Lukas Birkner shook his head. “No. Philip and I were away with
our parents, in Hohwacht. Our father celebrated his birthday in our
vacation place, so we had to go with them.”
Max nodded and gave Lina a questioning look. She checked her
notes. “Herr Birkner, do you have any idea what became of the other
members of your clique? Do you know whether all of them still live in Hamburg?”
Birkner frowned. “Christian went to college after his commu-
nity service; he didn’t do military service. I think he studied process 216
Dead Woods
engineering or something similar. I’m sure he’s finished by now. Maike went to study in the United States. I haven’t heard from her in ages.
And the other two . . .” He shrugged. “I have no idea what became of them. You have to understand, they were all one year above me, so I
never attended their class reunions or stuff like that.”
A short time later, Lina and Max were on the street again. They walked to the busier street where they had parked and where Lina had seen a bakery.
“I wonder what Frau Birkner would have told us if her husband
hadn’t been there,” Lina said while they walked toward the car. She was chewing on a croissant and had a cup of coffee in the other hand. Max clicked the key fob and the car in front of them flashed.
“It must have been something about Daniel Vogler,” Lina contin-
ued, “and about Philip. She doesn’t seem to agree with everything her husband says.”
Max nodded. “But she doesn’t want her husband to know.” They
looked at each other. “Do you think she’ll call us on her own?” As
always, they had left their business card, along with the request to call if they remembered anything else.
“I doubt it. She’s had my card since Monday.” Lina looked around.
“Doesn’t Frank Jensen live around here?”
Max nodded. “Let’s go and ask him if he knew that Birkner and
Vogler knew each other.”
Less than five minutes later, they were standing in front of the semi-detached house on the quiet side street. It looked just as depressing as it had last time, but Frank Jensen opened the door after the first ring.
217
Maria C. Poets
He was clean-shaven and wore clean clothes. He must have noticed
Lina’s astonished face because he said, with a shrug, “Hard to believe, I know.” As he had done before, he disappeared into the house without
bothering to check whether his visitors followed him.
The house smelled of cleaning solutions. Lina could see two large
cardboard boxes through the open living room door, a broom was lean-
ing against a wall, and in front of it was a full garbage bag. The kitchen was tidy and clean, but the little camping table and stool were still the only furniture.
Frank Jensen raised his shoulders apologetically. “Sorry I can’t offer you a seat. My wife took everything when she moved out.” But instead of taking the only seat himself, as he had last time, he remained standing. “Have you checked my alibi?”
Max nodded. “Yes.” He didn’t mention that it did not completely
clear him.
“And? Where was I?” Jensen asked, attempting a grin. When there
was no answer, he raised his shoulders again, slightly embarrassed.
“Dumb question. You’re probably not allowed to tell me. But in all
honesty, I still don’t remember.”
Max said calmly, “You were in one of the bars you told us about.”
Lina made a show of looking around. “Things have certainly
changed here,” she said with a smile. “So things are looking up for
you?”
“Yeah, well . . . ,” the man replied. He ran his fingers through his hair, a nervous gesture that reminded Lina of the picture of misery
he had been just a few days ago. “You know, when you showed up
here that time, it scared me. And then this blackout . . . Not to know whether I killed someone or not.” He shook his head. “That was a
wake-up call.” He looked from Max to Lina and back again. “I didn’t
kill Philip, did I?”
218
Dead Woods
Max hesitated, not long but long enough for Jensen to go pale.
“We are not absolutely sure yet, but in my opinion, you don’t have to worry, Herr Jensen.”
That didn’t seem to calm the man. He patted his shirt pockets for
cigarettes, took one out, and lit it. He took a few deep drags before calming down. Then he looked at Lina and finally, belatedly, answered her question. “I’m moving out next week.” With a crooked smile, he
said, “This house isn’t the right place for me, you know . . .” Smoking hastily,