Page 71 of Anatomy of a Killer
‘You. . .’They’ve found traces of an unknown substance in her urine, I think, recalling what Schmitti said in the hospital. ‘You drugged her?’
‘Who do you think I am? Benzodiazepine isn’t a drug! I took it myself for a while.’ She gives a twisted smile. ‘Besides,Sleeping Beautyis Sarah’s favourite fairy tale.’
I can’t believe it. ‘You still think you’re a heroine, don’t you? You should have contacted the child welfare office. They would have helped Sarah. But no. Instead you traumatised the girl for the rest of her—’
‘The child welfare office?’ She laughs. ‘They wouldn’t have done anything because Sarah would never have betrayed her mother. And Kerstin– they’d have been taken in by Kerstin, she was able to wrap everyone around her little finger.’
Just like you, I think wearily. ‘You’re no heroine, Nathalie. You’re no better than the man who took Lenia away from you.’
I see her shoulders tense and hear her strained breathing through gritted teeth– someone trying to get a grip on themselves. My eyes dart around, trying to gauge the distance between Nathalie and the cutlery drawers. In one of those there will be a knife.
‘There’s someone outside, Nathalie,’ I say urgently. ‘Someone who clearly has a reason to creep around your house at dawn.’ For a moment I think of Schmitti, who could have found out what Nathalie did to his fiancée. Then I remember that Schmitti is barely taller than me, unlike the figure I saw. Steinhausen! is my next thought. But that wouldn’t make sense after Nathalie’s confession. Would it? ‘Whoever he is, he might be really angry with you. Let’s call the police. For your protection.’
‘The police? Those losers who spent fourteen years standing back and watching the psychopath you call your father kill little girls?’
I’m seized by something bright and gleaming: rage. At a mentally ill killer who takes the liberty of judging others, and at myself because I happily let myself be deluded by her.
‘My Lenia was lucky, but what about the others who your father—’
‘Lenia didn’t identify anyone, Nathalie,’ I growl. ‘Neither my father nor anyone else. And do you know why?’ I take a step towards her, then kick the chair as hard as I can. ‘Because nobody’s sitting here, you deranged woman!’
The chair crashes to the floor and Nathalie exhales audibly. Taking advantage of her shock, I rush out of the kitchen into the sitting room, where I grab my rucksack. I need to get out of here. I tug the handle of the terrace door but I’m not fast enough.
‘You’re not going to call the police!’ Then comes a blow to my back which momentarily leaves me unable to breathe. Losing my balance, I fall, and am just able to put my hands out before my jaw goes crashing on to the tiles. Now Nathalie’s on top of me, her knees clamping my sides, her weight pressing my chest against the floor, and her fists pounding me. I thrust my elbow backwards, hitting her in the stomach, then I hear her clatter into the terrace door. The glass quivers noisily. Crawling forwards, I seize one of the straps of my rucksack. I then crawl in the opposite direction, to the hallway and front door. All of a sudden, her hand takes hold of my leg. I kick, once, twice, hard and harder; a whimpering sound tells me I must have hit her. I’m free. I get to my feet, my chest wheezing. Nathalie is lying bent double on the floor. She gives me a beseeching look; I just shake my head. It’s over, and at the same time it’s not. I’ve just solved a murder. And yet my father’s still going to be in prison.
I’m sorry, Dad. I’m so, so sorry.
I stagger to the front door and turn the key in the lock. The glass slides off the handle and smashes. I can’t hear anything; it all happens silently, or at least the sounds don’t reach my ears. I blink hard. Blood is obstructing my vision. My eyebrow must have opened up again. I’m not in a good way, and not merely because of that. My body feels like one big bruise; my circulation is careening.
I can’t do any more. Forgive me, Dad.
I stumble down the steps outside; I need to get away as fast as possible in case Nathalie comes after me. I need to find a safe place and notify the police from there. I need to breathe, in on one, out on two. The stand of trees where I hid with Jakob yesterday. Here I’ll be protected but have a good view of the house. I duck behind a thick trunk, then rummage in my rucksack. The bread and cat food land in the snow. I wipe my eyes– tears and blood. My mobile. I press the first two numbers, and am about to tap the third when from behind a hand rests on my shoulder. Nathalie, is my first thought, but I’m wrong. It’s a man’s hand. I turn to look and just manage to pant ‘Steinhausen’ before passing out and toppling into the snow.
Us
What are we going to do now, princess? What on earth will we do now? Help me, tell me what to do. Ann is so mistaken, but she doesn’t realise it. She thinks she knows what happened– she thinks she knows everything!– and that’s exactly what she’ll tell the police. A catastrophe. Because once we’re on the police’s radar, it won’t be long beforehecomes. What if Ann’s right and he’s already here? Is everything we’ve undertaken to be in vain? That would be my fault, my darling, my own bloody fault, I know. I never should have got myself mixed up in it. I shouldn’t have taken Sarah or told Kerstin my opinion. How could I forget myself so badly and ruin everything? What do you think, princess? Should I look at your picture, the picture on the fridge? The way you drew me, so full of confidence in my abilities. Me, your eternal protector, with my sword at the dragon’s neck. My oath that nobody will ever succeed in parting us.
One last battle, of course. My word still stands, it stands for ever. You know that, my darling. But you’ve got to help me. Mummy feels a bit weak, Mummy needs you. Will you do that, yes? Will you help Mummy? Will you help me look for a knife?
Ann
Schergel, 29 December 2017
When I come round, I’m sitting in the snow, my back against a tree trunk. My body is stiff from the cold, my head is heavy, and my thoughts are like porridge. Before me, the maltreated face from the basement of the construction site, overlapped a second later by the portrait photo from the architectural practice’s website. Steinhausen, Steinhausen, Steinhausen. I start to scream. Two hands grab my head roughly. One holds it tight, the other clamps my mouth. I stare at him, the man kneeling before me. Pale skin, bags under the eyes, deeply etched lines on his forehead, dark stubble, hollow cheeks.
That’s not Steinhausen.
It’s a total stranger.
‘Okay?’ the man asks, slightly relaxing his grip. I nod as an understanding that he can take his hand away from my mouth. He does.
‘Who are you?’
‘That’s not important,’ he says, shaking his head. He looks nervous; his eyes flick between me and Nathalie’s house. ‘You were just in there with her. I watched you. What happened?’
I freeze. This isn’t Steinhausen, it’s the man I saw creeping around the house. I smell stale smoke and think of the tiny glowing dot in the distance. It’s him, I’m absolutely certain of it. And there’s something menacing about him.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
