Free Tretjak by Max Landorff

little about what his clients asked him to do, only the harmless stuff of course. In the end she had said: ‘So you are a fixer...’ And after a while she had added: ‘You know, Mr Tretjak, in the old days you wouldn’t have made a lot of money doing what you are doing. Back then people were too stingy, at least around here. Maybe also there was not so much to fix back then.’ From that day onwards the old farmer’s wife had called him The Fixer.
    Tretjak turned the telescope in the direction of the constellation of Leo, where a particularly bright spot was visible. ‘This is Jupiter,’ he said and looked at his watch. ‘In four minutes you will be able to observe how one of its moons passes in front of it.’
    â€˜In four minutes,’ said Fiona Neustadt. ‘What do we do if it is late?’ She rubbed her hands together for warmth.
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    It was almost three o’clock when Tretjak stopped his car in front of the long-closed ice cream parlour on the Rotkreuzplatz back in Munich. Fiona Neustadt had taken off the fleece and thrown it on the back seat. He admittedly had expected her to lean over to the driver’s seat to kiss him good-bye and thank him. But nothing like that happened. She seemed tired, opened the passenger’s door, and had already set her foot outside the car, when she looked around at him again and said: ‘That was very interesting. I have never seen something like that before. Good night.’ Then the door fell shut and she disappeared through the entrance to one of the apartment buildings. When Tretjak later, back in his garage, folded the fleece to stow it in the boot, he stopped for an instant and smelt it. Grapefruit. No doubt about it.
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    Brenner Pass Highway, 3am
    If there is one argument amongst the people from Munich which will never be resolved conclusively it is the debate over the quickest route when driving to South Tyrol: it is either via the motorway which leads to Salzburg taking the exit to Kufstein, or one takes the motorway in the direction of Garmisch-Partenkirchen and the village of Scharnitz. Inspector Maler belonged to the Garmisch-Partenkirchen faction. In his opinion one reached the Brenner Pass Highway and, over the pass, South Tyrol much faster this way, especially in high travel season.
    Although it was not the peak travel season and he was driving during the night, Maler had chosen his usual route. It was just after three in the morning and the highway was eerily empty. Above the beam of his headlights Maler gazed into a remarkably clear starry sky. He had made good headway, the Zirler Berg and the Brenner Pass both lay behind him. He was already on the Italian motorway, clearly identifiable by the green signs ahead, and had just passed the exit to Brixen when his telephone rang.
    It could only be his office in Munich. Or his colleagues from South Tyrol. One thing was certain: they were going to provide him with new information about the strange body they had discovered. Maler got the phone out of his jacket pocket and held it with his right hand to his ear. He hated car kits.
    â€˜Hello?’
    â€˜Inspector Maler?’ A female voice.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜We met at Gabriel Tretjak’s flat,’ the woman said. ‘I am the tax inspector. Neustadt is my name.’
    Maler took his foot off the accelerator to lower the sound level in the car. The speedometer fell to 120. On the left-hand side the illuminated silhouette of a castle appeared against the backdrop of dark slopes.
    â€˜Yes, Ms Neustadt, I remember.’
    â€˜I want to meet you, Inspector, and tell you something,’ the woman said on the phone.
    Maler looked at the clock in his dashboard. ‘And that is so important that you are calling me at this hour?’
    â€˜I think so. Can we meet?’
    A green sign scurried by. Bolzano/Bozen 45 kilometres .
    â€˜Now?’ asked Maler. ‘I fear that will be impossible. You will