Page 52 of Anatomy of a Killer
‘You’re back from the hospital,’ I say stupidly, pointing at her shopping. ‘Looks like you’re feeding an entire company.’
‘Yes,’ she says, sweeping a hair behind her ear, almost looking embarrassed. ‘I don’t like shopping so I always get as many supplies as I can in one go.’ She pushes the trolley, which under the weight of its load is as obstinate as an old dog. I bend down to pick up her basket to take it to the cash desk. She lets me go first as I’m only getting a packet of cigarettes and a bar of chocolate.
When the cashier has scanned all her items, I help Nathalie pack away the tins, and in my thoughts I’m briefly back with Zoe on our weekly Saturday shop. We’re only buying trash food to put in small bowls for our film night. It will go straight on our hips. So what? We’ll make up for it tomorrow with smoothies for breakfast. I sniff. Berlin is Schergel and Nathalie is Zoe, and the cashier asks if there’s any news about Sarah.
‘She’s doing well in the circumstances,’ Nathalie says.
The cashier looks slightly disappointed– no new gossip.
‘Is it true, then?’ she probes. She means the thing about the bruises, the vague suspicion that now hangs over Kerstin.
I can see Nathalie struggling to keep her cool, but then it all comes out. ‘Everyone makes mistakes. Big ones too sometimes. But everyone also deserves a second chance. It’s only if they don’t. . .’ She breaks off. Whether she wanted to or not, she’s confirmed the rumour. When it appears she realises this too, she gasps in horror. The cashier gives a mortified smile.
‘Come on, we ought to go,’ I say softly, and so we leave the shop, Nathalie pulling her trolley, and me with the laden basket.
‘Where’s your car?’ I ask, but she doesn’t have one. ‘Okay,’ I say in astonishment. ‘Is it far to where you live?’
‘It’s fine,’ she replies evasively, reaching for the basket. The sliced bread and a tin of cat food topple into the snow.
‘Oh dear! How about I go with you for a bit? I wanted a walk anyway to clear my head.’ Without waiting for an answer, I slip my rucksack off my shoulders and stuff the bread and cat food in it.
‘A bit, all right then.’ Nathalie’s smile reminds me of Dad’s when I last saw him in prison. It looks slightly fake, as if her face had almost forgotten how to do it. And that’s the impression she gives overall: shy, and strangely lost when not with Schmitti and Kerstin. She says she’s living in one of Brock’s holiday houses on the upper common with her mother and daughter. ‘It’s quite far. You really don’t have to come the whole way.’
‘That’s all right.’ I try not to let show how much of an effort it is to heave her basket. I can only carry it in my left hand as otherwise my right shoulder whinges. ‘Schmitti told me you’re working with Kerstin at the butcher’s.’
‘Oh, I just help out here and there in the background. Vacuum-packing meat, cleaning. Can you imagine what the place looks like after an animal has been slaughtered? The blood sprays all over the room, right up to the ceiling. You have to hose the tiles down.’
I glance at Nathalie. Her boots look high quality and her coat is from an expensive brand. They must be from a time when she couldn’t have even dreamed she’d one day be cleaning in a butcher’s for pocket money.
‘It’s just everywhere. Look here!’ She stops abruptly and points at a stain on her jeans. It’s only small but clearly visible.
‘Does it come out?’
‘With bleach, yes.’ She sighs. ‘I tell myself every day that I’m doing it for my daughter.’
I nod. Nathalie is my chance. She’s a friend of Kerstin’s and through her job spends a lot of time with the family. ‘Sarah talked of a castle. Have you got any idea what place she might have meant?’
She shakes her head then starts walking again. I follow her. For a while we don’t talk; she looks lost in thought. Maybe she’s still thinking about her outburst in front of the cashier, or wondering what people are now thinking of her. For if Kerstin Seiler really did beat her daughter, she and Schmitti ought to have noticed something and acted correspondingly. I’d love to tell her I know how something like this feels. Only then I wouldn’t be a respectable journalist anymore, but Ann, the daughter of the alleged ribbon murderer. I bet I’d scare them off, her and the entire village, and my hunt for Marcus Steinhausen would be over.
The path climbs; it’s difficult but beautiful. A winter panorama that could be from the front of a postcard. Before us is nothing but a white expanse that pushes its way into the woods in the distance like a tongue. In the middle of all this, surrounded by a few solitary trees, a small house.
‘That’s where you live?’
‘Yes,’ Nathalie says with a smile. ‘Idyllic, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely, but. . .’ I turn around to estimate the distance from the village, ‘a little bit isolated too, no?’
‘I don’t have a choice,’ she says, letting go of the trolley and resting her hands on her knees as if taking a short break. ‘You must have heard of the circumstances in which we ended up in Schergel?’ Still bent over, she gives me a searching look. ‘Don’t be shy. I’ve been living here almost two months and I know only too well about how the village gossip works.’
‘Well, I’ve heard you had problems with your ex-husband.’ I put the basket down to relieve my aching arm.
Nathalie stands up straight again; her face looks sad and serious. ‘That’s not the extent of it. It’s more. . . we’re hiding from him.’ She points to the little house in the distance. ‘My daughter would love to go to kindergarten, but she’s not ready yet. She jumps with fright at the slightest noise and is still having nightmares.’
‘I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.’
She nods. ‘Yes. We cut ourselves off completely in the first few weeks, but people in the village are curious. They’re only trying to help, but, well. . . At any rate, I realised you’re never really alone anywhere in the world, and I had to put my cards on the table. After all, if everyone knows the score, it helps keep us safe.’ She laughs. ‘Brock rolled up his sleeves and said, “If your ex turns up here, we’ll give him a good hiding.”’ She takes the handle of the trolley and gets going again. I follow her, deep in thought. Nathalie is like me, only she works in a butcher’s rather than a burger joint, an attempt to preserve at least a vestige of normality and avoid going crazy under the burden of one’s life history.
We approach the house. Half of it is cladded with horizontal planks and there’s a balcony beneath the pointed roof that must have a breathtaking view over the valley.
