't the writer slut answer? Why is she not to be heard? Did you sleep with her? Oh no, you love me, you say. Father had his affairs with women better organised. They were brought to him. Discreetly by taxi, in the middle of the night. Sometimes two at a time. They always went next door, to the medical suite. I got it quite quickly, when I was still small. In the dark I ran over there and listened at the door... Like now. Life, a chain of repetitions. Apropos repetition: I gave you a hint, you and the police. It took a lot of effort to procure the Udine papers. All originals, no fakes. For you, Gabriel, nothing was too expensive or difficult. You should have looked up the illuminated manuscript of the city of Udine. Betrayal is the theme. But you didn't understand anything. As always. You didn't understand me.

 

She took the gun from her pocket and released the safety catch. She placed her left hand on the door handle, concentrated and pushed it down in a very slow but even movement, millimetre by millimetre. In case it was locked she had brought along the second key. But it wasn't locked. Gently she pushed open the door. Gabriel Tretjak's voice became clear and pronounced.

‘... did you have an affair with my father?'

Charlotte Poland sat with her back towards her. Gabriel looked towards the door. When he saw her, she pointed the gun at him.

‘Hello, Gabriel,' she said. ‘No, she didn't have an affair with your father.
I
fucked your dad. He was good, the old guy. Didn't need a sky full of stars to get it up.'

 

Maresciallo Mario Facchetti was not lucky in love. His appearance was not the problem: he was of average height, average weight, his red hair was cut short as was proper for a
carabiniere
. His eyes were a strikingly radiant blue. What he was lacking was a certain light touch, charm, an ability to flirt. Mario Facchetti always appeared serious, and when there were women around, he appeared even more serious. Then he had the feeling that he was tensing up inside. He didn't know what to say; he remained silent and thought about what he should say, and then he had even less of an idea what to say. For somebody like him, therefore, this Wednesday night had a special significance.

A money courier of the Banco Populare, which was located directly opposite the police station in Luino, had had her eye on
Il Maresciallo
for quite some time. In fact, so obviously had she had her eye on him that his colleagues had already teased him about it. Much too often, she parked her bullet-proof little Fiat in one of the places normally reserved for police cars outside the building. She parked and then came inside for a chat. Stella was her name, and she looked slightly Arab with her thick black hair. She had a beautifully-shaped mouth and, yes, Mario Facchetti had to admit, a pretty behind.

At one point Facchetti had gathered up all his courage and had asked her out to dinner. She had agreed immediately, and tonight was the big night. Facchetti had booked a table in the Ristorante Camino for eight o'clock. They wanted to meet early at half past seven to have a drink at the comfortable bar. It was the best restaurant in Luino, and actually far too expensive for Facchetti. But what the heck, he was
Il Maresciallo
, after all. In his profession he had had better luck than he had in romance. He was one of the four group leaders of the Luino police and he was only 29 years old.

It was a quarter to seven and he was sitting at his desk wondering whether he should keep his dark blue uniform on for dinner or not. He had been told several times that the uniform suited him very well, that it looked impressive. And Stella had got to know him in uniform. He would give the impression of being a very busy man, who had just come from doing his duty – that couldn't be wrong. On the other hand, it wasn't really relaxed or cool, was it? Maybe it would be more attractive to just show up in jeans and a freshly-ironed white shirt, suggesting: look, I can be totally different.

Facchetti's office was on the ground floor of a venerable building with an eagle on the gable. He looked across to the square where the lights were already illuminated. If he leaned forward a bit, he could even see the lake. It was almost completely dark outside, and his desk lamp shone down onto two reports from colleagues, which he could either read now or put off with no problem. Tomorrow morning would be early enough. The theft of a bicycle and the burglary of a holiday home.

He looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. It was still a quarter to seven. He could have left, there were enough of his colleagues in the duty room. But Mario Facchetti was a diligent policeman. His duty ended at seven, and that was it.

The call that would fundamentally change
Il Maresciallo
's plans for the evening arrived at six minutes to seven. Mario Facchetti was the last link in a short chain of urgent calls: Munich-Milano, Milano-Varese, Varese-Luino. Facchetti listened for about three minutes, took notes, asked a few questions, again took notes – and finally called all the available men to his office. Shortly afterwards three blue Alfa Romeos set off, in the direction of Maccagno, specifically to the Hotel Torre Imperial.

In the history of physics, a certain experiment had driven the leading scientists all over the world crazy because nobody could find an explanation for the result. No matter how many times the experiment was repeated, the result always stayed the same. They shot a particle – an electron – at a lead plate with two slits located very close together to determine which slit it would fly through. For this purpose, a camera had been attached to the back of the plate. What disturbed the scientists was the result the camera was showing: the electron had flown through both slits simultaneously. But an electron cannot split itself! Only quantum physics had provided the explanation: the electron, according to the quantum physicists, is not a particle at all but a relativity wave. Which means that each particle always takes every possible path simultaneously – not just two paths as in the experiment, but an infinite number.

Since both
Il Maresciallo
Mario Facchetti and the money courier Stella Scipio were composed of electrons, one could say that their love story, in some possible sphere of relativity, started that evening. But it is not documented anywhere. What is, however, documented is the Newtonian rather than the quantum reality of that Wednesday evening in October: the reality of the flashing blue lights of three vehicles chasing along the road by the bank of the Lago Maggiore. The sirens had not been turned on. In the first car sat Mario Facchetti. He had received pretty clear instructions. It was only seven kilometres from Luino to Maccagno. In the tunnel before the entrance to the town, Facchetti gave the order by radio to also switch off the blue lights.

 

Tretjak was not afraid anymore. And he knew that that was not just the result of the two Tavor tablets he had swallowed before the ferry arrived. Had his friend Stefan Treysa ever in his life been in a similar situation? Psychologists. The hour is up. See you again next time. But no, you couldn't say that now. Tretjak was calm and not afraid. Fiona was about to chain him and Charlotte to the radiator with handcuffs. With great dexterity she did this with only one hand, while holding the gun in her other hand. Once she had pressed its barrel between his eyes at his forehead, suddenly, pretty roughly, and then had laughed briefly. Tretjak was also not afraid of the gun.

This is how it had always been in his life. When he knew exactly what was going to happen, he was not afraid. Even as a child this had been the case. And now he knew exactly what was going to happen.

Downstairs, directly in front of the entrance of the hotel, in an archway which led to the yard, a Toyota minivan was parked. It looked like a vehicle from a building site, dirty, with the faded logo of a roofing tile company on its sides. But in fact, it was packed up to the roof with explosives. When Fiona was finished here, she would go, lock the room behind her, and leave the hotel. And then detonate the bomb in the van. It would blow up the van, the hotel, and probably several other buildings as well.

Tretjak looked at Charlotte Poland. She appeared completely apathetic, as if she was paralysed. He was sorry he couldn't help her. Somehow by now he was almost fond of her. The woman with the screwed-up son. Maybe she was thinking of her son right now, right here contorted on the floor, with her hands chained behind her back. Thinking about what would happen to him if she came to any harm. But maybe she was not thinking of anything at all.

The feeling that was rising inside Tretjak was grotesque, but it was real. He suddenly felt free – although he was being tied up in that very moment. For 20 years now, he had been pursued by the smell of rotten parts of his life. And now, here at the lake, all this would come to an end.

‘We are cut from the same cloth, Fiona,' Tretjak said. ‘You should take me along.'

She stood up and looked at him. Her eyes were dead. Tretjak wondered whether she was on drugs.

‘We two from the same cloth?' she said in a flat, tone-less voice. ‘You are so far removed from understanding anything. You were always so far off.'

‘I know a number,' said Tretjak and added: ‘BR69Q345.'

‘And? What is this to me?'

‘Think, Fiona,' he answered. It would not change anything but it pleased him to throw her off course. His old game: when did who get what information?

‘I wish you hell, Gabriel,' she said. And in the next moment the door shut behind her. One could hear the key turn in the lock. In the corner, behind the second green armchair, Charlotte Poland began to cry.