Woman of the Dead (19 page)

Just after St Pölten, Bertl Puch lost control of his bowels in the walnut coffin. Now, she can smell his fear. Almost twenty-five years ago, Blum wanted to run away from that smell. It all began with that smell, and now it seems it’s going to end with that smell. Deep down, Blum knows she can’t go on like this. It’s as though her guardian angel has gone off duty. Heaven has turned again, and Blum is swaying. Last time everything came together seamlessly; this time everything is coming apart. Just before Salzburg she has to brake. She’s driving too fast. A policeman has been following her and makes her leave the autobahn and drive to a lay-by. A young plain-clothes man gestures for her to open her window, and instead of rolling it down, Blum turns the music up and gets out. It’s her only option. She quickly slams the car door behind her, trusting that the music inside will drown out the noise Puch is making. Because he has begun to shout again and kick the walls of the wooden box. She hopes Puch won’t be heard. Blum tries to smile and ignore the fact that the officer is an arsehole.

‘Your driving licence and the car’s papers.’

‘I guess I was over the speed limit?’

‘Ah, so you know you were driving too fast? That makes it a premeditated offence. You ignored the speed limit and thus deliberately endangered the lives of other motorists.’

‘I’m terribly sorry. My mind drifted.’

‘Did it now? Is that because you’ve been drinking?’

‘No … I just didn’t notice the speed limit. I was deep in thought.’

‘This will cost you a pretty penny. Your driving licence will be ready for collection in Salzburg in a month’s time.’

‘No … I mean, I can’t …’

‘I decide what you can and can’t do. You were almost fifty kph over the limit.’

‘I know, it’s unforgivable.’

‘This isn’t a question of forgiveness. You’ll have to call a vehicle to tow you the rest of your journey.’

‘Oh, please no – you can see what I’m transporting.’

‘This is a hearse, right?’

‘Yes, the Blum Funerary Institute, Innsbruck.’

‘A white hearse?’

‘Yes, my father really wanted it.’

‘So your father is the undertaker?’

‘I’m sorry to say my father is dead. Now I run the business.’

‘But you’re a woman.’

‘And?’

‘That’s no job for a woman.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Why is the music so loud?’

‘As a woman, I find it distressing to drive corpses around. The music helps.’

‘Don’t you think that’s disrespectful to the dead?’

‘That hadn’t occurred to me, but I’ll give it some thought.’

‘You should.’

‘Can’t you turn a blind eye? Leave me my driving licence? I’ll happily pay the fine, but I really must get this corpse to Innsbruck. The family is expecting it.’

‘Who’s in the box?’

‘An old lady. She’s been in the water a long time.’

‘A drowned body?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’ve never seen one of those.’

‘You’re not missing out, believe me.’

‘I’d like to see a drowned body. May I take a peek inside?’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘I’m used to all sorts, mark my word. Just the other day we picked up a body from the railway tracks. The head was mush. And there was that accident on the Attersee four days ago. Seven dead.’

‘What a difficult job you do.’

‘It doesn’t bother me. You can show me what’s inside the box.’

‘You can’t be serious?’

‘Of course I’m serious. How often do I get a chance to see a drowned body? This must be my lucky day.’

‘It’s really not a good idea.’

‘Come now – you show me the body and we’ll forget your little misdemeanour.’

‘But it stinks. And there are little bits of skin everywhere, and that face. That face!’

‘Doesn’t bother me. Come on, let’s have a look.’

‘Please understand. As a woman it isn’t easy for me to look at these things. I actually threw up when I loaded it in. I just want to get the body properly buried.’

‘An undertaker who’s afraid of bodies?’

‘Please. Don’t do this to me.’

‘Women. I’ve always said they should stay in the kitchen.’

‘Yes.’

‘I can make you open up.’

‘Please don’t. Not today.’

‘When?’

‘Well, I have photos.’

‘What sort of photos?’

‘Pictures of bodies. Lots and lots of bodies. Beheadings, hanged bodies, bodies that got crushed, corpses after autopsies, amputees. Everything, believe me. I have thousands of photos and you can study them at your leisure. Come to Innsbruck and I’ll show you things you’ve never seen before.’

‘That sounds good. That sounds very good indeed. And you definitely have pictures of drowning victims?’

‘Several, yes. We keep records of everything. And the best thing is that pictures don’t stink.’

‘I’ll come and see you in Innsbruck.’

‘The Blum Funerary Institute. You’re welcome to drop by any time.’

‘Let’s forget about the fine, why don’t we?’

‘Thank you.’

‘Drive carefully.’

‘I will.’

‘And think about what I said.’

‘What?’

‘About staying in the kitchen.’

Blum stands, fixed to the spot, as the grinning psychopath gets into his car and drives away. She is burning with terror. He almost opened the boot, he already had his finger on the button. One second more and he would have heard the cries for help. She’d have lost everything: her life, her children. The idea of leaving them alone is the worst thing of all and it had very nearly come to that. Deep down, Blum is screaming. Her life almost slipped away from her grasp and she has no one to blame but herself: she had abducted a man in broad daylight without knocking him out. She had been driving too fast, she had turned up the music too loud. She hates herself and longs to be back in control. She mustn’t take any more risks. And that is why she needs to do it, this instant. She must silence him.

She hits him five times in close succession, allowing herself no time to calm down. She is out of control now, she is hitting him on the head with the jack, striking with all her might. She hits him before he realises what is going on. Then she hits him a second time and a third time. She feels no pity as she swings her arm back and hits him a fourth time, as hard as she can. There is a dull crunch, metal on skin and bone. A fifth time. His head is covered with blood; the smell is horrible. Blum quickly lowers the lid of the coffin and screws it shut. Bertl Puch has stopped screaming. For a moment, calm descends. She closes the boot and turns around. She is in a small lay-by just off the autobahn. Her heart is racing as she stares straight ahead. She is not alone.

You can see it all from above. The parking place, the hearse, a woman on the ground beside it. She is lying face down on the asphalt, she doesn’t move. Her mouth is open, the sun is shining. She doesn’t move, she can’t, she doesn’t want to, it simply won’t work. Her eyes are open but they can’t settle, her vision is dissolving. Her body is doubled up. She can’t move an inch, she just lies where she is. She lies by the autobahn like a child feeling cold, waiting for an adult to bring her a blanket. Blum is helpless and alone.

Down and down she goes into the abyss. All of a sudden he was there. Blum hadn’t seen him arrive but he had seen it all. He saw her silencing Bertl Puch, then he jumped into his car and sped away. There was no chance to react; there was nothing more she could do. The fact that a man saw her killing Bertl Puch hits her. She has killed a man, violently, without hesitation, and she was caught in the act.

Was the driver just stopping for a rest, answering a call of nature, or did he know what was going to happen all along? Now he has driven away, leaving her alone but for a bloodied Bertl Puch, and a terrible sense of helplessness in the pit of her stomach. Blum doesn’t know her right hand from her left, doesn’t know what to do, what would be good for her and what would not. Her mind is spinning out of control. She falls to her knees as though she has been dealt an actual blow. Her vehicle is conspicuous; in a couple of hours, the police could be at her door. Uma and Nela would scream as she got into the patrol car. She pictures their faces, the questions in their eyes, their flailing arms trying to help her, to halt her departure. Blum sees what is going to happen. The real world is dissolving and scenes of horror are swimming before her eyes.

Blum is trembling. She remembers the mess that was Bertl Puch, his pulpy head, his blood, his shit, his urine. She must get up, she must drive away from here. She must limit the damage, turn back the clock as best she can, dispose of him in a grave. She must go to the children, hold them in her arms, tell them she loves them, kiss them, laugh with them, act as if everything is all right. At least one last time. She must hope that nothing will separate them. She’d give everything for that, do anything for it, tell lies, deny accusations, kill for it too. Blum will stand up now and get into her car. She will ignore the smell, drive back to Innsbruck and take refuge in the preparation room. Bertl Puch will disappear. She will clean the coffin and reset her life.

She emerges from her fainting fit and gets back into the hearse. She drives away from the lay-by and on to the autobahn, from Salzburg on to Innsbruck. Blum holds the strings in her own hands. She is hanging from them herself but she is also the puppet master. She forces herself to get up, raises her arm, puts her hand on the steering wheel, presses her foot on the accelerator. Then she taps a number into her phone.

‘Where are you? What’s the matter?’

‘I just wanted to hear your voice, Massimo.’

‘Are you in the car?’

‘It makes no difference where I am, does it?’

‘What’s the matter, Blum?’

‘Suppose something happens to me. What would happen to the children?’

‘What would happen to you?’

‘I might die.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Mark’s dead. I might die too, and then the children would be on their own.’

‘You mustn’t think like that.’

‘But I do. And it frightens me.’

‘Well, stop.’

‘They’ll be put into a home.’

‘Stop talking like that. Nothing’s going to happen to you, I’ll look after you. Trust me.’

‘Do you remember the woman Mark was meeting?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘She’s dead.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘They pulled her out of the River Inn. I saw her in the forensics lab.’

‘How do you know it was her? You don’t know the woman.’

‘I saw a photo on Mark’s mobile. I know what she looked like. And she’s dead, Massimo. Drowned. They say it was either accident or suicide.’

‘Oh, Blum, you mustn’t let this weigh on your mind. It’s got nothing to do with you.’

‘It had something to do with Mark.’

‘But Mark is dead. You must stop this, Blum. The woman was homeless. She probably got drunk and fell into the river. Or she was tired of life and just wanted to end it all.’

‘I’m frightened, Massimo.’

‘Please don’t worry, Blum. I’ll look into the case, I promise. I’ll find out how she died. But you must promise you’ll stop thinking the worst.’

‘I promise.’

‘It will get better, Blum.’

‘It’s getting worse.’

‘Can I come and see you when the children go to bed?’

‘Yes.’

Blum ends the call. The thought of lying in his arms does make it better. The thought of telling him the truth is tempting. She would like to surrender herself, let him take control. Sure as she is that Massimo will never be more than a friend, she wishes he could be, wishes he could be like Mark to her. She wants to tell him everything about Dunya, Schönborn, Jaunig and Puch. She doesn’t want to be alone with it any more, lying in a lay-by. Massimo will come when the children are asleep. Or perhaps he will come sooner, if someone called the police, saying he saw Blum hit a man with a jack.

A child’s bike is under the apple tree. Nela is blowing bubbles. They float past Uma, who is asleep in her buggy. And here is Blum, parking the hearse behind the house and pushing the coffin into the preparation room. It is late summer and the scene in the garden is so ordinary. Karl is pruning the blackcurrant bushes, and Blum lifts Uma out of her buggy and kisses her awake. They run round the house, playing catch. Blum tries to forget the chef, to put off the inevitable. She’ll give herself two hours, then she’ll go back to the coffin, to the body of Bertl Puch.

What follows is routine, and that helps. It is easier to touch a corpse than to watch someone else do it. Blum swathes herself in plastic: her hands, her arms, her legs, her shoes. She doesn’t want to touch his blood or his flesh, she doesn’t want to touch any part of him. Blum prepares the hydroaspirator, saw, plastic bags and formalin. She calculates she will have him taken apart in three hours; she’d like to dispose of him more quickly than she did Schönborn. She wants to go back to the garden, play catch with the children and pretend everything is OK. Blum lifts him with the hoist and lowers him on to the preparation table. She cuts off the chef’s clothes, undresses him, rolls him on to his side and pulls the fabric away. She throws it all in the bin. His naked body looks innocent, his skin gives nothing away. There is nothing to show that he is a murderer and a rapist. He could have been a respectable husband and father. If Blum hadn’t known better, if she hadn’t seen the videos and talked to him, she would think he was blameless and regret what she had done. But she knows she was right. She is doing what has to be done.

She turns up the music. She sprays disinfectant to cover up the smell of shit. She opens his ribcage and takes out his organs, just as she did with Schönborn. She creates as little mess as she can, channelling the blood down the drain and not letting it lie on the floor. She divides and packs up his organs, just as the butcher would do when Hagen bought game. Then Herta would divide the meat into portions and freeze it. Roe deer, red deer, sometimes a calf too, a pig. Blum saws off Bertl Puch’s arms, then his legs. He is only flesh and bone. His limbs drop around her; she lets them fall to the floor and goes on sawing. She divides up his torso and separates his head from his neck. Just as his head drops off the table, the door opens.