shook his head. “They’re hiring children now,” he mumbled under his
breath before shouting, “Bertram! Somebody’s here from the police.”
The cook stood in the door until a man in black trousers, a white
shirt, and a black vest appeared, drying his hands on a dish towel.
When he saw Lina, he puckered his lips.
“Yes, hello. What’s the problem?”
Lina held her badge in front of his face, and the words Homicide Division produced the desired effect. Bertram grew pale, asked her in, and led her through the kitchen into the restaurant. A small podium
served as a stage and to its right, in the background, was the bar. Small bistro tables in the middle of the room were framed by long tables
along the walls. It was customary for guests who did not know each
other to sit there together.
Originally, the Waldschänke had been a restaurant with a rustic
atmosphere and down-home German cooking popular with hikers.
Things changed after a new owner took over two years ago. The menu
had become more international and instead of simply brewed coffee,
a wide assortment of specialty coffees, drinks that really deserved to be called “special,” was offered now. The massive wooden beams were
brightly varnished, and the heavy, dark tables had been replaced by
lighter furniture. The room appeared larger and had a more urban look.
Pictures of bellowing stags on the walls had been replaced with works by young artists. On weekends, and sometimes also on Thursdays,
there were concerts or dramatic presentations that one would rarely
20
Dead Woods
find in more mainstream venues. The Waldschänke was well on its way
to becoming an insider’s tip within the cultural scene of Hamburg.
Lina sensed the innkeeper scrutinizing her, but stayed focused. She
knew that she looked less than commanding and that her faded jeans
and rumpled T-shirts hardly met the image people had of an officer of the law. She was glad that the tattoo on her shoulder wasn’t visible. She had long gotten rid of the neon green strand of hair, right after joining the homicide squad. “Just imagine you’ve got to inform someone that a loved one has been killed,” Hanno Peters had told her on her first day.
“You simply can’t show up like this. Just stop this adolescent nonsense.”
She had been mad as hell at first, but when Hanno Peters was right, he was right. She could not close her eyes to rational arguments.
“Are you the owner of the Waldschänke?” she asked Bertram, who
had still not introduced himself.
“Yes, Vogt. Bertram Vogt. How can I help you?”
“The body of a man was found near here this morning. He had
a receipt from your place on him, from last night. Do you remember
him?” She had taken out Philip Birkner’s photo and now showed it to
Vogt.
“So that’s why police were everywhere this morning. Where did
they find him?”
Lina gestured vaguely toward the forest. “Over there, behind the
railway embankment.”
Bertram Vogt looked at the picture and tilted his head. “I really
don’t know. I’m not good at remembering faces. It’s possible he was
here, but I was behind the bar and from there I don’t see much of the guests.”
“What about your waiters? I’m sure you weren’t the only one work-
ing last night.”
“No, of course not. There were five of us; two behind the bar and
three women serving the tables. Jule and Sabrina should be here any
minute. Antje is off today.”
21
Maria C. Poets
“Who was behind the bar with you?”
“My wife, Ulrike. She’s also off today.”
“Good. I’ll wait for your employees,” Lina said and climbed onto
one of the barstools. “I’ll also need the address where I could reach the third one—does Frau Antje have a last name?—and your wife.”
Bertram Vogt leafed through an address book behind the bar
and gave her the information. Lina glanced yearningly at the espresso machine, which made the innkeeper laugh. “I’ll have to turn it on anyway. Would you like a coffee?”
Lina nodded. “That would be great. Was it very crowded last
night?”
“We weren’t sold out, but it was a successful evening,” he said while he worked at the machine, which produced an infernal din. “What
would you like? Espresso, cappuccino, latte macchiato—”
“An espresso, please,” Lina interrupted him before he could recite
the entire litany from his coffee menu. “Can people purchase tickets in advance?”
“Yes, of course. We always do that. It helps us to get an idea how
full we’ll be, even though we’ve never sold out in advance.”
“May I have a look at the list?”
“Sure.”
He pulled out another book, a calendar this time, and turned to the
page for last night. “Here.” Then he busied himself with her espresso.