and you already want results? Are you dreaming?” Max could almost
see Reiner Hartmann’s face in front of him. They had been classmates Maria C. Poets
in the criminal justice training program and his colleague later special-ized in forensics. Now, he was probably frowning and shaking his head.
“Okay, okay,” replied Max. “I know that it takes six weeks if we
follow official channels. But is there any chance I could get some results before Christmas?” He looked at the sparkling blue sky. The long summer break would be over next week.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Did Sotny tell you when he’s doing the autopsy?”
“This afternoon. Wanna come?”
“No, thank you.” Max grimaced. He had attended an autopsy once
and had nightmares for months afterward. He was content with read-
ing the report when it was done or, even better, having Sotny explain the results in person. When it was just the two of them, the coroner could dispense with the jargon that rattles your brain while important information gets lost in a sea of words.
They ended the call without saying good-bye. Max looked at Lina,
who was leaning against the car, her face to the sun.
“Now we know where Birkner was last night,” he said. “At the
Waldschänke, in the Niendorfer Gehege.”
Lina turned to him. “I know that joint. They have concerts there
regularly, sometimes far-out stuff.” She took out her phone and quickly found what she was looking for, and read aloud, “‘Ingenia. Indian
sounds on western instruments. Familiar rhythms with exotic airs. Five musicians enchant and pleasantly confuse their audience with a cross-over through time and space. Waldschänke. Show time at 7:30 p.m.’
Sounds intriguing.” She looked up. “Let’s head over there right now.
We’ve got the picture his parents gave us.”
Max shook his head. “Birkner called a woman named Tanja Fischer
shortly before the concert. Her name shows up on his call history quite often. I’ll try to locate her and have a chat.” He smiled. “And I’ll let Hanno know.”
18
Dead Woods
Lina nodded. Hanno Peters was her immediate boss: early sixties,
an easygoing hulk of a man who waited for his retirement and only left police headquarters when it was time to quit in the evening. The rest of the time he spent at his desk, “collecting threads,” as he called it. He would occasionally call a team meeting, but on the whole he gave his people a free hand.
“How do you plan to get there? We only have one car,” Lina asked.
“Drop me at the subway.” They changed seats and it took Lina
awhile to adjust the seat and the mirror. Max was grinning. The next driver would be puzzled. Lina had to push the seat all the way forward and even then it looked as if she could barely reach the gas pedal.
“You didn’t tell me what Frau Ansmann told you about Philip’s
bankruptcy,” Lina said after merging with the traffic.
“She said she didn’t know much about it. A crucial mistake was
made. Birkner blamed Frank Jensen and then fired him. He gave him
a lousy referral, which made Jensen mad at Birkner. Jensen apparently called his former boss on a regular basis for months, swearing at him.”
Lina checked the rearview mirror and signaled. “I bet she hated it
that he lost his company. After all, she comes from such good stock.”
Max remained silent while they waited at a light. Maybe Lina had
a point, but he didn’t want to strengthen her antipathy against Katja Ansmann. When they saw the subway station, he said, “You can stop
over there.” Once he was outside, Lina waved and then she was gone,
her head barely visible above the steering wheel.
It didn’t take long to reach the Niendorfer Gehege. She turned
into the parking lot of the Waldschänke shortly after eleven. The forest lay on one side and on the other side were meadows, on which ponies
from a nearby stable were grazing. On weekends, when the weather was good, the place was packed, but now only three vehicles were visible.
The restaurant didn’t open until 11:30, but from the kitchen one
could hear the rattling of dishes. Lina walked around the wooden
building to a side entrance and knocked. No response. She knocked
19
Maria C. Poets
again, louder. The door flung open. A huge man with a sweaty face
towered over her and scrutinized her with knitted eyebrows. “We’re
still closed. Why don’t you walk around for another hour?”
Before he could slam the door shut, Lina put a foot forward and
flipped her badge. “Major Crimes, Hamburg. Homicide Division. I’d