Bernhard Aichner - Woman of the Dead - A Thriller

‘You will tell me where my son is.’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘No one knows where he is, no one has seen him. It’s as if the earth swallowed him up.’

‘Get lost.’

‘I’ve reported him missing, but even the police don’t have a clue. There’s nothing they can do; his passport has gone, so they say he’s probably abroad, but he isn’t. I know he isn’t.’

‘I couldn’t care less where your son has gone.’

‘I know you have something to do with it. You’d better pray that he’s safe and well.’

‘You had me watched.’

‘I did, and it seems that was a very good move. My nose has never yet let me down.’

‘Get out. Take your bloody pictures and fuck off. I don’t want you here. Not in my garden and not near my children.’

‘I’m not going to leave until you tell me where my son is.’

‘Go away. Now.’

‘If I go anywhere now it will be straight to the police. Is that what you want?’

‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Not according to these pictures. According to these pictures, you’re a murderer.’

‘All anyone can see in these pictures is a woman with a jack from a wheel-changing kit.’

‘You were hitting out.’

‘I was furious; I had a flat tyre, changing it was tricky.’

‘You killed him.’

‘Who?’

‘Bertl Puch.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘He was in the coffin.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says the man who took the photos.’

‘Well, he’s lying.’

‘He saw Bertl Puch disappear into an underground garage. You had just driven into the garage.’

‘That’s a coincidence. I don’t know any Bertl Puch.’

‘He was a friend of my son. That’s no coincidence. Jaunig is dead. Puch is dead. I want to know what you’ve done to my son.’

‘Why don’t you just go to the police? Let them help you. You’re on the wrong track. I have nothing to do with these people.’

‘You were in Puch’s apartment.’

‘Was I?’

‘I have photos showing you entering the building where he lives.’

‘That must be another coincidence.’

‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘Who’s dead?’

‘My son.’

‘Whatever you say.’

‘I’m going to destroy you. I’ll take all you have. This house, your children, your life. You will pay.’

‘I beg to differ. And do you know why? Because you’re a greedy, power-hungry old man. You’re not going to let a scandal get in your way. I know you want to run this province. You’re not about to take risks. And I know what a filthy bastard your son is.’

‘So he’s still alive?’

‘I’ve no idea, but I’d like to show you something. Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.’

Blum gets up, goes into the garage and digs out the photos of the cellar. She has hidden them among the old cross-shaped gravestones, in a crate on the floor. She comes back with the folder and, without another word, hands him the pictures.

‘What is this?’

‘Art.’

‘That’s my son’s watermark.’

‘Correct. The whole project was thought up by your precious offspring.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Look more closely. Look into the eyes of those women. And the boy. What do you see?’

‘What should I see?’

‘Horror. Suffering.’

‘I can’t and won’t discuss my son’s art here. I’m here to talk about my photographs, not his portraits.’

‘Well, you’re wrong. The portraits are precisely the reason why you’re here.’

‘If you don’t tell me what you know, I’m going to the police this instant.’

‘Be my guest. Take these photos of your son’s with you, and tell the police that he abducted and imprisoned two women and one man, then took pictures as he raped them. Tell them this went on for five years and your son is a monster.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘The woman in this photograph told me all about it.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘If you feel the need to share those pictures of me, I’ll share your son’s photos. I’ll tell the story told to me by the woman in that picture. Her name was Dunya.’

‘Where is she?’

‘She was abused for five years. She suffered in ways you can’t imagine. And then she was killed, just like that, sacrificed so your son could have his fun.’

‘My son would never do a thing like that. I know my son.’

‘Not as well as you think. Your fine son has gone off to South America. I imagine that was more appealing than prison.’

‘That isn’t true.’

‘You know it is.’

‘Please. Tell me this is all made up.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t.’

‘It’s just not possible.’

‘That’s what I thought, too.’

‘But what do you have to do with it?’

‘Your son is also responsible for my husband’s murder. So it would be better for you to let sleeping dogs lie. If you don’t change your tune, you can say goodbye to your plans for the future.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘There’s also a video.’

‘A video?’

‘A video that shows more than the victims’ faces.’

‘Christ.’

‘Whoever took those photographs, call them off. If I find that I’m still being photographed, your career is finished. Do you understand?’

He understands. Johannes Schönborn stands up and goes. He leaves the photographs lying there, both his and Blum’s. He gets into the car and motions to his chauffeur to drive away. His face is pale. He didn’t spend long wondering whether to fight for his son. He has given up. His decision to disown his flesh and blood was taken at lightning speed. Johannes Schönborn drives away, out of the garden, away from Blum. The storm has passed, the sea is calm.

Blum sits under the cherry tree, drinking water. She isn’t convinced he believes his son has gone to South America without saying goodbye. But never mind, it makes no difference. Johannes Schönborn will keep his mouth shut. He won’t do anything that might endanger his career, he won’t stick his head above the parapet. He will not let the world know what his son was really like. Johannes Schönborn will go far in politics. Now Blum is going to pack the girls’ things: air mattresses, towels, swimsuits. Blum is going bathing, and she won’t be jumping into an empty pool. She will dive into the water and she will swim.

‘Hello, I’m at the lake with the children.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t come round to see you last night. All hell has broken loose.’

‘It doesn’t matter. We’ll see each other later.’

‘Did you miss me?’

‘We had a long afternoon’s work, Reza and I. Then we drank a glass of wine, and I just passed out on the sofa.’

‘That’s a pity.’

‘What is?’

‘Oh, everything.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s so much work, I can’t get around to anything else. I’d love to see you. Touch you. But everything’s escalating.’

‘Why, what’s going on?’

‘I don’t want to bother you with this.’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘People are disappearing, Blum.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, people are disappearing without trace. One after another, and no one knows why.’

‘Who’s disappeared?’

‘Well, we’re still looking for Jaunig’s body. We’ve only found his car, it turned up just this side of the Italian border. But there’s still no sign of his body. No one knows anything, no one’s seen a thing.’

‘That’s strange.’

‘And then there was that photographer. The son of our parliamentary deputy. He’s disappeared into thin air. Now a well-known chef from Kitzbühel has gone missing. Again, he just vanished without a word, no goodbyes, nothing.’