1952 on and worked as a seamstress.”
“But . . . how come the police didn’t find that out at the time?”
There was a short laugh at the other end of the line. “They weren’t as connected up as they are now. Besides, I assume they were looking for Therese Peters.”
Rita thought about the police having given up the search after only two months.
The silence at the other end of the line told her Köbler had not yet finished. She collected herself and granted her old friend his moment of triumph, one she knew well herself—the moment one knew one had discovered something decisive.
“Listen, will you cut me in if you sell the story well?”
She hesitated. “Yes, fine by me.”
“Shall we say twenty percent?”
Rita swallowed audibly. She knew the information was worth something if he was making demands like this.
“Ten,” she countered.
His silence made her nervous.
At last he spoke again. “Okay, ten. So, this Therese Pohl married again in 1956. So, if your information is correct, we’re talking bigamy, right?”
She was momentarily disappointed. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she said weakly. “Nobody will give a damn about that anymore, especially as Wilhelm Peters was registered as missing and the marriage could have been annulled easily.”
And then he said, “Yes, yes, that’s right, but Therese Pohl didn’t marry just anyone. She married . . . Tillmann Mende.”
It took Rita several seconds to place the name. “Mende? You mean Mende Fashion?”
“Exactly. Therese Pohl, or Peters, or whatever, is now Therese Mende and one of the most successful businesswomen in the country.”
Rita’s thoughts came thick and fast. Her hunch had been right. This was a story.
“Do you happen to know—”
He interrupted her. “She retired from the business three years ago and now lives in Mallorca.”
“Where in Mallorca?” she asked breathlessly, scribbling Mende and Mall in a notebook.
“We’re still talking ten percent, as agreed? It wasn’t easy to find her address, I can tell you.”
“Of course. Promise,” she confirmed impatiently.
He gave her the address.
“Keep me up to date,” he added.
After she had hung up, she sat quite still for several minutes.
Then she jumped up, pulled the telephone cable out of the socket, plugged in the Internet connection, and keyed in “Mende Fashion.”
Chapter 13
April 22, 1998
Luisa cleared the breakfast table, and Therese, wearing a blue taffeta caftan with matching slim-cut trousers, set off on her daily walk around the bay. The street led steeply downhill past several small hotels, cafés with views, a real estate agent’s office, and a tourist shop. She exchanged a few words in Spanish with the owner of the shop, who was dragging racks of beach toys and postcards out onto the street and complained about the slow start to the season.
The sandy beach was only five hundred yards wide, but there were narrow paths cut into the cliffs to the right and left, and it was possible to walk out at either end and skirt several bays along the water’s edge.
A light breeze had sprung up, and out on the windsurfing school’s platform, beginners in wet suits were struggling with boards and sails. She could hear their shouts and laughter and the rhythmic pounding of the waves. This lightheartedness.
Autumn and winter 1939
The following day Therese had gone to the town hall and asked to see her father.
Herr Grünwald, the policeman, whom she had known since she was a little girl, shook his head as soon as he saw her. He walked her to the door and said, “I’m so sorry, Therese, but there’s nothing I can do. Your father’s in Kleve.” He was about to stroke her cheek, as he used to, but his arm dropped. “It will all be cleared up,” he whispered. “The pastor’s already been, and I heard Colonel Kalder called. I’m sure they’ll release him soon.”
On the third day, she waited for Wilhelm in front of the town hall.
She saw his
“But . . . how come the police didn’t find that out at the time?”
There was a short laugh at the other end of the line. “They weren’t as connected up as they are now. Besides, I assume they were looking for Therese Peters.”
Rita thought about the police having given up the search after only two months.
The silence at the other end of the line told her Köbler had not yet finished. She collected herself and granted her old friend his moment of triumph, one she knew well herself—the moment one knew one had discovered something decisive.
“Listen, will you cut me in if you sell the story well?”
She hesitated. “Yes, fine by me.”
“Shall we say twenty percent?”
Rita swallowed audibly. She knew the information was worth something if he was making demands like this.
“Ten,” she countered.
His silence made her nervous.
At last he spoke again. “Okay, ten. So, this Therese Pohl married again in 1956. So, if your information is correct, we’re talking bigamy, right?”
She was momentarily disappointed. “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she said weakly. “Nobody will give a damn about that anymore, especially as Wilhelm Peters was registered as missing and the marriage could have been annulled easily.”
And then he said, “Yes, yes, that’s right, but Therese Pohl didn’t marry just anyone. She married . . . Tillmann Mende.”
It took Rita several seconds to place the name. “Mende? You mean Mende Fashion?”
“Exactly. Therese Pohl, or Peters, or whatever, is now Therese Mende and one of the most successful businesswomen in the country.”
Rita’s thoughts came thick and fast. Her hunch had been right. This was a story.
“Do you happen to know—”
He interrupted her. “She retired from the business three years ago and now lives in Mallorca.”
“Where in Mallorca?” she asked breathlessly, scribbling Mende and Mall in a notebook.
“We’re still talking ten percent, as agreed? It wasn’t easy to find her address, I can tell you.”
“Of course. Promise,” she confirmed impatiently.
He gave her the address.
“Keep me up to date,” he added.
After she had hung up, she sat quite still for several minutes.
Then she jumped up, pulled the telephone cable out of the socket, plugged in the Internet connection, and keyed in “Mende Fashion.”
Chapter 13
April 22, 1998
Luisa cleared the breakfast table, and Therese, wearing a blue taffeta caftan with matching slim-cut trousers, set off on her daily walk around the bay. The street led steeply downhill past several small hotels, cafés with views, a real estate agent’s office, and a tourist shop. She exchanged a few words in Spanish with the owner of the shop, who was dragging racks of beach toys and postcards out onto the street and complained about the slow start to the season.
The sandy beach was only five hundred yards wide, but there were narrow paths cut into the cliffs to the right and left, and it was possible to walk out at either end and skirt several bays along the water’s edge.
A light breeze had sprung up, and out on the windsurfing school’s platform, beginners in wet suits were struggling with boards and sails. She could hear their shouts and laughter and the rhythmic pounding of the waves. This lightheartedness.
Autumn and winter 1939
The following day Therese had gone to the town hall and asked to see her father.
Herr Grünwald, the policeman, whom she had known since she was a little girl, shook his head as soon as he saw her. He walked her to the door and said, “I’m so sorry, Therese, but there’s nothing I can do. Your father’s in Kleve.” He was about to stroke her cheek, as he used to, but his arm dropped. “It will all be cleared up,” he whispered. “The pastor’s already been, and I heard Colonel Kalder called. I’m sure they’ll release him soon.”
On the third day, she waited for Wilhelm in front of the town hall.
She saw his
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