Page 18 of Anatomy of a Killer
‘You must be crazy!’ Eva snatches my mobile away. ‘The poor woman has no idea what’s coming to her. You can’t wake her up at one in the morning and out of the blue confront her with the worst nightmare of her life.’
Bloody hell, of course I can’t. ‘Okay, but tomorrow morning then.’
‘There’s no guarantee she’ll want to talk to you, you’d better bear that in mind. Some people would rather block out things like that. Quite apart from the fact that you’re the daughter of the main suspect.’
She’s right. To make Michelle realise the urgency of my concern I’d have to take off my mask, regardless of the consequences. I don’t care that it might lose me my job at Big Murphy’s. But what if Michelle flips out, goes to the press and I end up being accused of harassing one of the victims’ mothers? A headline like that definitely wouldn’t help my father. My thoughts are interrupted by a gentle snapping: Eva deep in contemplation, nibbling at her thumbnail.
‘I have to risk it, Eva. You’d understand if you’d seen him in prison. He’s completely changed, so empty, so strange. As if part of him had died and been replaced by mechanical components.’
Eva slides over and embraces me for a long moment. Then she offers to come with me if Michelle does agree to a meeting.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I say.
The rest of my night is sleepless. Eva’s gone home and I can’t think of anything else but my forthcoming conversation with Michelle. I fetch a knife from the kitchen, switch on the terrace light, put a chair beside the pot with the oleander and sit there, wrapped in a thick blanket, with all my thoughts and the miserable hours until morning before me. How do you speak to a grieving mother about the murder of her child? How do you ask her for help when you’re the daughter of the main suspect? I work out phrases, rework them, pondering individual words, searching for those that seem most sensitive: suitable packaging. Yet with each new attempt, I merely arrive at the same conclusion: in a situation like this, there’s simply no way of approaching it delicately. I’m going to shock, horrify and agitate Michelle, no matter how carefully I try to formulate my sentences. The content always remains the same.
I begin to cry. The things I’ve got to deal with now. How dramatically my life has changed. On this very day last year there was a party in this house, an over-the-top cheesy Christmas party where everybody had to wear ugly festive jumpers and flashing plastic antlers on their heads. Everyone was there: Dad, Zoe and many, many others I’d regarded as friends or at least good acquaintances. I’ve often wondered why none of them has yet spoken to the press in return for a nice little remuneration. Now I think I know. It’s the fear of what the whole affair might say about themselves. They’ve happily spent a lot of time with an alleged killer. They’ve enjoyed his company and drunk his wine, and if the accusations turned out to be true, they’d be complicit for having been so stupid and blind. This risk isn’t worth a little remuneration. They’re cowardly and fake, the lot of them. I ought to be grateful that this thing with my father has enabled me to see their true faces. I wipe away the pointless tears; everything can spur you on, even hatred.
Picking up my mobile, I open the browser and type the name ‘Marcus Steinhausen’ into the search engine. Nothing. How is that possible? If, as the files say, Steinhausen worked as a site manager, it must be possible to find a few of the projects he worked on. I try ‘Steinhausen’, ‘Berlin’ and ‘construction’ in all possible variations– still nothing. I’m frustrated. And tired. And maybe a bit paranoid, seeing as beside my chair a kitchen knife is close to hand, with a blade that must be twenty centimetres long. I almost wish that the man who tied the ribbon to the oleander would come back. Now, right now, on this night that feels as if it’s never going to end. I’d have every right to defend myself and no scruples about doing so, the realisation of which horrifies me. But it’s the truth. I shake my head. One year ago. It may have been phony, but it was fun. We laughed and danced and kept coming up with new excuses to gather under the mistletoe hanging from the chandelier in the hallway.
I close the search for Marcus Steinhausen and open my address book instead. Three hundred and sixteen contacts. The last number I saved is Jakob’s. He gave it to me when we were sitting on the bench outside Big Murphy’s and said I should ring it when I got the chance so he’d have my number too. He still doesn’t have it. I go to my messages. The most recent is from Zoe, five weeks ago.Please don’t be angry with me. I haven’t replied, until now.
I miss you, despite everything, I write.
I miss you all.
Loneliness. (Ann, 8 years old)
Loneliness is not a nice feeling. I imagine it has a sharp knife and can cut you off from the rest of the world with just one cut. Then you float away out into the universe. Eva thinks its nice in the universe because of all the stars. But thats not true. Its just cold and black and you dont have any air to breath. Without air you will die so loneliness is a very dangerous feeling too.
‘Hello?’
Michelle sounds sleepy, which isn’t surprising as it’s only just gone half past seven– and it’s Boxing Day. I ask if I can come over; I really need to talk to her. She wants to know what it’s about, but of course I can’t tell her, or she might hang up. So I just stammer something about a supposed emergency and resort to saying ‘please’ as often as I can.
‘To be honest, you’re beginning to frighten me.’ In her voice I can hear an anxious smile.
‘No, no, that’s the last thing. . . it’s just. . . please, Michelle. . .’
‘It’s all right, calm down. I’m at home all day, you can come round whenever you like.’
I’m out of the house less than ten minutes later. Last night I wasn’t sure whether I would actually take up Eva’s offer to accompany me. Out of concern for my father, we’d patched things up for a few hours– a provisional stitch job. I’ve no idea how long it will last until it bursts open, nor what’s beneath it. And yet now I’m at her door, ringing the bell. Maybe because loneliness is more painful than anything else.
It’s Elke who opens the door, in a pink fleece dressing gown and with a pale, puffy face. She looks as if she’s had little sleep, or even none like me. Eva appears briefly behind her mum’s shoulder before I hear her clattering up the stairs, presumably to get dressed.
‘Come in,’ Elke says. ‘We can have a nice leisurely breakfast together.’
Gratefully I decline, as ever. ‘Eva and I have something planned.’
I evade her obtrusive attempt to find out more by stepping a few paces back and pretending to stretch my legs. But Elke stays in the doorway and watches me. It’s very uncomfortable.
‘Ready!’ Eva calls, pushing past her mother.
‘Would it be okay if we took your car?’ Without waiting for an answer, I head straight for the passenger side of the Mini with its Frankfurt number plate. I haven’t got behind the wheel of a car since I hit a deer two years ago. Sometimes I still dream of the huge, terrified eyes of the roe staring into my headlights, not to mention the plates and screws in my jaw. Eva knows nothing about this, but she doesn’t ask any questions either, just takes the keys from her coat pocket to unlock the car.
‘If I were her I would’ve moved away,’ she says, putting the address Michelle gave me into her satnav. She still lives in Hellersdorf, in the small flat she shared with Larissa. ‘I mean, I can understand it if your daughter’s missing and you remain tied to a certain place by hope. But when you know for sure she’s dead, and there’ll never be aone day, when she’s suddenly standing outside your front door. . . No, I couldn’t hack that.’
‘Because of all the memories, you mean?’
Eva concentrates as she reverses the Mini out of her parents’ drive.
