Bernhard Aichner - Woman of the Dead - A Thriller

‘A beer, please.’

‘A large one?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Come far, have you?’

‘Just a little round trip.’

‘Pretty, isn’t it?’

‘You think so?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘No.’

‘What are you doing here, then?’

‘What are you doing here? You sound as if you come from the east of Germany. That’s not exactly round the corner.’

‘There’s work here. And I get to serve pretty ladies like you.’

‘Why, thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. And by the way, the beer’s from there too.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘The boss is from the east.’

‘In the olden days the Germans were guests here.’

‘They still are.’

‘Ah, but now they get served by Germans.’

‘So?’

‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you have work and I’m glad you’re here. I’m just surprised there aren’t any Tyroleans wanting the jobs these days.’

‘It was the same before.’

‘Was it, now?’

‘Eastern Europeans used to work here. There weren’t many Tyroleans around the place, even before.’

‘Eastern Europeans?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Working legally?’

‘No.’

‘Illegals?’

‘Among other things, that’s why this place was closed down.’

‘Is that right?’

‘No idea. I mean, what does a guy from the east of Germany know? I wasn’t even here at the time.’

‘I like guys from the east of Germany.’

‘Hey, you’re a funny lady.’

‘Am I?’

‘And you look damn good.’

‘And you’re chatting up a guest.’

‘What else is there for me to do?’

‘How long have you been here, then?’

‘Three years.’

‘Then you didn’t work for the old boss?’

‘No, none of us here now did. They changed the whole staff. I suppose they wanted a fresh start.’

‘That’s a pity. I need to talk to someone who worked here five years ago.’

‘Why?’

‘I was in love with a waiter at the time. Only I didn’t realise until too late, and now I don’t know where to find him.’

‘Very romantic.’

‘Yes, isn’t it? I wonder if you can help me. Who might know him? Did any locals work here? There must be someone who knows the waiters from back then.’

‘Seems like the hotel was swept clean overnight. Three-quarters of the staff weren’t properly registered back then. The old boss didn’t take that stuff so seriously.’

‘I heard he’s in local government now.’

‘So I heard. Sounds like he got out just at the right time. An investor from the east made him an offer, and it was all signed and sealed in no time. I reckon this man Schönborn had so many skeletons in his cupboard he couldn’t stay here. They might even have locked him up. So he bolted.’

‘That’s what they say about him in the village, do they?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And what else?’

‘Nothing I’d bet a single cent on, it’s probably all nonsense spread by the former doorman here, who hasn’t a good word to say about Schönborn. What’s more, the old doorman drinks a fair bit, so no one really believes him. All nonsense, like I said. So I prefer to keep my mouth shut and stick to the facts.’

‘What was he saying?’

‘No idea, you’ll have to ask him yourself. But watch out. The man’s not quite right in the head. He used to drink here a lot, so I knew what he was like. Always shooting his mouth off, thought Schönborn was responsible for the mess he’d made of his life. If he’d had things his own way he’d have been managing the hotel by now. Had ideas above his station, poor bloke.’

‘I’d like to talk to him.’

‘Maybe you’d better not. If he ever knew where your boyfriend went, you can bet he’ll have forgotten it by now.’

‘But it’s worth a try, don’t you think?’

‘Not if you’re going to leave me here all alone.’

‘Sorry, darling.’

‘Ah, you’re cruel. You can’t just walk out on me like that.’

Blum smiles and gets to her feet. She goes out round the back to the staff hostel, where she pictures three people being loaded into a car unseen, in the middle of the night. A robbery of humans in paradise, a plunge from heaven to hell. Blum plans to find out where that hell is. She gets on her motorbike and rides away.

He lives in a room on the first floor. The building is so shabby, she struggles to find the entrance amid the rubbish. She goes up a crumbling flight of outside steps and knocks. There’s a light on, he’s there, she can hear him, but all the same it is some time before he comes to the door. Blum has nothing to lose; she feels curious, she wants to know what the man has to say. Anything is better than turning round and going home, even this gnarled man and his schnapps; the devilish faces everywhere.

His name is Sebastian Hackspiel. Blum sits opposite him on a decrepit old sofa. She has made her way through the room, forcing down feelings of disgust and sitting where he suggests. Call me Hackspiel. He didn’t waste much time asking what she wanted, he merely opened the door, and she followed him down the corridor to the back room. In her professional life Blum has seen a great many things, she has been in hundreds of homes to collect bodies, time and again she has entered rooms no one had prepared, time and again she has seen other people’s lives plain and unvarnished. But the spectacle of Sebastian Hackspiel’s life is in a class of its own. This house, this room, the masks on the walls, the wrinkled little man holding his woodcarver’s knife. There are wood shavings everywhere, pots of paint, brushes, knives, wood, cigarette butts. And bottles emptied of beer and schnapps. He asks her, Like a drink? Blum smiles and says yes. Without thinking she empties the glass, and watches him pour her another.

‘You’ve come for a devil?’

‘No.’

‘Bad luck, lass, I only carve devils.’

‘I’d like to talk to you about the Annenhof.’

‘A good devil is the only right sort. A good mouth, wide open, with a proper tongue and well-carved horns. That’s a proper devil, that is.’

‘I like your artworks.’

‘It’s not artworks, they’re devils.’

‘I like your devils.’

‘They’re good devils. Hand-crafted, see what I mean? I pour all my love into them. My heart in every devil.’

‘I can see that.’

‘So you want to talk about the Annenhof? Why?’

‘Because my husband is dead.’

‘And that’s the fault of the Annenhof?’

‘In a way.’

‘Well, I’m sorry about that. About your husband, I mean. Being dead. What do you want to know, lass?’

‘Everything. What happened back before the hotel changed ownership. Work done on the side, illegal immigrants.’

‘How do you know about that?’

‘A woman who used to be on the staff told me.’

‘Who?’

‘Her name is Dunya. A Moldavian.’

‘Don’t know her. There were so many of them, the whole staff hostel was full of foreigners.’

‘Maybe you would remember her, though. She’s pretty. Black hair, dark eyes, about five foot four. She shared a room with a girl called Ilena. Another Moldavian.’

‘I never paid attention to the names, lass. I had enough to do looking after the place.’

‘But you knew they were illegals?’

‘Sure.’

‘And you didn’t say anything.’

‘Schönborn paid us well to keep quiet.’

‘Us?’

‘All of us who knew about it. That was still a lot cheaper than if he’d registered all those gippos as hotel staff. They worked for peanuts, they were glad to be here in our beautiful Tyrol. They were good and kept quiet and lived in the staff hostel.’