have made it here in a very short time. But it’s too far away to have heard anything.”
Max got the name and address of the girlfriend. “I’d still like to talk with your employees. Maybe one of them noticed something.”
The ranger slowly shook his head. “I’d doubt it. We’re working at
the other end of the woods right now. I myself haven’t been in this corner for some time. And whether they’d notice transplanted plants . . .
Besides”—he raised his arms—“my colleagues are all gone by now. The
weekend and public employees—the cards are stacked against you on
a Friday afternoon.”
Max frowned. He was aware of that problem. He could, of course,
try to reach the people at home, but that was only worth the effort
if there was a reasonable chance of finding out something new. He
shrugged with a sigh. “I guess it can wait till Monday. If you or one of your people remember anything before then, please call me right
away.”
He handed Tobias Behnke his business card and looked around
once more. The leaves of the trees formed a light green roof in the sunlight. Even though it was a hot day, here, in partial shadow, the tem-perature was pleasant. He heard gurgling water from not more than
twenty yards away. That must be the Kollau, a little brook that begins somewhere in the north of Hamburg and flows into the Tarpenbek,
47
Maria C. Poets
one of the many Alster tributaries. Right behind the Kollau was a railway embankment, and an endlessly long freight train rumbled by at
that exact moment. It was impossible to talk for quite some time.
Behnke noticed that Max was annoyed by the racket and shrugged.
“We’re in the city, after all,” he said when the train had passed and he could again talk without shouting. Then his face lit up. “Wait a
moment. I just remembered. They’re mapping and indexing the entire
area right now.”
Max tilted his head. He had no idea what that meant.
“In all of metropolitan Hamburg, they check flora and fauna every
ten to fifteen years. I received a notice from the Ministry of Urban Development and the Environment last week that it’s the Niendorfer
Gehege’s turn now.”
“So, how’s that done?”
“As far as I know, they send a representative, who takes an inven-
tory of everything that’s here. I haven’t seen him yet and nobody has contacted me so far.”
“It would mean that if anyone would notice a replanted plant, it
would be this staff member?”
“That’s what I’d assume.”
“Was there a phone number in this notice?”
“I’m sure. Come with me. I’ll find the notice for you. But,” Behnke
said on the way back to the forestry compound, “you won’t reach any-
one there, either, this time of day.”
Tobias Behnke was right, of course. Before leaving the area of the
Niendorfer Gehege, Max stopped on the shoulder and dialed the num-
ber the ranger had given him. Nobody answered. It was almost five
thirty by then and he assumed nobody would be at police headquar-
ters, either. He was wrong. When he dialed Lina’s number, she picked 48
Dead Woods
up immediately. He could hear the clicking of her keyboard in the
background.
“Hi. You’re still there?”
“Thirty-five,” she responded.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m dealing with the thirty-fifth number. Remember? The list.”
“Poor soul,” Max said, watching a group of joggers passing him
on a path in the woods. They were all in good shape and their running style wasn’t bad, either. Arms and legs pumping without wasted movement. “Have you found anything?”
“Maybe. A man remembers Philip Birkner and the woman because
both left the Waldschänke shortly after him. He was standing in the
parking lot with his wife, and they watched the couple tottering into the woods. Apparently they had to hold on to each other to avoid falling down, but they were in high spirits and giggled the entire time.”
“Could he give you a decent description?”
“No, but he heard the woman tell Birkner that she wanted to show
him her rod.”
Max frowned. “Show him her rod? What the hell is that supposed
to mean?”
“Don’t you have an easier question? I double-checked, but the wit-
ness was absolutely sure that she wanted to show him her rod and not the other way around. He told me he even discussed it with his wife, whether the woman might have buried her curling iron somewhere in
the forest.”
Lina was quiet and Max again heard the low clicking sound and
then the more energetic clack of the “Enter” key. Then she yawned.
“And what have you come up with?”
“Not much. Birkner’s former employee, Frank Jensen, wasn’t
home. His wife seems to have left him a short while ago. But my