that she could answer. Lubisch wondered whether she liked Söters’s mouth, red and naked as it was, rather as if he had licked it raw.
“The dead woman,” she said, “had your business card in her trouser pocket.”
Robert nodded. “I gave it to her the first time we met.”
Söters stood up. “Keep yourself available,” he growled at Robert Lubisch, then signaled to the woman that she should follow him. At the door, she turned to him again. “Did you give Frau Albers the photo? The original, I mean. Or have you still got it?”
He stood up, went to the closet, and took the photo of Therese Peters out of the breast pocket of his jacket.
“Can we keep this?”
Robert Lubisch nodded; he was almost glad to give it away. Once they had gone, he remained in his seat for a while. What had he gotten himself into? Could it be that Rita Albers had had to die because she had been looking for Therese Peters? But that was crazy.
He stood up and went down to the canteen. Rita Albers, with her demanding style, must have made many enemies. It occurred to him that the police would find not only the copy of the photo in her house but also the scanned documents on her computer.
In the cafeteria, he placed a cup under the coffee machine and pressed “Cappuccino.” He would say it had not seemed important to him.
He helped himself to a cheese sandwich and sat down alone at a table. He felt uneasy. “Keep yourself available,” that Söters had said. Was he suspected of murder? And what if Rita Albers really had had to die because he . . .
Chapter 19
April 23, 1998
Therese Mende stood on the terrace and watched the cirrus clouds gathering in the west, piling up against one another and heading for the island. The wind had freshened; the beginner surfers were being brought back to shore in a boat, while the advanced ones were looking optimistically up at the sky and rigging smaller sails.
1940/41
Wilhelm was on a six-month course in Stuttgart, and Therese was doing her labor service with the cattle on the Kruse farm. The Kruses were simple, kindly people. They often gave her a jug of milk in the evening, or a bag of potatoes or vegetables.
Alwine was studying history in Cologne. After that afternoon, Therese had written her a letter and tried to explain that she felt nothing for Wilhelm, but Alwine did not react. A week later she left.
Leonard was to take up a university place in Cologne too, but he could not start until the summer semester. He spent the winter at home, helping his father out in his chambers in Kleve.
SS Captain Hollmann kept an eye on Siegmund Pohl. At times he had the medical practice watched so visibly that the few patients who had remained loyal to him were forced to notice, and they would only rarely dare to come to his door. In September, Siegmund Pohl stopped taking down the “Practice Closed” sign that normally hung in the window on Sundays.
He sat in the kitchen for hours, staring ahead. When he went out, to the pub or, on Saturdays, to the market, people would avoid him, not wanting to be seen with someone like him. He lived like a stranger among former patients and friends.
In late October, Therese was sitting in the garden with her father. They were peeling apples, which her mother was preserving in the kitchen. It was one of those mild autumn days that shimmer in the memory. Days on which the trees stand taller. Margarete Pohl came into the garden with the letter and handed it wordlessly to her husband. Under “Subject” it said: “Termination of leasehold.” It went on:
Since this is a matter of housing space for the community, which is urgently required for other purposes, and your leasehold agreement specifies the operation of a medical practice, we must demand that you leave the house by the end of the year.
Hollmann had signed it.
“Let’s leave,” her father said, and she thought she heard relief and optimism in that “leave.” But her mother wanted to stay. She
“The dead woman,” she said, “had your business card in her trouser pocket.”
Robert nodded. “I gave it to her the first time we met.”
Söters stood up. “Keep yourself available,” he growled at Robert Lubisch, then signaled to the woman that she should follow him. At the door, she turned to him again. “Did you give Frau Albers the photo? The original, I mean. Or have you still got it?”
He stood up, went to the closet, and took the photo of Therese Peters out of the breast pocket of his jacket.
“Can we keep this?”
Robert Lubisch nodded; he was almost glad to give it away. Once they had gone, he remained in his seat for a while. What had he gotten himself into? Could it be that Rita Albers had had to die because she had been looking for Therese Peters? But that was crazy.
He stood up and went down to the canteen. Rita Albers, with her demanding style, must have made many enemies. It occurred to him that the police would find not only the copy of the photo in her house but also the scanned documents on her computer.
In the cafeteria, he placed a cup under the coffee machine and pressed “Cappuccino.” He would say it had not seemed important to him.
He helped himself to a cheese sandwich and sat down alone at a table. He felt uneasy. “Keep yourself available,” that Söters had said. Was he suspected of murder? And what if Rita Albers really had had to die because he . . .
Chapter 19
April 23, 1998
Therese Mende stood on the terrace and watched the cirrus clouds gathering in the west, piling up against one another and heading for the island. The wind had freshened; the beginner surfers were being brought back to shore in a boat, while the advanced ones were looking optimistically up at the sky and rigging smaller sails.
1940/41
Wilhelm was on a six-month course in Stuttgart, and Therese was doing her labor service with the cattle on the Kruse farm. The Kruses were simple, kindly people. They often gave her a jug of milk in the evening, or a bag of potatoes or vegetables.
Alwine was studying history in Cologne. After that afternoon, Therese had written her a letter and tried to explain that she felt nothing for Wilhelm, but Alwine did not react. A week later she left.
Leonard was to take up a university place in Cologne too, but he could not start until the summer semester. He spent the winter at home, helping his father out in his chambers in Kleve.
SS Captain Hollmann kept an eye on Siegmund Pohl. At times he had the medical practice watched so visibly that the few patients who had remained loyal to him were forced to notice, and they would only rarely dare to come to his door. In September, Siegmund Pohl stopped taking down the “Practice Closed” sign that normally hung in the window on Sundays.
He sat in the kitchen for hours, staring ahead. When he went out, to the pub or, on Saturdays, to the market, people would avoid him, not wanting to be seen with someone like him. He lived like a stranger among former patients and friends.
In late October, Therese was sitting in the garden with her father. They were peeling apples, which her mother was preserving in the kitchen. It was one of those mild autumn days that shimmer in the memory. Days on which the trees stand taller. Margarete Pohl came into the garden with the letter and handed it wordlessly to her husband. Under “Subject” it said: “Termination of leasehold.” It went on:
Since this is a matter of housing space for the community, which is urgently required for other purposes, and your leasehold agreement specifies the operation of a medical practice, we must demand that you leave the house by the end of the year.
Hollmann had signed it.
“Let’s leave,” her father said, and she thought she heard relief and optimism in that “leave.” But her mother wanted to stay. She
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