Bernhard Aichner - Woman of the Dead - A Thriller

He had filmed the pig-breeding videos on his mobile, then saved them to his laptop. Anyone could have found them, could have watched what went on in that cellar. There was no attempt at concealment; it hadn’t occurred to Bertl Puch that someone might steal his laptop and investigate his pig-breeding. He feels safe. He sees no reason to delete those seventeen horror films. They document feeding time, training sessions, punishments. They feature Dunya, Ilena and Youn. Dunya was as Blum knew her, but more ravaged, more wounded. She was in the middle of hell and could see no way out. Their faces were devoid of despair, betraying only resignation, a silent cry for release. Silent because they had no strength left, nothing but the wish to die. Dunya said they had longed for death, thought of release all the time, but couldn’t think how to kill themselves. So they had borne the violence and humiliations. Blum endured these brief glimpses into a sick, sick world. The room had been specially prepared. The cages were tiled so the captives could be washed. The dirty zone, the fucking zone, was kept strictly separate. The videos showed feeding time, the kicks and blows they endured while they ate, the lust and rage, the punishment. It was the cook’s project and it amused him. He recorded a voiceover while he filmed the ungrateful little pigs who despised the delicacies from his famous bijou restaurant. She sees Bertl Puch beating them until they bleed, his belt in one hand, his mobile in the other. Punishment was meted out in the dirty zone. Pregnant Ilena lay on the floor, no longer moving. Youn had to eat everything out of the buckets, every last scrap.

Blum sits in Bertl Puch’s apartment and clicks through the videos. In some of them you can see the priest hosing Youn down, washing and tending to him before assaulting him again. She recognises his stature, his voice. And Schönborn is there too, holding his camera. Blum is one hundred per cent sure that’s him, in spite of the mask. She has seen him naked, seen his disassembled parts, she knows it’s him. The cellar is a land outside the law, an orgy where everything is allowed and nothing is forbidden. Not even the anaesthetising darts fired from the hunting rifle. The video shows exactly what Dunya described. She was right, there was nowhere to run.

She doesn’t recognise the fourth man. He wears a larger mask than the others and has an ordinary body. The only thing Blum can say for certain is that he isn’t Schönborn’s father. Johannes Schönborn is stronger and weighs about twenty kilos more than the man in the video. He shrieks with glee as he presses the trigger, he yodels, he sings. What Blum sees disturbs her. It is the performance of a madman. A half-naked man doing a victory dance round the fucking area, which is padded and plush velvet. The huntsman is happy to be shooting, he exudes joie de vivre . At the top of his voice, he sings one of the best-known songs in the world, O sole mio. There is no lovelier sun . Youn lies on the floor. The huntsman bawls out the song. Ma n’atu sole cchiù bello, oi né. He sings ardently, with passion, almost well. If Blum had only heard his voice, she would have liked him. O sole mio , while he rapes Youn.

The huntsman is singing to the camera. He poses, it is a private performance for the cook. This little video is telling Blum everything she needs to know because his face is shown, just for a moment. She hadn’t expected him to reveal the mystery himself, to remove his mask for two seconds, just as the video is coming to an end. She makes out his eyes, his nose; he is grinning into the camera, basking in the scene. After two seconds, he puts the mask back on. In those two seconds, she sees the rapist, the murderer, the evidence of his guilt. Blum rewinds the tape, watches it again and again, then presses Stop.

She has seen that face before. She is one hundred per cent sure that she knows him but she has no idea where from. A name goes with that face. He is an actor, the hero of a television series. Blum has seen him while channel-hopping. Something about the wonderful world of the mountains, beautiful landscapes and love. No one would ever have thought he led a double life. He is the huntsman.

Blum rejoices. She was expecting to have to turn the apartment upside down. She was expecting to spend the whole day here, rummaging. But after an hour she is back out on the street. She has found what she was looking for. She has transferred the videos to a USB stick and deleted the originals from his hard disk. She has left no trace. No one will guess the reason for what is going to happen next. Bertl Puch will disappear into thin air, just like that. He won’t be going back to the studio, he won’t be recording any more programmes, he’ll never go back to Kitzbühel, never cook for Kordula Heidmann again. Blum passed sentence the minute she pressed Play. She will take the chef out of circulation. The huntsman too. And quickly.

In Vienna no one stops her, no one persuades her not to do it, no one tells her to abandon her plan, tells her not to phone and meet Puch, not to kill him, not to anaesthetise him, stab him, chop off his head with an axe. She feels intoxicated as she lays plans to get him into her car unseen, take him to Innsbruck and snuff him out like a candle. Press the switch and off goes the light. The light will go out and he will be just another body on her table, skin and fat as she draws her needle through his flesh.

‘Bertl Puch here.’

‘Listen carefully.’

‘Who is this?’

‘If you don’t want your story to be on television, then listen hard. I know everything. I know about the cellar, about Schönborn and the actor. I know what you and the others did, I know you killed the police officer. And the girl as well. There’s evidence, and it is deposited with a notary. If he doesn’t hear from me he is going to hand over the files to the press. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now, don’t put a foot wrong. Go to the end of the street. There’s an underground car park on the right. Go down to the second floor, bay two hundred and four. Wait for me there.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Right behind you.’

‘Where?’

‘In the white car.’

‘What the hell is this about?’

‘I repeat, if you don’t do as I say, your life will become a nightmare.’

‘What do you want from me? Where did you get this phone number?’

‘How do I know that you breed pigs?’

‘I want to know what this is about.’

‘Turn round and continue. Bay two hundred and four. When I park, you will open the boot and get into the coffin.’

‘Do what?’

‘You heard me.’

‘Are you crazy?’

‘The choice is yours: either you get into that coffin or in an hour’s time the world will be watching your delightful home videos.’

‘You’ve been in my apartment?’

‘And your restaurant.’

‘I want to know what you’re after.’

‘I don’t care what you want.’

‘That’s a hearse you’re driving. Are you out of your mind?’

‘It’s a Cadillac Superior, built in 1972. You’ll have a very comfortable ride.’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘I can stay here or I can drive away. The decision is yours.’

‘Who are you? What’s all this shit about? This can’t be happening.’

‘I repeat, if you don’t go into the car park right now, I am off.’

‘You want me to get into a coffin?’

‘That’s right. Bay two hundred and four. You will put your phone on the roof of the car and open the boot. If you try opening the driver’s door or attacking me your life is over. So just get into the coffin and lie down. I’ll get out and close the lid.’