The wind whipped through the loose tarps on the scaffolding like through a sail, fluttering, hissing, impatient.
In front of the duplex on the quiet side street in Devin, it still bloomed despite the construction: yellow daylilies stretched between pink spirea, in a small bed lavender glowed, and beside it a low shrub with deep red leaves that in the morning light looked almost black.
A makeshift path of wooden planks cut across the garden, splattered with drops of paint. In front of the steps lay stacked bags of filler, paint buckets, open boxes of screws, and two rolled extension cords. The wide stairs were partly covered in plastic sheeting dusted with fine white powder.
A construction worker stepped out of the open door, a level tucked under his arm, chewing on a roll. He barely glanced at Katja and Sven.
“I’ll say it again, Katja,” Sven muttered, stopping short of the entrance. “We’re doing this on our own. This is not an official investigation.”
Katja raised one eyebrow, pushed the door open wider, and stepped in without hesitation.
“Sonja Volkmar?” she called. “Mrs. Volkmar, hello?”
Sven sighed. “Of course.”
The whine of a drill echoed through the house, followed by a thud and a muffled curse. A woman appeared on the landing above, early sixties, lean, cropped modern haircut, hands on her hips, gaze skeptical.
“If you’re selling something, I don’t need it. Goodbye.”
She was about to turn when Katja took a few steps farther inside. “We’re from the police, Mrs. Volkmar. It’s about your daughter.”
The woman stopped. Lines drew tight across her forehead. Katja reached into her jacket, pulled out her badge, and held it up.
Sven shifted half a step back. “Katja…” he hissed.
“I know,” she murmured without looking at him. “But what else was I supposed to do?”
Mrs. Volkmar stared first at the badge, then at Katja’s face. For a moment only the drill filled the silence. Then she gave a curt nod, pulled a key from her pocket, and led them back through the garden to the other half of the house. She unlocked the door and held it open.
Katja and Sven stepped into the hallway. “Exactly what I was afraid of,” Sven muttered.
“I had no choice,” Katja whispered. “It’ll be fine.”
The second half of the house was smaller, darker, but tidy. A raincoat hung by the door, an old mirror with a blind corner hung on the wall. The air smelled of floral water, dust, and absence.
“The neighbors are in Tenerife,” Mrs. Volkmar said flatly. “I have the key and I water for them. Mornings and evenings I raise and lower the shutters. Keeps burglars away.” She set a watering can from the right windowsill to the left, then crossed her arms. “So what do you want from me?”
Katja took a step forward. “It’s about your daughter Elin.”
A flicker crossed the woman’s face. She jerked her chin toward the kitchen. “Come.”
A small, bright room. Checkered curtains, tiled counter, round wooden table. Pots of herbs lined the window ledge. Mrs. Volkmar sat down heavily. “Sit.”
Katja took the chair opposite. Sven leaned his cane against the table, slid his chair back a little.
“My daughter was sick,” the woman began after a moment. “Very sick. Autoimmune hepatitis. It destroyed her liver. There was no cure, no hope. I cared for her as best I could.” She drew a deep breath. “Her father had the same illness. They say it’s not directly hereditary, but the risk was there. We stopped with one child, hoping it would be spared. Both fell ill as adults. Elin was already a mother when we learned what it was.”
Sven rolled his cane between his fingers. “And the father of her children?”
“She never told. Elin was… wild in her younger years. We lived in fear of a call from the police. When she was twenty-two, it came. She was at a protest in Berlin, threw a stone, and hit a policeman—unluckily. After that she calmed down, studied social work, had her girls. She wanted no man, but two children, absolutely. She moved with them to Frankenstraße. Vegan, cargo bike instead of car, all the alternative lifestyle. She drifted far from us.”
She turned a small vase of artificial flowers in her hands. “Only when her father was dying did she set foot in this house again. Later, when she herself was sick, she came back with the girls. I took her in, cared for her to the end, just as I did for her father. A week ago we buried her. In the forest cemetery on Rügen.”
Katja nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“So what do you want from me, then?”
Katja glanced at Sven, then back at her. “A few days ago a woman was found on Rügen. She calls herself Sina. DNA analysis: identical with Elin.”
Mrs. Volkmar blinked. A fine tremor ran through her hands. “What…?”
“We don’t know,” Katja said softly. “Maybe a mistake. Maybe more. But this woman is alive.”
The mother pressed her palms flat against the table. “That’s not possible. We buried her!”
“Would you look at a photo?”
“No!” Her voice nearly broke. “I have plenty of pictures of my daughter. But what you’re saying—that’s madness.”
Her breath came in gasps. “I saw her. Skin and bones, her face yellow, her eyes burnt out. Our family doctor confirmed her death. I was there when the undertaker laid her in the pink coffin. I watched them close it. I held the urn in my own hands.”
Her fingers clawed into the checkered tablecloth, as if she had to hold on or be swept away. “Elin was dead,” she said harshly. “Is dead! How dare you bring such obscenity to a grieving mother?”
The words hung in the air like a knife.
Sven stared out the window. Katja saw the struggle in his face. The ticking of the kitchen clock grew unbearable. “I understand,” Katja said gently. “But that’s what we’re trying to find out—whether it’s a mistake, or something else. Would you still be so kind as to tell us about Elin’s final days?”
The mother swallowed, then went on quietly. “At the end, she hardly spoke. But she set everything in order. She quit her job. Apparently she had taken out an insurance policy years ago. Two hundred and fifty thousand euros. The money is supposed to be in my account within days. Part for me, the rest in trust for the girls.”
Katja drew in a sharp breath. “And how exactly did she die?”
“At home. She wanted to die here. In those last days, two men came, Lars and Felix they called themselves, I only knew their first names. They were hospice volunteers. Elin was glad to see them. After that she seemed calmer, almost at peace. But suddenly she collapsed. The evening she died, I was only in the kitchen for a moment. When I came back, she was gone. Quietly. No struggle. Lars and Felix were with her until the end.”
“And the funeral home?”
“Elin had arranged that herself, given me the number. ‘Call only them,’ she said. Everything was paid. She wanted a pink coffin. Lars kindly phoned our doctor. Dr. Crämer came straight away and confirmed the death. She was taken in a pink coffin, as she wished, and cremated two weeks later.”
Sven leaned forward. “Did anyone see Elin after her death?”
“No. She had expressly ordered no open coffin. I… I accepted it. She wanted it over quickly.”
Katja leaned back, her mind racing. Hospice volunteers. An unknown funeral home. A pink coffin. An insurance payout. The mother’s last sight had been of a pink coffin, not her daughter.
She thought of Faris. He too had slipped away, silent, leaving no trace. His wife had said nothing of him remained. As if someone wanted to sever the dying from the living.
“Mrs. Volkmar,” Katja said at last, “have you ever considered that perhaps not everything was as it seemed?”
The woman held her gaze for a long moment before turning away. “I don’t want to think about it. If Elin still lives, she lied to us. And if not… then you’re speaking to a ghost.”
Katja let the silence stand. Then she shifted back to formality. “For your information, the fraud division will be taking over now.”
A twitch crossed the mother’s face. She rose, drew herself as straight as she could, laid her hands on the table, and looked Katja directly in the eye. “Let them come. I have a good lawyer.”