for a while. It had also happened, rarely, that someone laughed—embarrassed, disbeliev-ing, or relieved laughter. Max thought that Frau Ansmann’s reaction
was quite within the norm, yet he understood Lina’s comment. It was
a fleeting impression, a hint of a feeling that something wasn’t quite right. “Find anything interesting in the apartment?”
Lina shrugged. “Frau Ansmann’s shoes are size 41 and she loves
exclusive clothes. They must have money. Huge apartment, parquet
everywhere, expensive furniture. Philip Birkner’s home office could
easily serve as a second living room and bedroom.” She paused to take the last sip of coffee. “Any idea how much a software developer and an executive consultant make?”
Max signaled and turned left after the oncoming traffic had passed.
“More than we do.”
“You don’t have to tell me that, but is it enough to afford such an
apartment?”
With a shrug of his own, he said, “Maybe one of them has rich
parents, or got an inheritance, or won the lottery. I know you don’t 12
Dead Woods
like career women, but the simple fact that Katja Ansmann has money
doesn’t in itself make her a suspect.”
“I’ve got nothing at all against career women, but . . .”
“Lina, it’s way too early to speculate. You have to wake up first.”
Max was right. Lina could be sloppy in the mornings—she might
seem awake, maybe even speak in complete sentences, but half of what she said made no sense at all. She sat in silence, crushed the paper cup in her hands, and looked out the window while they were on their way to bring the news to the dead man’s parents.
The money for the apartment did not come from Philip Birkner’s
parents. That much was clear to them as soon as they arrived in the
Wandsbeck district and stood in front of the redbrick co-op so typical for Hamburg. Even though the apartment on the second floor had
been recently renovated and was surprisingly roomy, it was as different in class from their son’s grand abode in Rothenbaum as a VW Golf is
from a Porsche.
Both parents were at home when the detectives arrived. The father,
either retired or close to it, looked ill. He sat on the sofa with a book by his side. Frau Birkner, a petite woman wearing a simple light summer dress, offered coffee, which Lina and Max politely declined.
Philip’s mother buried her face in her hands when she heard of
Philip’s death. The father stared at Max with wide-open eyes and then lowered his head. In his calm voice, Max told them the essentials:
Niendorfer Gehege, last night, a blow to the head; no, he probably
didn’t suffer. The last part may not have been true, but there was no reason for him to deny this final solace to parents. As it turned out, they knew very little about their son’s life, seldom saw the grandson, much too rarely, as Lina could hear between the lines.
13
Maria C. Poets
“Frau Birkner, Herr Birkner, do you know whether your son had
any enemies? Did he have problems at work or with acquaintances?”
Lina asked.
“Philip? Oh, no, he wasn’t one to have enemies. Who would want
to do him any harm?” said the mother. “He’s such a good boy! Everyone likes him and he’s welcome everywhere. And he’s so smart! He’s a computer expert, you know, and he has a good job.”
Lina frowned but did not say anything. She discreetly looked
around the room. A three-part wall unit with a glass display case for the good china; light-colored upholstery that smelled of cleaning spray; a thick, fluffy carpet in various shades of brown; a gathered curtain at the windows; and two orchids on the windowsill. On the wall next to
the television were pictures of Philip and Leon—typical amateur shots.
Katja Ansmann was in only one of them. Other pictures were of a man
who seemed to be a few years older than Philip, together with his wife and two children.
“Does Philip have a brother?” Lina asked the parents, pointing to
the photos.
“Yes. Lukas. He lives in Eppendorf, not far from Philip.”
“Did the two get along? Would he know if your son had any kind
of problems?”
“Philip had no problems,” the mother insisted. Her voice was a
little shrill. She was sitting upright at the edge of the sofa and her lips were pressed together.
“You’re probably right, Frau Birkner,” Max said gently. “After all,
you know your son better than we do. We just have to look at all angles to find out who did that to Philip.”
The woman seemed to relax.
“He was always lucky,” the father said quietly. “He even found a
new job quickly when his own company didn’t work out.”