Page 10 of Anatomy of a Killer
‘Call it my Christmas present to you both. Before I retired, the public prosecutor and I used to play tennis together on Tuesdays. This brings the odd benefit from time to time.’ Ludwig shoots me a brief glance. ‘But, to return to your question, no, I’m not making any deals.’ He indicates to turn on to the Strasse des 17. Juni. The metronomic clicking synchronises my heartbeat.
‘Ludwig?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’d like to see the police files. Or at least your documents.’
‘What?’
‘I feel I could help if I had a more detailed understanding of things, especially because Dad. . .’ I break off when his face flashes before me. Those empty eyes and the strangely unfamiliar smile, which he forced himself to make for my sake. ‘I think he’s given up.’
Ludwig doesn’t respond.
‘I have to know what happened to the girls,’ I add. ‘And I mean everything! I need the details.’
‘Believe me, my child. There are good reasons why the police are keeping certain pieces of information under wraps. People are going crazy enough as it is. Ribbons are being auctioned on the internet, supposedly from the original crime scenes. And did you read about the desecration of that grave?’
I shake my head.
‘One of the girl’s graves, not long ago,’ he says. ‘Those responsible stole all the decorations– candles, flowers, everything that was there– leaving it as empty as an abandoned field.’ He puts his indicator on again, this time to enter a petrol station.
‘Who’d do a thing like that?’
‘Souvenir hunters, Anni! The same sickos who auction the ribbons. It’s hard for the police to go after these people too. They can barely keep up.’ He stops behind a red jeep.Jakob, I immediately think, but it’s a young woman who’s just come back from paying and is getting into her car. Ludwig waits for her to drive off, takes her place by the pump and switches off the engine. ‘Do you want anything? You used to love those caramel bars.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘All right. I promise to be as quick as I can.’
In the wing mirror I watch him put the nozzle into the tank and look around innocently. I wait tensely until I hear a plop. Ludwig returns the nozzle to its holder, closes the fuel cap and pats the sides of his coat in search of his wallet. Then he goes into the kiosk, and I’m betting he’ll buy me a caramel bar anyway. He wants to cheer me up like you do a child– with sweets and some affection. He ought to know that I was never that easy– a bit of sugar and a pat on the head: risible! I was a difficult child, with a few difficult phases. The first was after my mother’s death, the second in puberty. At fourteen I was really bad, always getting caught when I was up to no good. Smoking weed with the older boys behind the dining hall instead of going to lessons. Slitting open the mats in the gym. Locking my friend Eva in the girls’ loos because I wanted to stop her getting to the drama club auditions on time. . .
‘Right, then,’ Ludwig says a few minutes later. He flops on to the driver’s seat and closes the door. ‘You can eat it later if you’re not hungry now,’ he says, smiling, as he hands me the caramel bar. I smile too– I knew it– and tear open the colourful wrapping at once. I’m really not hungry, but I don’t want to open the rucksack on my lap and put it in there.
Yes, at fourteen I was permanently getting into trouble. But sometimes not. My maths teacher, for example, never worked out who stole the answers to a forthcoming test from his briefcase.
Unlike yesterday, when the city looked extinct, there’s an extraordinary amount of traffic today. I wonder where everyone’s going. My guess is that they’re paying festive visits to relatives, or taking minibreaks, which is reassuring, but at the same time feels horribly unfair. There are some little lives the world is indifferent to; it keeps turning as if nothing were happening.
Only when we’re close to home do the roads get quiet again, dead in that typical Christmas way, and I realise that this upsets me just as much. Ludwig stops outside our house. The usual phrases. If I need anything. If there’s anything he can do. I say no to everything; I’ll manage. Big Murphy’s is closed today and tomorrow, and I just fancy having a rest, a sleep, watching films and eating pasta with ketchup and cheese.
‘But don’t forget,’ he says, putting his thumb to his right ear and little finger to his mouth. ‘You just have to call, anytime.’
I thank him and get out of his car as fast as I can.
Walking to the house, I realise how dirty the ground-floor windows are; the rain and snow of the past few weeks have left crazy artworks of speckles and smears. We used to have a cleaning lady but she doesn’t come anymore. Soon after Dad was arrested, she called to say she’d have to stop until further notice for health reasons– her back, her hips, etc. I guessed at once that the police must have gone round to question her. But I didn’t probe; I didn’t want to know. Instead I thanked her for all the years she’d worked for us, for having tidied up my squeaky baby toys and picture books, and for always bringing me a cake for my birthday because Mum’s illness meant she couldn’t bake me one. I asked her to put the house key in the letter box whenever it suited her; she did it less than two hours later.
‘Happy Christmas, Ann!’ I hear at my back, just as I’m about to unlock the front door. I don’t bother turning around; I know the voice is that of our neighbour, Elke Harbert. Elke also uses the same cleaning lady, the only difference being that she’s still working for the Harberts despite her supposed aches and pains. Sometimes, when I’m making my morning coffee, I can see her through our kitchen window, ducking as she scurries past our hedge to get next door.
‘You too, Elke,’ I rattle off flatly. I know full well what’s about to come. Since the arrest, Elke and her husband, Caspian, have been turning up at least once a week, trying to get me to come to dinner. But I don’t have to accept their invitation to know how the evening would unfold: uncertain looks and awkward silences over an aperitif, then by the time we’re on to the main course and the third glass of wine, the first questions would be fired at me.Is it really true. . . ?Of course not! Have you gone mad?But the papers. . .Lies.And on the telly they said. . .No, thanks. The mere thought of it is quite enough for me.
‘I was going to ask whether you’d like to come and have goose with us tonight.’
‘Thanks, that’s very sweet of you, but I’ve got something else on.’
A brief pause, then: ‘You’re making a big mistake, Ann.’
Now I do turn round. The way she stands there, in the middle of our snowy drive, in her light jeans and pink blouse, which immediately repulses me because it’s ironed so perfectly. Not even the faintest crease has the courage to rebel against the immaculate appearance. ‘I’m sorry. What mistake?’
‘Shutting yourself away like this. I’m really worried about you.’ She kneads her hands; it’s cold today and she isn’t wearing a coat over her thin blouse. I wonder if she thinks I’m embarrassed about my father. That this is the reason why I’m avoiding going over there. The anger is back, welling up inside me; I feel like grabbing Elke by her starched, pink collar and yelling, ‘How dare you, you stupid cow! If I’m ashamed of anyone at all, it’s people like you who’ve been our neighbours for over twenty years and bloody well ought to know better!’
