The Vanishing of Katharina Linden

“Your boyfriend, eh?” Before I could say anything, she was shaking her head. “I’m sorry, dear. It’s much too expensive.” She gave me a conciliatory smile. “You’ll have to write back to him. That’s what your Grandpa Warner and I always did, you know.”

“Um.” I shrugged. Nowadays, of course, I might have e-mailed him. But in 1999 the technology in Oma Warner’s house did not even extend to a dishwasher. A public call box was no good either: a single international call would have taken more than the entire contents of my purse. That left only one option.

Chapter Twenty-five

Stefan?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s me, Pia.”

“Pia? Are you back?”

“No, I’m calling from my Oma’s house.”

“In England?”

“Yes…” I paused. “She doesn’t know. I can’t stay on the phone for very long in case she comes back.”

Stefan whistled. “What’s she going to-”

“Never mind that,” I snapped back in an urgent whisper; even though I had seen Oma Warner depart with my own eyes, I still felt as though I had to keep my voice down. “I got your letter. What’s been going on? What’s this stuff about Herr Duster?”

“Oh, that was crazy. There’ve been rumors going around about Herr Duster for ages, ever since he got picked up in that police car. It seems like someone has been stirring them up again-”

Frau Kessel, I thought sourly.

“-and, anyway, a whole group of people went to his house and were shouting at him to come out and explain himself.”

“Did you see it?”

“Nee. Boris was there, though.”

“Boris thinks Herr Duster did it too?”

“No, Boris just thought it was cool to be there, and see what they did.” That made sense; terrorizing an old man who was outnumbered ten to one sounded just Boris’s style.

“Did he come out? Herr Duster, I mean.”

“No. I mean, would you? But he was definitely in there, Boris said; they saw him looking out the window.”

“Who was there?”

“Well, apart from Boris… Jorg Koch was there, and he said Herr Linden, you know, Katharina’s father, he was there as well. But I don’t know who else. He said Herr Linden was knocking on the door and shouting at Herr Duster to come out. Herr Linden said if he had nothing to do with it, he had nothing to be afraid of.” Stefan paused, thinking. “Then I think the police came.”

“Who called them?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Herr Duster did. But he still didn’t come out, even when they arrived. It was Herr Wachtmeister Tondorf, and the other one, the younger one.”

“What did they do?” I had visions of Herr Wachtmeister Tondorf laying into Boris with a club, and Herr Linden shouting about his daughter, and trying to beat down the door…

“Just talked to them.”

“What did they say?” I couldn’t make this out at all.

“I don’t really know… Boris heard it, but he was mostly just annoyed that they didn’t make Herr Duster come out or anything.” That I could imagine; Boris would have loved the ensuing row. “I think they said it wasn’t him.” Stefan paused. “Then Jorg Koch shouted why did they arrest him before, if it wasn’t him?”

“And?”

“Herr Wachtmeister Tondorf said they didn’t arrest him, but it was confidential, you know, they can’t say anything.”

“They did arrest him, though, didn’t they?” I said. “Frau Koch saw it.”

“Yeah, I know it doesn’t make sense,” agreed Stefan. “I’m just telling you what Boris said. Anyway, then Herr Wachtmeister Tondorf said they had to go home and stop bothering Herr Duster because he was ill. He said they should leave it to the police.”

“Did they just go?” I asked. It was hard to imagine the bereaved father and the local bullyboys departing like lambs when they had heard about Herr Duster’s supposed ill health.

“Well, Boris said they gave Herr Wachtmeister Tondorf a hard time back, told him what could he expect if the police didn’t catch the person who was taking all these kids, and a load of stuff like that. But you know Boris.”

“Doch,” I agreed. I thought for a moment. “Has anything else happened?”

“What, you mean, has anyone else disappeared? No. I wish Thilo Koch would, but no such luck.”

We both laughed. “They haven’t found Marion Voss?”

“No.”

“Have you seen Herr Schiller?” I asked, hoping a little jealously that he would say no.

“Yeah, I saw him a couple of days ago. He told me this really cool story about some treasure. He said when the town got attacked the nuns hid all the treasure, and so far nobody’s found it. It could still be somewhere in the town, millions of marks’ worth of it-well, thousands, anyway. Herr Schiller says-”

“Stefan, I have to go.” I dared not stay any longer on the phone; every minute racked up a further enormity on Oma Warner’s telephone bill, and a greater risk of discovery. “Can you call me if anything else happens?”

“I’ll try,” said Stefan, and I had to be content with that.

Chapter Twenty-six

The summer vacation, seemingly interminable, finally came to an end. My much-loathed cousins Chloe and Charles came to Oma Warner’s house for the afternoon, ostensibly to bid me a fond farewell, though there was no affection wasted between us. Oma Warner sent us into the garden to play so that she could drink tea with Aunt Liz. As usual, we went down to the bottom of the garden to climb up the railings and watch the trains speeding by on their way to London.

There was just enough room on the one stretch of railings not obscured by bushes for us all to squeeze in if we squashed up together. Charles and Chloe, first to climb up, did not want to squash together with me. I tried to climb up anyway, just to annoy them; there was a short struggle and Chloe fell off, with an affected shriek.

“You did that on purpose,” said Charles, and gave me an almighty shove with his meaty hand, intending to push me into the dust, quantities of which his sister was now brushing off her pink sweater with disgust. I hung on for grim death, and then I kicked him in the shins.

“Fuck, fuck,” he squealed, then he flung himself upon me and began prizing my fingers off the railings.

I tried to kick him again, missed, let go of the railings, and slid down to the ground. Undeterred, I gave him some of his own medicine. “Fuck away!” I hissed, taking a swipe at him with my open hand.

“Fuck away?” Charles laughed contemptuously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She means fuck off,” supplied Chloe. They looked at each other and laughed theatrically.

“Can’t she speak English?”

“No, she can’t.”