“You have to believe me. I saw her.”
Pastor Bernhard stood in the pale glow of a lantern, the collar of his dark red robe crooked, his hands nervously twisted together. His eyes searched for support in Chief Inspector Katja Sommer. He pointed toward the bushes, where nothing stirred.
“That’s why I called you. But maybe she’s already gone.”
Fear and curiosity fought in his eyes as he tried to make something out behind Katja.
“Slow down, Pastor. What exactly did you see?”
Katja followed his gaze. The cemetery lay still. Only the muffled crunch of two officers’ footsteps could be heard as they moved with flashlights in the direction the pastor had indicated.
“A woman. Maybe a young girl. Pale as death, her skin an odd color. Dirty, short blond hair. She wore something like a…”
He searched for the word.
“…a torn linen cloth, and she staggered among the graves. But without a sound. And then…”
His voice dropped as he stared into the darkness over Katja’s shoulder.
“…then she was simply gone. Maybe drunk. Maybe abducted. Who can say.”
Katja glanced at Sven, who stood beside her, leaning on his cane. She raised her hand briefly to signal him to wait.
“When exactly was this?”
“Just before I called you. I had already been asleep, but Ludwig, the dachshund of a parishioner, escaped again and woke me. He likes to come here and bark at the graves. Preferably at night.”
Katja checked her watch: 3:32.
“I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I went down and chased Ludwig off. Then I wanted to pray in the chapel, it usually helps. That’s when I heard a voice. It called a name… Matthes, I think. Yes, Matthes!”
One of the officers came running, his breath steaming in the cold night air.
“We’ve got a body. And a woman in complete shock.”
“Oh God, oh God!” Pastor Bernhard crossed himself, and the lantern light glistened on the sweat of his brow. “A corpse! In my cemetery!”
“I’m Chief Inspector Sven Widahn, colleague and husband of Katja Sommer.”
Sven leaned on his cane, his eyes following Katja for a moment as she disappeared among the crooked gravestones. Then he turned back to the pastor.
“Please go inside. An officer will take your statement shortly.”
The pastor nodded quickly, set off, and despite his cozy frame his steps scurried over the gravel like a startled weasel. The crunch of his shoes faded swiftly into the damp darkness of the rectory garden.
Katja stood before the body. Beneath a gnarled tree, on the cold ground, he lay naked on his back. His head was turned to the side, eyes closed. No blood, no visible injuries, no weapon.
“Ulrich and Konrad should be here any minute.”
Sven stepped up beside her.
Katja nodded, relieved. Sven, Dr. Ulrich Majonika the pathologist, Konrad Vohwinkel the forensics chief, and she herself were a seasoned team. They had examined far too many victims together on Rügen, Hiddensee, and in Stralsund. And right now, that was exactly what she needed: a good team.
“Look there.”
Katja’s voice was barely more than a whisper. She pointed at a figure standing a few meters away in the beam of a flashlight, guarded by a uniformed officer. Small, frail, blond hair tied back in a short braid at the nape of her neck, her face dirty, her clothing nothing but rags.
How had no one noticed her on the island? In this well-kept vacation idyll, she seemed as if she had fallen from another world.
The woman stood still, lost, only her eyes moving, slim, clear, blue eyes, unreal in this setting.
“Have you seen her before?” Katja asked the officers.
They shook their heads.
“And what about her?” Sven asked quietly, following Katja a few steps closer. “Did she find the body?”
“She fell right onto him, literally,” Katja said shortly. “Came out of the bushes back there.”
Katja sought the woman’s eyes. She had seen many gazes before: shock, feigned horror, cold curiosity. This one was different. The woman’s eyes darted, as if she were in a foreign, unreal world.
Dr. Majonika joined them. “He’s not from here.”
“What do you mean?” Sven asked.
The doctor pulled off his gloves. “Skin tone, hair structure. Southeast Asian, I’d say.”
“A refugee?” Sven looked at him.
“No idea.”
Katja looked back at the woman. “I can’t imagine she has anything to do with it. Signs of violence?”
“Nothing obvious. The only strange thing is that he’s unclothed. I’ll know more when he’s on the table.”
Katja turned to her husband. “Think she was in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“Think? No. But I’m not sure. A chance encounter between a naked corpse and a distraught woman in foul-smelling rags? Not a coincidence.”
They walked together toward the woman. The night smelled of wet leaves and cold stone; somewhere, water dripped on metal.
“Are you in pain?” Katja asked. She knew how much Sven hated to accept help from her.
“I’ll manage,” he said, trying to keep pace with her. “So? Has she spoken?”
The uniformed officer never let the stranger out of his sight. “Not yet.”
“Crazy?” Sven asked, circling once around the woman and the officer at a respectful distance.
“Or traumatized.”
Katja stepped closer. The woman did not move back.
“I’m Katja Sommer, criminal police. Do you know how you came here?”
No response.
“What’s your name?”
Nothing.
“Did you know the man?”
A barely perceptible breath.
Sven pulled a bag of candies from his pocket, offered everyone a sweet. “Could be drugs. Or shock. Or maybe she just fell from the sky.”
The officer took one. The strange woman didn’t even look.
The smell coming from her was a mixture of hay, dried blood, animal waste or feces, and urine. Katja laid her jacket over the woman’s shoulders. The fabric sank onto her, and she seemed to breathe in the scent deeply, as if she wanted to hold on to it.
“We’re taking her to Stralsund,” Katja said softly.
Konrad arrived with swabs. “Yes, but DNA first.”
The woman seized Katja’s arm, clung tight. Her fingers were ice cold.
“Leave it,” Katja said. “Later.”
“Katja, please. Rules are rules.”
“I’ll take responsibility.”
They led the woman toward the patrol car. Suddenly she resisted, screamed, eyes wide, clutching Katja even harder.
“She’s losing it!” an officer shouted, trying to restrain her.
“Leave her with me.”
Katja turned with the woman still gripping her arm and walked back to the graves.
Sven tapped his cane on the ground. “I don’t intend to spend the rest of the night here.”
Katja laid a hand briefly on his arm. “Konrad, you know Marit Nyborg well. Please call her. She lives nearby.”
Konrad pulled out his phone and stepped aside.
“I’ll sit in the car for a bit,” Sven muttered.
Katja stayed with the woman. “What’s your name?”
“Marit is on her way!” Konrad called.
The stranger opened her mouth, stared at Katja helplessly. “Why am I in hell?”
Katja and Konrad exchanged a look. Something in her voice sent a shiver down their spines.
What have they done to you, girl?