Free Tretjak by Max Landorff Page A

have to put up with the telephone for now.’
    â€˜No, I don’t want to do that.’
    â€˜I am away on official business, you know,’ he said. ‘I don’t know when I’ll be back.’
    There was a pause. Maler believed that he could hear the tax inspector breathing despite the engine noise. ‘Maybe you could call me when you get back,’ she finally said and then hung up.
    Maler briefly contemplated calling her back to get her to reveal her information straight away, but then decided against it. As an investigating policeman one got these kind of calls quite often, and in the end they were often worthless, revealing more about the psyche of the caller than contributing to the solution of the case.
    He wanted to concentrate on driving now. He was soon going to leave the motorway. Next to him, on the passenger seat, was the new edition of Psychology Journal . He had bought it at the central station before he left. The lead story was entitled: Can the soul be reprogrammed, Professor Kufner?
    A word was nagging Maler, it had taken hold of his thoughts during the drive. The inspector from Bozen had not used that particular word when he had informed him late last night about the murder of Norbert Kufner, Professor of Psychology, in the hotel Zum blauen Mondschein. The reason the policeman from Italy had contacted his colleague in Munich had all to do with the distinctiveness of the body, was all down to the eyes of the dead man. Police forces all over Europe had been looking out for this particular feature since the day before yesterday. And it was that feature which had conjured up these words in Maler’s brain. And now they were stuck there: ice cream scoop.
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    Kochel am See, 5pm
    What a beautiful picture, down there on the terrace. The beautiful mother, the pretty son. She was drinking an espresso and a glass of dark sherry, he a coke, a real one, as he said, nothing light, nada zero. They chatted and laughed, and seemed very relaxed.
    He was talking about what he wanted to be when he grew up. He wanted to do something useful, maybe a development worker, he said. Maybe go to Africa. Somewhere where he could help people. He was enjoying the sound of his own voice, as he often did. He didn’t want to be like the others, he wanted to do something which really made a difference. He wanted to make the world a better place. He knew, he said, that he was a very special human being, a very sensitive human being.
    The way he talked, sitting on the terrace, was the same way many other young people talked as well. And on that day his mother was not in the mood to contradict him. She simply did not want to think about the advice she had received from his therapists: ‘You should make sure that each conversation with your son is structured, has a beginning and an end. And most importantly, make sure that in the end it is clear how the next conversation will continue on from the one just completed. You have to construct with your son a conversational net, which holds him up.’ The last therapist who had said this to her had been short and fat, with a strikingly oily complexion. At least for this one moment, the guy could take a hike as far as she was concerned. She was happy about the friendly atmosphere. She was happy that Lars was not getting on her nerves. The sherry was helping a bit as well, she liked its first, subtle effect. It made one a little more forgiving towards the rest of the world. And in a way, her son belonged to that rest of the world as well.
    They remembered joint holidays, the long drives to their destinations. She had always packed a suitcase full of surprises for him, full of small presents. For the holiday, for the drive. ‘My favourite holiday,’ said Lars, ‘was Corsica.’ And the long ferry ride. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that was nice.’ That was how the conversation bobbed along. ‘Remember?’ ‘Yes.’ The yellow