Silence by Mechtild Borrmann

all that.
    As he drove back to Hamburg, he listened to a Ravel piece for oboe, bassoon, and piano, and let his thoughts wander, as he liked to do when the motorway was not crowded. He was relieved, not only because Rita Albers would not be writing about his father, but also because the legend of the quick-witted young hero who had made his way through the confusion of war, unerring and untarnished, had been recalibrated. A crack had appeared in the facade of the larger-than-life Friedhelm Lubisch. Uninteresting for Rita Albers, but important for him, his son.
    It was past midnight by the time he got home. Maren, who worked as a freelance interpreter, was in Brussels for a week, and he went straight up to bed.
    Having finished his rounds in the children’s ward around midday, he was heading for the canteen when a nurse came running after him. “Dr. Lubisch,” she called out. “Wait. The police are in your office. They want to talk to you.”
    Robert Lubisch raised his eyebrows and turned back. He had regular dealings with the police in cases of child abuse, but he did not have any such cases on the ward at present.
    A man and a rather young woman were standing in his office. He shook hands with them both, then looked at them expectantly. The man, who had introduced himself as Söters, asked, “Dr. Lubisch, do you know a Rita Albers?”
    Robert heard the name as if with a delay. In this room it sounded strange, out of place.
    “Yes,” he said. Then, innocently, “A journalist in Kranenburg.” He paused for a moment and added, “Why do you ask?”
    Söters pursed his moist, fleshy lips and replied with a question of his own: “When did you see her last?”
    Lubisch became uneasy. He did not know whether it was due to the police officer’s mouth, which he found repellent, or his question. “Yesterday evening,” he said, truthfully, “but what’s this about?”
    The female officer—he had not caught her name—took over. “What was the nature of your relationship with her?”
    “Relationship?” Robert shook his head. Then, for the first time, he realized she had used the past tense. “What do you mean, was ?”
    “Answer the question,” said the moist mouth, and Robert Lubisch sensed an inexplicable menace.
    “I first met Frau Albers three days ago, and I last saw her yesterday evening.”
    “When?” Again the thick, wet lips, like a dog snatching at something.
    He was suddenly gripped by anger. “All right, that’s enough now. If you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll ask you to get out of my office. I won’t be treated like this.”
    The officers exchanged a glance. “Frau Albers is dead,” the woman said. “She was murdered yesterday evening.”
    Lubisch took a step back and leaned against the windowsill. “But that’s impossible,” he whispered.
    The officers looked at him expectantly.
    “Look, I left Frau Albers at about eight o’clock, and she was alive.”
    He sat down at his desk and invited the two officers to sit down too. He gave a truthful account, mentioned the photograph and his interest in it. He did not mention the identity papers. After all, Rita Albers herself had said they were not important.
    They asked whether he had noticed anything the previous evening, but he could remember only that her movements lacked fluidity. “She told me she had found Therese Peters,” he recalled. The woman took a notebook from her jacket, wrote something down, and asked, “Where would we find this Frau Peters?” He shrugged. “She didn’t say.” The woman looked at him suspiciously and, as if closing the conversation, made a note. “We’ll pass that on to our colleagues in the lower Rhine,” she said, and Lubisch, somewhat absently, took this as a request for his permission. “Yes. Yes, do that,” he said, nodding, but he was already thinking about something else. “Tell me, how did you find out about me?”
    The man smiled, and indicated with a nod to his female colleague