“Go on, then.”
“Do you know who took Liam to scout camp after the supposed kidnapping?”
“Yes.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Certainly not.”
Rita Skura sucks air through her teeth. The hissing sounds like a false bottom being moved aside. The conversation stagnates, while her good mood changes into its opposite.
“Then say who it is,” she finally huffs.
“Oskar.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it’s the truth. How about you?”
“My people were in Gwiggen.”
The detective can’t help smiling. He knows that the role of Rita’s “people” is played by Senior Policeman Schnurpfeil.
“I received a description from Gwiggen. It matches a photo in the murderer’s desk drawer.”
“What were you doing in Sebastian’s desk?” the detective asks sharply.
“A search,” Rita says. “That tried-and-tested tool of police investigations.”
“For God’s sake! Why don’t you just stop this nonsense and leave him in peace?”
“It’s perfectly simple, Schilf. He killed a man.”
“He’s confessed.”
“I’m looking for a motive.”
“Then you can call me!”
Startled by the loudness of his own voice, Schilf claps a hand over his mouth. Carefully, he leans over the balustrade. No one looks up at him. The two people he would like to corner are standing in front of a glass case containing globes of various sizes. A pyramid-shaped piece has been cut from each, revealing the colorful stripes inside.
“I’m not calling with questions anymore,” Rita says, “but with answers.”
When the two people turn away from the display case, Schilf lifts his gaze to the solar system hanging from steel cables in the middle of the foyer, turning like a giant mobile. Schilf envies the drive toward orderliness that keeps the planets on course. He has looked up the second law of thermodynamics on the Internet: In any system chaos increases constantly unless immense amounts of energy are used to stop it. Schilf has clearly not had enough energy even to protect Sebastian from Rita’s search. His apartment must look as if a tornado had passed through.
“Anyway,” he says, “I’m happy that you finally believe it.”
“Believe what?”
When Schilf’s targets stop in front of the next display case, a spotlight casts a halo of light around their blond hair. Two angels striding through space, the detective thinks.
“That you finally believe in the blackmail.”
“For goodness’ sake.” The cheerful Rita has disappeared. It is the police officer who is talking: cool, unscrupulous, and efficient. “You don’t seem to be up to speed. This Oskar person who brought the kidnapped boy to Gwiggen is Sebastian’s best friend.”
“The stuff of Greek tragedy,” Schilf says.
“I call that being an accessory to murder, and very clever, too. The professor has to get rid of a rival. His friend fakes a blackmail. Much better than a shaky alibi. I knew from the start that this was a crime of passion.”
“And that’s why you proceeded from the opposite of this conviction, right?”
“In any case,” Rita says, “crimes of passion are terrific. Crimes of passion have nothing to do with the hospital scandal.”
“Listen to me!”
The panic that the detective has made such an effort to suppress bursts forth so strongly that Rita falls silent for a moment. Schilf leans his forehead against a sandstone pillar and forces himself to speak quietly.
“You’re right, it could have happened that way. But I swear to you, Rita, that it didn’t.”
“Schilf …”
“It was a silly boy’s prank, thought up by a particularly dangerous boy. It was a great love, the Many-Worlds theory, and a masterwork by the most ruthless criminal that exists on this earth: coincidence. So ruthless that I prefer not to believe in him.”
“Detective Schilf?” Rita says. “Are you listening to yourself? Silly boy? Great love? Coincidence?”
“I can explain it all,” the detective whispers.
The little angel has reached out an arm, and his fingertips follow the lines of text on a board. He is saying something. The grown-up nods.
“I’ll bring the person who is the real culprit to you. He’ll confess. You can tell the powers that be that the case has been solved. Stop trying to beat me, Rita—help me!”
“But what are you expecting me to do, Schilf?” Rita cries.
The detective holds the phone away from his ear so that he can dry his forehead and cheeks. There is a ripple of movement below. The first few people are walking toward the stairs. Schilf bends down and picks up the briefcase wedged between his feet.