Woman of the Dead (9 page)

‘He photographed you while he was doing that to you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you naked?’

‘He only took pictures of our faces.’

‘Only your faces?’

‘He thought it was art. He thought he’d be very successful with it.’

‘Only faces?’

‘Yes, whether or not we were naked.’

‘So not pornography?’

‘No, only pain.’

‘What a bastard. And the others went along with that? They didn’t object?’

‘No, they all liked keeping a record of what they did to us.’

‘How old is this man?’

‘Not yet forty.’

‘His voice?’

‘Gentle. Pleasant. Only his voice, though.’

‘What else did he say?’

‘Thousands of things.’

‘Such as?’

‘That he’d photograph me as I lay dying.’

‘What did he mean?’

‘Exactly what he said.’

‘He was going to kill you?’

‘He said he’d fuck me up the arse till I died. Then he was going to take a photo of my lips. He thought my lips were very beautiful. He wanted to take pictures of them when I was dead. After he’d fucked me to death, when my lips weren’t touching any longer.’

‘You’re safe here, Dunya.’

‘There’s nothing left of me.’

‘I’m so sorry about it all. But I’m so glad that you got away, that you’re here.’

‘It’s because of me that you’re on your own now.’

‘They killed him, you didn’t.’

‘Do you believe me now?’

‘Yes. I’ll look after you, Dunya.’

Blum took Dunya in her arms. No one in the world needed her more than Dunya; no one was more helpless, more wounded, had more tears. Suddenly there was no room left for Blum’s own grief, only this woman, ragged and wounded. Dunya was trembling all over, fear dripped from every word she said. Blum held her firmly. Dunya whimpered. Then, still trembling, she fell asleep.

Blum is on the motorbike; she has to find the photographer. He is one of the five men who are guilty of Mark’s death. And he is the key that will open the door to the truth. Mark had started a stone rolling and the stone had rolled over him. It was no coincidence, Dunya said. The Rover was no coincidence. Mark had to die, he had tracked down the man with the camera, the man who had pressed the shutter thousands of times. This man had recorded the horror for five years, recorded their despair in print, and that was evidence. Evidence that Dunya didn’t have. The horror urges Blum on. Never mind how fast she rides, she can’t escape it.

Along the mountain road at a hundred and sixty kph. She feels no fear, only rage. No fear of death, no fear of those men, only hatred and the road beneath her, the tyres and all that lies ahead. What lies behind her is Mark, and everything they did to Dunya. Blum will find them. Blum will find out who was driving that Rover. She won’t stop asking questions, she will dig her teeth into her quarry and refuse to let go.

Blum rides into Sölden. The hotels are closed for the summer. Where crowds will be thronging the pavements in winter, all is quiet now. Like many other resorts in the Tyrol, this village only comes alive in the ski season. However hard they try to attract summer tourists, the streets stay empty. Many hoteliers would rather close than cook for a mere handful of people. Sölden is a Mecca for skiing, and for some years now a destination for rich Russians. But there’s no trace of them today, no golden ski-suits, no three-figure tips, no après-ski bars with music and people getting drunk. Only grass on the pistes, only empty eyesores as far as the eye can see, hiding the mountains. Closed bars, signs pointing to hotels with names suggesting mountain views and Alpine flowers: the Alpenblick, Edelweiss, Bergblick, Alpenrose, Felseneck, Zirbenhof, Lerchenhof, Rosenhof. And then the Annenhof, behind the car park for the ski lift. How abandoned it all is, how dismal. She tries to imagine living here, waiting for winter, living only half a life. The two hill walkers coming towards Blum look lost but then she sees them go up steps – to the Annenhof, one of the few hotels still open. The hotel where it all began. Blum parks the bike. She goes through the lobby to the bar. First she’ll try the waiter. She’ll talk to him casually over a beer, maybe flirt with him. Whatever it takes. Blum isn’t going to leave this hotel until she knows more. Blum wants gossip, rumour, she wants a look behind the scenes. That’s where you find things out, Mark always said. She sits down with a smile at the empty bar and orders. She feels almost as though she’s alone in the hotel. The waiter is polishing glasses; there’s nothing for him to do but talk to Blum about the past.

‘A beer, please.’

‘A large one?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Come far, have you?’

‘Just a little round trip.’

‘Pretty, isn’t it?’

‘You think so?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘No.’

‘What are you doing here, then?’

‘What are
you
doing here? You sound as if you come from the east of Germany. That’s not exactly round the corner.’

‘There’s work here. And I get to serve pretty ladies like you.’

‘Why, thank you.’

‘You’re welcome. And by the way, the beer’s from there too.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘The boss is from the east.’

‘In the olden days the Germans were guests here.’

‘They still are.’

‘Ah, but now they get served by Germans.’

‘So?’

‘Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad you have work and I’m glad you’re here. I’m just surprised there aren’t any Tyroleans wanting the jobs these days.’

‘It was the same before.’

‘Was it, now?’

‘Eastern Europeans used to work here. There weren’t many Tyroleans around the place, even before.’

‘Eastern Europeans?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Working legally?’

‘No.’

‘Illegals?’

‘Among other things, that’s why this place was closed down.’

‘Is that right?’

‘No idea. I mean, what does a guy from the east of Germany know? I wasn’t even here at the time.’

‘I like guys from the east of Germany.’

‘Hey, you’re a funny lady.’

‘Am I?’

‘And you look damn good.’

‘And you’re chatting up a guest.’

‘What else is there for me to do?’

‘How long have you been here, then?’

‘Three years.’

‘Then you didn’t work for the old boss?’

‘No, none of us here now did. They changed the whole staff. I suppose they wanted a fresh start.’

‘That’s a pity. I need to talk to someone who worked here five years ago.’

‘Why?’

‘I was in love with a waiter at the time. Only I didn’t realise until too late, and now I don’t know where to find him.’

‘Very romantic.’

‘Yes, isn’t it? I wonder if you can help me. Who might know him? Did any locals work here? There must be someone who knows the waiters from back then.’

‘Seems like the hotel was swept clean overnight. Three-quarters of the staff weren’t properly registered back then. The old boss didn’t take that stuff so seriously.’

‘I heard he’s in local government now.’

‘So I heard. Sounds like he got out just at the right time. An investor from the east made him an offer, and it was all signed and sealed in no time. I reckon this man Schönborn had so many skeletons in his cupboard he couldn’t stay here. They might even have locked him up. So he bolted.’

‘That’s what they say about him in the village, do they?’

‘Exactly.’

‘And what else?’

‘Nothing I’d bet a single cent on, it’s probably all nonsense spread by the former doorman here, who hasn’t a good word to say about Schönborn. What’s more, the old doorman drinks a fair bit, so no one really believes him. All nonsense, like I said. So I prefer to keep my mouth shut and stick to the facts.’

‘What was he saying?’

‘No idea, you’ll have to ask him yourself. But watch out. The man’s not quite right in the head. He used to drink here a lot, so I knew what he was like. Always shooting his mouth off, thought Schönborn was responsible for the mess he’d made of his life. If he’d had things his own way he’d have been managing the hotel by now. Had ideas above his station, poor bloke.’

‘I’d like to talk to him.’

‘Maybe you’d better not. If he ever knew where your boyfriend went, you can bet he’ll have forgotten it by now.’

‘But it’s worth a try, don’t you think?’

‘Not if you’re going to leave me here all alone.’

‘Sorry, darling.’

‘Ah, you’re cruel. You can’t just walk out on me like that.’

Blum smiles and gets to her feet. She goes out round the back to the staff hostel, where she pictures three people being loaded into a car unseen, in the middle of the night. A robbery of humans in paradise, a plunge from heaven to hell. Blum plans to find out where that hell is. She gets on her motorbike and rides away.

He lives in a room on the first floor. The building is so shabby, she struggles to find the entrance amid the rubbish. She goes up a crumbling flight of outside steps and knocks. There’s a light on, he’s there, she can hear him, but all the same it is some time before he comes to the door. Blum has nothing to lose; she feels curious, she wants to know what the man has to say. Anything is better than turning round and going home, even this gnarled man and his schnapps; the devilish faces everywhere.

His name is Sebastian Hackspiel. Blum sits opposite him on a decrepit old sofa. She has made her way through the room, forcing down feelings of disgust and sitting where he suggests. Call me Hackspiel. He didn’t waste much time asking what she wanted, he merely opened the door, and she followed him down the corridor to the back room. In her professional life Blum has seen a great many things, she has been in hundreds of homes to collect bodies, time and again she has entered rooms no one had prepared, time and again she has seen other people’s lives plain and unvarnished. But the spectacle of Sebastian Hackspiel’s life is in a class of its own. This house, this room, the masks on the walls, the wrinkled little man holding his woodcarver’s knife. There are wood shavings everywhere, pots of paint, brushes, knives, wood, cigarette butts. And bottles emptied of beer and schnapps. He asks her,
Like a drink?
Blum smiles and says yes. Without thinking she empties the glass, and watches him pour her another.

‘You’ve come for a devil?’

‘No.’

‘Bad luck, lass, I only carve devils.’

‘I’d like to talk to you about the Annenhof.’

‘A good devil is the only right sort. A good mouth, wide open, with a proper tongue and well-carved horns. That’s a proper devil, that is.’

‘I like your artworks.’

‘It’s not artworks, they’re devils.’

‘I like your devils.’

‘They’re good devils. Hand-crafted, see what I mean? I pour all my love into them. My heart in every devil.’

‘I can see that.’

‘So you want to talk about the Annenhof? Why?’

‘Because my husband is dead.’

‘And that’s the fault of the Annenhof?’

‘In a way.’

‘Well, I’m sorry about that. About your husband, I mean. Being dead. What do you want to know, lass?’

‘Everything. What happened back before the hotel changed ownership. Work done on the side, illegal immigrants.’

‘How do you know about that?’

‘A woman who used to be on the staff told me.’

‘Who?’

‘Her name is Dunya. A Moldavian.’

‘Don’t know her. There were so many of them, the whole staff hostel was full of foreigners.’

‘Maybe you would remember her, though. She’s pretty. Black hair, dark eyes, about five foot four. She shared a room with a girl called Ilena. Another Moldavian.’

‘I never paid attention to the names, lass. I had enough to do looking after the place.’

‘But you knew they were illegals?’

‘Sure.’

‘And you didn’t say anything.’

‘Schönborn paid us well to keep quiet.’

‘Us?’

‘All of us who knew about it. That was still a lot cheaper than if he’d registered all those gippos as hotel staff. They worked for peanuts, they were glad to be here in our beautiful Tyrol. They were good and kept quiet and lived in the staff hostel.’

‘You reported Schönborn to the police. Why?’

‘Because he dropped me like a hot potato, he sold the place to a German and scarpered.’

‘And you thought he owed you something?’

‘I always kept my mouth shut, I did everything for that dickhead. Then he hands me five hundred euros and waves goodbye.’

‘That wasn’t enough?’

‘It was a joke. The cheek of it! A humiliation. I always covered his back. The show wouldn’t have gone on without me.’

‘You were the life and soul of the Annenhof?’

‘Correct.’

‘So you aided and abetted him?’

‘So what if I did?’

‘Why did you do it?’

‘For the money. Look at this place.’

‘And what about the illegals?’

‘They were all well off here, far better off than where they came from. They even had their own pool.’

‘Hackspiel?’

‘What?’

‘Give me another schnapps.’

‘As many as you like, lass.’

‘I’m not here to judge you.’

‘I should think not.’

‘I’m here because I absolutely have to know more about that hotel.’

‘It’ll cost you.’

‘How much?’

‘Two hundred.’

‘Is what you know worth that?’

‘You bet.’

‘Well then, cheers. And start talking.’

‘It’s delicate.’

‘You should be able to get over your inhibitions for two hundred euros.’

‘Right: even if the pigs don’t want to hear it, Schönborn was running a knocking-shop in the cellar.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. A brothel. For fucking tarts. I told you it was delicate, lass.’

‘A brothel?’

‘Officially it was massages only.’

‘But?’

‘But it was a high-class knocking-shop. Top quality, understand?’

‘You went there?’

‘I’m afraid not. Beyond my means. But the women were the best. The guests spent a fortune down there.’

‘Down where?’

‘In the wellness rooms.’

‘Says who?’

‘I do.’

‘And who else?’