Page 49 of Anatomy of a Killer
‘Doesn’t the girl have a father?’ Jakob asks, nodding in the direction of Sarah’s room.
‘Pff,’ Schmitti responds. He’s also holding a cup of coffee. ‘A total loser. He’s the one who originally comes from Schergel, not Kerstin. The butcher’s belonged to his uncle, who died ages ago. Kerstin only moved here because of Sarah’s dad; they had the child and ran the butcher’s together. Although basically she did all the work. He spent most of his time popping over the border to the Czech Republic to have his way with whores. Then one day he never came back. Since then, Kerstin’s had nobody apart from us– a blessing and a curse.’ Pointing at Brock, he laughs. ‘No, seriously, it’s what makes our village so special. We’ll take in anyone who’s willing to integrate into the community. And Kerstin isn’t the only single mum in the village. There’s Nathalie too.’ He points over his shoulder. Nathalie– that’s right, that’s her name. Kerstin’s blonde friend who reminds me so wonderfully and yet painfully of Zoe. I spent the whole morning racking my brains, but her name eluded me. ‘She moved here from Wuppertal, literally fled from her violent ex, poor thing. Up until a few weeks ago, she kept herself totally shut off from everyone, but in the meantime she’s been working in the butcher’s with Kerstin. And at the kindergarten, two of the teachers are a gay couple. They’re from Munich and they wanted to escape the consumer society with their own little house and a few chickens.’
Two more things that remind me of Zoe: Wuppertal, where she comes from, and the dream of making a fresh start, somewhere completely different. Where the sky is blue and there are no vapour trails. A little cottage with colourful shutters and a garden she would allow to become elegantly overgrown, preferably in Cornwall. A feeling washes over me, a scene from the past: Zoe’s head in my lap, my finger tracing the contours of her face. ‘What will become of me when you’re dancing barefoot in your magical English garden?’ I ask.
She laughs. ‘Either you can stay here in Berlin, devoured by longing, or you can come with me. . .’
I hastily take a sip of my coffee, as if it were a medicine for forgetting. Eva was right:Memories are only lovely when there’s hope.
‘Goodness gracious!’ comes the exclamation of surprise from Brock, attracting all of our attention. The door to Sarah’s room has opened right by his nose, and no sooner have the two officers and the psychologist come out than he slips in. Schmitti too hands me his half-drunk coffee and hurries into Sarah’s room.
Jakob clears his throat. ‘Now you can watch a professional at work,’ he announces, intercepting the officers and psychologist. He tells them he’s from the press and asks for information. But they give him the brush-off. Ongoing investigation. ‘Be patient until we make an official statement, Mr Newshound,’ one of the officers says before the group head for the lifts. Pointing his index finger in my direction, Jakob says, ‘You dare,’ but I don’t feel like passing comment. Because although I’m relieved that Sarah has come back home unharmed, I find it unsettling too. What does it mean that Steinhausen’s victim slipped from his clutches? Is he going to disappear? Will he simply snatch another girl or will he try to approach Sarah again? She is, after all, a witness who could describe and identify him. I look around: the corridor is empty, nobody here apart from us. All the same, I’d feel more comfortable if the police posted someone outside Sarah’s room, like you see sometimes in films. ‘She must be safe here?’ I ask Jakob. He sighs.
‘We don’t even know what really happened, Ann. But I don’t think you need worry about—’
‘Where is everybody?’ Nathalie interrupts him, having come back from her phone call.
Jakob points at Sarah’s room. ‘Maybe we ought to go in too,’ he says as we watch her head for the door. ‘It doesn’t seem to bother Sarah’s mother that people are piling in. The poor child.’
‘Maybe she’s just glad not to have to go through this on her own.’
He laughs. ‘You’d make a terrible journalist. Far too sentimental.’
‘It’s what my father taught me,’ I say. It’s a fleeting pain, like pulling off a plaster, but there’s no denying it’s there. ‘Everything that happens in the world, every single action and every consequence, is based on an emotion.’
‘I always thought scientists were only interested in facts.’ Jakob reaches for Schmitti’s coffee, which I’m still holding, takes a sip and pulls a face.
‘Folks!’ So abruptly that both of us jump. Brock comes out of Sarah’s room and hastens excitedly towards us. ‘I’ve got something for you!’
‘New information?’
He waves the camera in his hand. ‘Schmitti and Nathalie didn’t think I should, but– well!’
‘Go on, tell us!’
‘It’ll cost you fifty euros,’ he says, and after Jakob and I nod in unison, he shows us a photo on the screen. Sarah in her hospital bed. He made her close her eyes specially for the photo. All he says is, ‘I thought this would be good for your article,’ and winks. But what he means is: the girl– white face, pale lips, but most of all the way she’s lying there, eyes closed and hands crossed above the covers– looks dead.
I have a brain fade: ‘How can you be so fricking callous?’
‘Ann!’ Jakob says, trying to keep me in check.
And Brock, in indignation: ‘Look, I’ll happily go and sell my information to another paper!’
‘No, no, Herr Brock,’ Jakob insists. ‘She didn’t mean it like that.’
Oh yes, she did. But she realises that new information is more important than her personal opinion. So she apologises, gritting her teeth. Brock accepts the apology, along with the fifty euros from her purse. For that we make him delete the photograph under our supervision and get him to promise he won’t take any more of Sarah in her hospital bed.
‘She told the police officers she was with a princess in a castle,’ he now starts up, theatrically planting his bloated body on one of the chairs in the waiting area. ‘Hiding from the evil dragon.’
‘Which princess?’ Jakob asks.
‘What sort of castle?’ I ask.
Brock can’t answer either question; apparently Sarah didn’t say any more. Fifty euros for a smattering of words, and even these don’t make any sense. I sigh. ‘Is there a castle nearby she might have meant?’
Brock says no, not a castle, but there are some old fortress ruins. ‘Maybe we should take a look around there,’ Jakob says.
‘Or,’ I ponder, ‘she’s talking about something completely different. When we were children, my friend Eva and I had other names for the places where we used to play. There was a raised hide we used to call the tower, and an old gravel pit was our sea.’
