A Paragon of Virtue by Christian von Ditfurth

The carriage door slammed shut and a man walked heavily along the aisle and sat down facing Stachelmann across the table. Stachelmann drew the essay closer to him. Wheezing as if his throat was constricted, the newcomer mopped his brow with a handkerchief. After depositing a plastic bag with a supermarket logo on the table, he stood up again and opened the window. There was a whistle, and the train gave a jolt and moved off. The man sat down again, letting out a deep breath. He looked around, eyed Stachelmann for some seconds and then took the Bild-Zeitung from his plastic bag. Coughing, he opened the paper.

He was holding the front page up in front of Stachelmann’s face. ‘Family tragedy’, it said in thick red letters, and below that, in smaller, black type, ‘Despair of Hamburg property dealer (46) – third murder leaves daughter (6) dead.’ A black and white photograph showed a man with his hand covering his eyes. Beside it was a colour picture of a little girl with blonde plaits, above the caption: ‘Valentina Holler (6), poisoned like her brother – victims of a serial killer?’

Why does it say ‘third murder’, Stachelmann wondered. He tried to read the main text of the story, but the man opposite turned the page, staring intently at Stachelmann for a moment as he did so. Instead of the family tragedy, Stachelmann now had a close-up view of a topless blonde who was giving him a seductive sideways look. ‘Sandra knows what she wants,’ the caption informed him. Stachelmann did not care what Sandra wanted. He wanted to know what had happened to the property dealer’s family. But Sandra was followed by reports on last weekend’s national football league matches, which had been waiting behind her back for the page to be turned. While the wheezing man studied Sandra, Stachelmann read about the crisis at Hamburg SV, or at least the part of the story on the top half of the page, for the man was now keeping the rest hidden under the table. Over the top of the paper he gave Stachelmann a hard look. Then he folded it and pushed it across the table. ‘All yours,’ he said hoarsely, and stood up. The man moved towards the exit, and the train pulled into Bad Oldesloe.

When it moved off again, Stachelmann turned back to the front page and read the story. The property dealer and his family lived, like other wealthy residents of Hamburg, near the Elbchaussee. Two years ago the dead body of the wife had been found in the Duvenstedter Brook nature reserve by a man out walking there. One year ago his ten-yearold son had been poisoned at a public swimming pool. Now Valentina too was dead; that left only the property dealer himself and another son, aged four. A murder a year.

Stachelmann wondered how he would feel after a blow like that. He lived alone in a small apartment in Stietens Gang, a turning off Lichte Querstrasse, which linked Dankwartsgrube with Hartengrube. In that idyllic part of the old town between the Muhlenteich and the Stadttrave, he sometimes felt lonely. But then he read stories about children who had been abducted and murdered. Or about a Hamburg property dealer whose wealth and status could not save him from losing his wife and two of his children. What you don’t have, you can’t lose. And you don’t have to live with the fear of losing it, either.

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