Bernhard Aichner - Woman of the Dead - A Thriller

How glad she is that he’s there. While she goes on investigating, like a woman possessed, looking for those men, Karl cooks for the children, puts them to bed, reads aloud to them. Those men must be somewhere, and somehow or other Blum will find them. Even though she knows less than nothing, she will run them to ground and make them talk. All four of them. But she doesn’t know where to begin, on what continent she must look for them, for these needles in a haystack. Men between thirty and sixty, inconspicuous and friendly; no one in the world would think for a moment that they could do something so perverse. White sheep innocently grazing in a meadow, probably leading a perfectly normal life, probably quite close to Blum. Respectable citizens like Schönborn. Men of good repute, psychopaths, murderers. By now Blum is convinced that they are responsible for Mark’s death. There can be no doubt about it, everything fits.

The man in the suit could be in his mid-fifties. Johannes Schönborn, Edwin’s father, the provincial government deputy, former owner of the hotel in Sölden. Blum simply went to the government building, then up to the second floor, where she asked to see him. No appointment was available, she was told, for another five weeks. She thanked the man and waited outside Schönborn’s office. For an hour she stared at the picture hanging on the wall: a woman with the head of a stag, breasts and a pair of antlers. It was just Blum and the woman with the stag’s head. Schönborn was the only one who could tell her the truth about the presumed brothel in the ‘wellness’ area of the hotel, about potential clients, about Dunya, Youn and Ilena. He must know something, he must have something to do with it. So she followed him when he left his office. He went to a restaurant; she sat down at the bar and observed him. It was lucky that he was eating alone, that the chair opposite him was vacant, was waiting just for her.

Blum is surprised by the man’s aura of calm, the composure with which he continues to eat. It seems almost as if he found her appearance a welcome diversion. A man with nothing to fear, a man who feels safe, who is aware of his power and prepared to use it.

‘I have to ask you about your knocking-shop.’

‘You have to what?’

‘Ask you about your knocking-shop. The brothel in the Annenhof hotel, remember?’

‘I’m not entirely sure that I understand you correctly.’

‘Yes, you do.’

‘And I would like to eat my lunch in peace.’

‘That’s fine by me, so long as you tell me what made you do it.’

‘You surely can’t be serious?’

‘Oh yes, I am.’

‘What in the world are you thinking? You disturb my lunch break, and you have the impertinence to spoil my appetite with groundless accusations of something in the past.’

‘As I said, you’re welcome to go on eating.’

‘Have we met?’

‘No, but I could tell everyone here that I used to work for you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘In your wellness centre. I could tell them all that I procured for you. I could make quite a scene of it, and I’m sure some of them would believe me. I’m good at that sort of thing.’

‘Why would you do a thing like that?’

‘Because I’d like to know whether that brothel was part of your hotel.’

‘How entertaining you are.’

‘Am I?’

‘Very amusing, yes. By the way, the pasta here is excellent. You ought to try it.’

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘There was no such brothel. Never.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘The ladies gave massages, that was all. Classic back massages, sound massages, lymph drainage, underwater pressure jet massages, Ayurvedic and hot-stone massages, the full range. They were much appreciated by our guests.’

‘The clients in the brothel, you mean.’

‘Guests, young lady, satisfied guests. Why, even the village priest was a regular guest of ours.’

‘The priest?’

‘Yes, that speaks for itself, don’t you agree? A man of God gave the whole enterprise his blessing. He has trouble with slipped discs, poor man. The ladies helped him a great deal. That was all, it was perfectly above board.’

‘So you left the priest satisfied too?’

‘Yes, he’s a very good man, and it looks as if he’ll be the next bishop.’

‘And he was one of your regular guests?’

‘Yes again, and now I trust that I have answered all your questions and we can enjoy a glass of wine together.’

‘I’ll be happy to join you.’

‘By the way, what makes you think there was something wrong with the hotel all that time ago? And why now, after so many years? Why do you take any interest in this tedious subject?’

‘You’re a huntsman, aren’t you?’

‘What if I am?’

‘Five men enjoying themselves.’

‘What?’

‘With Ilena, Dunya and Youn.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, but by all means go on. I’m always happy to talk to my constituents, particularly when they’re as pretty as you.’

‘Are you a rapist?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Are you one of the five men?’

‘Are you drunk? What on earth are you talking about? I think you’d better leave.’

‘I’m talking about abduction, unlawful imprisonment, assault, rape. And murder.’

‘That will do.’

‘Father and son. Perhaps the two of you were having your fun together.’

‘What about my son? What’s all this about?’

Blum turns and leaves without another word or glance. She simply walks away, with everything that he has said ringing in her ears. And everything that he hasn’t. He didn’t know what she was talking about, he’d never heard the names Ilena, Dunya and Youn before. He was surprised. He racked his brain and found nothing, his astonishment was genuine. And so were his lies about the brothel. How confidently he twists reality, extinguishes the past. Only massages. Massages for the priest. How absurd.

His mention of the priest is a bonus. A gift that someone has handed her, and all she has to do is open it. Remove the ribbon, crumple up the wrapping paper. A present that Johannes Schönborn has given her without knowing the avalanche he has set in motion. Blum pictures the randy priest punishing Dunya for her sins. A man of God in the brothel, a man of God in a cellar somewhere in hell. The son of the house is a photographer. A priest is a regular client. Blum knows him. She has met him at funerals, she knows his face, she knows how he speaks and moves. She sees him in her mind’s eye.

His name is Herbert Jaunig. He wears a kindly expression as he delivers the eulogy. As he shakes hands with the bereaved. As he rapes Youn. As he drags the girls out of their cages to whip them. Everything that Blum has heard comes back to her. Every word that Dunya told her, every little detail. He would punish Dunya for her sins, bringing his belt down on her back again and again, the belt buckle digging into her skin, screams echoing in the cellar. The way he quotes the Bible as he ties the boy down on the table. The way he seizes Youn by the hair and jerks his head up as he thrusts into him, the pastor’s sanctified prick absolving the boy of his sins as it roots around inside him. The saviour bringing those three lost souls back to the path of righteousness, the future bishop lovingly tending to his flock. Blow by blow, thrust after thrust. Punishment for the lascivious behaviour of his victims, his fist coming down on the boy’s back so hard that it almost drives the breath out of him. Dunya sits in her cage watching and can do nothing to help.

Blum leaves the restaurant. Nor for a second does she doubt the existence of that brothel in the Annenhof or believe that the pastor went there only for massages. He must have been an associate of Edwin Schönborn. She has no doubt about it, and no pity. She sees only the pastor before her eyes, only the photos that Edwin Schönborn took. Again and again those faces; she read those faces all night long, in the photos that she found in Schönborn’s studio. In an unlocked drawer, neatly sorted and stacked. Blum couldn’t stop looking at them: those eyes, the gaping mouths, the horror and emptiness on their faces. She has seen everything that Herbert Jaunig has done. All that he must answer for now. The good priest, one of the most popular in the country. Blum will make him talk.