front of me. The consulting firm Ansmann billed Markman Solutions a year
and a half ago, twice, both times for the amount of ten thousand euro.”
“Do your records show what those payments were for?” Twenty
thousand euro wasn’t an enormous sum, but maybe that wasn’t all.
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There was a muffled rustling of paper. “General consulting activi-
ties, creation of a profile, employee training at head-of-department level . . . It all sounds legit. It wouldn’t have set off any warning bells.
How’s your unit involved in the story?”
“The managing director of the consulting firm lived with the
owner of the company that was responsible for the data leak, Philip
Birkner. He’s the dead man from the Niendorfer Gehege.”
“Oh yes, Birkner. I’ve come across his name here, too,” said Marita
Schön. “And he’s dead? Poor guy.” There was genuine regret in her
voice. Lina tried to imagine the policewoman who could still muster
that much empathy for a single victim. She was probably a quiet, unassuming woman, a little chubby, with glasses and a tendency to make
herself invisible—someone who likes to hide behind her desk and loves to dig through dusty piles of documents.
Lina looked at the circled 20,000 on her notepad. It wasn’t a lot, but it was something. “Okay, that was it,” she said. “If you come across the Ansmann name again, let me know.”
“Sure. Good luck.”
After hanging up, Lina pursed her lips. Did the connection
between the Ansmann firm and Markman Solutions mean anything?
Of course, firms nowadays use consultants for all kind of crap, for
furnishing the office following the rules of feng shui—for the optimal placement of indoor plants—or determining the best time for weekly
employee meetings. They book communication training sessions, cre-
ativity boosts, fitness training, and courses for healthy nutrition for their employees. But why did Markman Solutions engage Katja Ansmann,
of all people? Consulting firms were hardly a rarity in Hamburg. On
the other hand, twenty thousand euro seemed like chicken feed for a
successful act of industrial espionage. Katja Ansmann wouldn’t have
taken the risk for such a sum.
The connecting door to Hanno’s office opened and Alex looked in.
“Leyhausen didn’t call you either, did she?” When she shook her head, 179
Maria C. Poets
he continued, “Our colleagues are there, but nobody is answering the doorbell. They’re going to go in, and Sebastian and I are driving there.”
Before she could say anything, he added, “Hanno wants you to check
out whether anyone has seen her . . . in her office, with this Daniel, with whoever you can think of.”
Before he was gone, she quickly asked, “Is a manhunt on?” He
nodded and disappeared. Lina was staring at the gray door and felt
queasy. She shook herself to clear her head and went for some more
coffee.
Franziska Leyhausen had disappeared, so Katja Ansmann simply
had to wait until later.
A call to the office cooperative in the Grindelviertel brought noth-
ing. She spoke with Klaus Beck, the geologist she had talked with the day before. He had no idea where Franziska Leyhausen might be.
“Yesterday I put a note on her desk that she should contact you,”
he said eagerly. “Didn’t you reach her last night?”
“I did, but I still have one or two questions.”
She could almost hear how the man gasped for air excitedly. “But
she doesn’t have anything to do with this murder, does she? It can’t be, not Franka. I can’t imagine that at all.”
Lina ignored the comment. Most people can’t imagine that some-
one they know could have murdered somebody. This was even true for
the tough guys around the Reeperbahn. (“Sure, the guy’s no shrinking violet, if you know what I mean, but to off someone? No, you must
be wrong.”) Lina also asked Beck whether he knew any of her friends, male or female, but other than a Barbara, whose last name he didn’t
know, he couldn’t think of anybody. Lina stifled a sigh, thanked him, and hung up.
She was about to dial Daniel Vogler’s number when Max came in
with a wet umbrella in one hand and a cup of tea in the other.
“Good morning,” he said, sounding friendly and serene as always.
Lina put down the phone and measured him, frowning.
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Dead Woods
“How do you manage it?” she asked.
Max stopped. He seemed irritated for a moment, something
unusual. “How do I manage what?”
“Day or night, no matter where you are, you always look as if
you’re fresh from a vacation and nothing can rattle you.”
Max was smiling. “Oh, that.” He put down his cup, opened the
umbrella and placed it in a corner to dry. Then he sat down, clicked on his computer, and turned to Lina. “I meditate every day.”