Ian Hocking - Déjà Vu

Berlin: September, 2023

Saskia Brandt emerged from the shadow of the Brandenburg Gate and narrowed her eyes at the evening. The mirrored arches of the Federal Office of Investigation gleamed in front of her. Minutes later, she strode inside. She crossed the inlaid insignia— Ex tabula rasa —and dumped her ceramic revolver in a tray. Huffed. Stepped through the detector and retrieved the gun while the guard folded his arms and made her feel exposed with her hair down, absurd in her casual skirt, short in her flip flops.

‘You should be on holiday,’ he said, smiling.

‘I should be on holiday.’

Ghost-touched by the air conditioning, her sweat dried cold. She entered the lift, which rose on a piston and opened high in the building. Her office was one among dozens. Its plaque read: Frau Kommissarin Brandt. She licked her thumb and squeaked away a plastic shaving from the B. There was a picture alongside the name. It showed a serious, beautiful woman in her late twenties. No make-up. No earring in the exposed, left ear. Many photographs had been taken and Saskia liked this one the least. As always, she scowled at herself before opening the door.

Inside, a black desk rested on an ashy carpet and faced blinds that could wink Berlin away. A cubicle to the side, now empty, marked the extent of her secretary’s territory. To the right, beyond a Kandinsky print, were the kitchenette and bathroom, which few at the FIB were fortunate enough to have.

The office was uncomfortably warm. Saskia approached the desk and adjusted the position of its antique blotter while she thought. She stroked a framed photograph: her English boyfriend, Simon. Her ex-boyfriend of—she noted the sunburnt skin around her watch—five hours and twenty-two minutes, allowing for the time difference. She turned the photograph face down and set her watch to Berlin time.

‘The air conditioning is broken,’ announced the nameless computer that haunted her office. Two cameras hung in the dark corners of the ceiling. Each drew a bead on her mouth.

‘Why?’

‘I do not know. An engineer has been called. If you are hot, take a cold shower.’

Saskia turned to one of the cameras. ‘Thanks for the advice.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘Where is my secretary? Why didn’t she report it?’

‘Your secretary is on holiday.’ The computer paused. ‘You should be on holiday too.’

Her boyfriend had been cooking pasta for a romantic meal when the recall from FIB came through and, without discernible romance, had thrown the boiling pot across the room, frustrated that she was leaving yet again. A stray tassel of spaghetti had burned Saskia’s forehead with a question mark. She had let him fuss and make his apologies, but it was over the moment that burn mark bloomed. She did not say good-bye. In the taxi to the airport, she cried.

She entered the bathroom, drew some water and splashed it over her forehead. Then she went to the kitchen. A microwave, cupboards, a coffeemaker and a large refrigerator. Her eyes stopped on the refrigerator. It promised cold, sparkling mineral water. She pulled the handle and her secretary rolled out, taut and twisted, dead joints creaking as she unwound. Their eyes met and Saskia crouched, her attention moving from those dry orbs to the hole below the secretary’s left ear.

As Saskia held the shoulder of the corpse, she paused in the wake of a thought: she could not remember the secretary’s name. How could that be? Saskia was tired but not exhausted. There was no reason to forget the woman who had worked in her office since the spring. Saskia had last seen her late on Friday afternoon, two days before. Why had the body been hidden? The question and its answer collided: she was being framed.

Saskia returned to her desk. Before she could query her computer, it asked, ‘Who are you?’

‘I am Kommissarin Brandt and you are my office computer. Are you malfunctioning?’

There was no reply. Instead, Saskia heard the swish of the computer’s local components, which were housed within her desk. ‘Computer, what are you doing?’

‘I am assembling a profile for Kommissarin Brandt.’

‘You shouldn’t have to. Run an internal systems check.’

‘Check complete. No problems found.’

‘My voice print was working a few minutes ago. Why would it be unavailable now?’

‘It might have been deleted accidentally or deliberately. The latter is likelier.’

‘I see.’

Had there been a break-in? Could it be the same person trying to frame her?

‘Your refrigerator reports that it is broken,’ the computer said.

‘It would.’ Saskia leaned on her desk and looked into the sky. ‘My secretary was inside.’

‘I do not understand. Why would your secretary be inside the refrigerator?’

‘Do you know why?’

‘I do not understand. Why would your secretary be inside the refrigerator?’

‘We are no longer having a conversation.’

Herr Hauptkommissar Beckmann wore a grey Nehru jacket with a lemon-yellow flower in its buttonhole. Thirty years of criminal investigation had left him a concise, deliberate man, cold in his outlook. Beckmann was Old School. Saskia liked him. It did not surprise her to find him working on a Sunday. He was holding on for an FIB pension and the long shadows of Croatian twilight. She had to play it his way.

‘Herr Hauptkommissar.’

‘Kommissarin.’

There was a sour edge to his smile this morning. His eyes, as ever, his had the unsettling penetration of an arch prosecutor. They shook hands.

‘No milk, sorry,’ she said, passing the coffee. ‘Perhaps you could fill me in.’

Beckmann had a habit of putting his tongue tip into a cup before he drank. He swallowed audibly.

‘In the early hours of this morning,’ he began, ‘your computer sent an enquiry to a refrigeration subcontractor about your fridge. I intercepted the e-mail and sent a man to investigate. Why? Because it flagged up as unusual. You had a new fridge fitted last year. A simple statistical test indicated that the probability of it failing within five years was less than one in twenty. I sent the man around as a precaution. He’s from the Moscow office, originally. Klutikov.

Saskia looked at the picture of Simon, the blotter, the plant in the corner and the secretary’s little desk. She imagined a man and his gloved fingers.

‘You believe me, don’t you?’ she asked.

Beckmann paid out a silence the length of two coffee sips.

‘Let us be rigorous. Let us be rational. Here are the facts according to Klutikov. Your secretary was killed on Friday evening. She died of a single stab wound below the ear. The blade was at least six centimetres long. The wound led to a fatal brain haemorrhage. The deceased -’

‘Mary,’ Saskia blurted, excited by her victory over forgetfulness. ‘Her name was Mary.’ She looked at the fallen photo-frame. ‘Why did the murderer put her in the fridge?’

‘A large, hot object will strain the fridge’s gas compressor.’

Saskia nodded. ‘That links with the broken air conditioning problem. It made the air warmer and forced the fridge’s compressor to work harder.’

‘Inevitably, then, the fridge will break. The next step is quite predictable. Your computer will send a request to have the fridge examined and repaired. The repair subcontractor will then send an engineer for Monday morning. He will discover the body and, as simply as that, you will be framed.’