Self's punishment by Bernhard Schlink; Walter Popp

Author:Bernhard Schlink; Walter Popp
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Fiction, General, Nonfiction, Library, Mystery & Detective
ISBN: 9780375709074
Publisher: Random House, Inc.
Published: 2005-04-12T00:38:39.520000+00:00

14

Let’s stretch our legs

I’d spent half the Sunday with a case I didn’t have a commission for any more. Private detectives don’t do that, on principle.

I looked through the smoked glass out onto the Augusta-Anlage. Decided to decide at the tenth car how to proceed. The tenth car was a Beetle. I crawled behind my desk to write a closing report to Judith Buchendorff. Every end must have its form.

I took a writing pad and a pencil, and jotted down key points. What spoke against it being an accident? There was what Judith had told me, there were the two bangs that Dina’s mother had heard, and above all there was Dina’s observation. If I were continuing with the case, it was explosive enough to send me on an urgent hunt for the delivery van and its driver. Did the RCW have something to do with my case? Mischkey had done extensive research on it, with whatever intention, and it must be the large plant Fred had worked for once. Had Fred rained down punches that day in the War Cemetery on their behalf? Then I also had the traces of blood on the right side of Mischkey’s convertible. And finally there was the feeling that something wasn’t right, and various shreds of thought from the previous days. Judith, Mischkey, and a jealous, spurned rival? A different computer-hacking venture of Mischkey’s, this time with deadly retaliation? An accident involving the delivery van, the driver of which committed a hit-and-run? I thought of the two bangs – an accident in which a third vehicle was also involved? Suicide? Had it all got too much for Mischkey?

It took me a long time to compose these half-baked things into a conclusive report. And I sat almost as long wondering whether I should write Judith an invoice and what should be in it. I rounded it off to a thousand marks and slapped on sales tax. When I’d typed the envelope, and stamped it and put in the letter and invoice and licked down the envelope, pulled on my coat and was ready to go and post it, I sat down again and poured myself a sambuca with three coffee beans.

It had all got fucked up. I’d miss the case, which had taken a stronger hold on me than work usually did. I’d miss Judith. Why not admit it?

When the letter was in the post box I turned to the case of Sergej Mencke. I called the National Theatre and made an appointment with the ballet director. I wrote to the Heidelberg Union Insurance asking if they’d be willing to foot the bill for a trip to the US. The two best friends and colleagues of the self-mutilated ballet dancer, Joschka and Hanne, had both accepted engagements in Pittsburgh for the new season and had already left, and I’d never been to the States. I discovered that Sergej Mencke’s parents lived in Tauberbischofsheim. The father was an army captain there. The mother said on the telephone I could look in at lunchtime.

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