Page 17 of Anatomy of a Killer
‘A site manager by the name of Marcus Steinhausen,’ I read out loud.
‘Not so fast,’ Eva says, putting her cup down and picking up another piece of paper. ‘Although the stepfather voiced his suspicion to the police right after Larissa went missing, Steinhausen had a watertight alibi. When Larissa’s body was found, the stepfather, who’d never stopped suspecting Steinhausen, went through the roof. He went to see Steinhausen and badly beat him up, which earned him his first spell inside. Two years later, he had another go at Steinhausen, fracturing his skull. When he recovered, Steinhausen moved away, but it’s unclear where he went. At least there’s no new address in the documentation.’ She puts the piece of paper down and looks at me sympathetically– why, I don’t understand.
‘What we’ve got is a lead, Eva!’
‘What? No! What we’ve got is a stepfather who became so obsessed by his hunch that he ended up in prison. Not to mention an innocent man who almost lost his life as a result.’
‘You think this Steinhausen is innocent just because he was able to come up with an alibi? That sort of thing can be organised. We should talk to them.’
‘To who?’
‘Larissa Müller’s family. There must be a reason why the stepfather is so—’
‘Meller.’
‘What?’
‘You made a mistake. It’s Meller, not Müller. But I don’t think—’
‘Meller,’ I repeat. A name that sparks something in me. Just a hazy feeling, like a mist. When I check it in the documents, the mist is no more. It doesn’t thin out, it doesn’t lift gradually– it’s gone in a flash, as if at the flick of a switch.
‘My God!’ I pant. ‘I know her!’
Us
You really must have liked that, my angel. Just look at your dress, it’s got all dirty. You sweet, clumsy little thing! We’re going to have to get you changed right away, but it doesn’t matter. It’s late anyway and time you were in your pyjamas. Come on, I’ll carry you to the bathroom. . . You know, I’ve been thinking. It’s Christmas, after all, and, well. . . you’ve every reason to be a bit disappointed. But something has occurred to me, the ultimate present for you, princess: a friend! How about that? Shall I get you a friend, a real, flesh-and-blood friend, just for you? I’ve even got an idea who it would be. Her name’s Sarah. She’s a bit older than you, but I think you’d get on famously. I’ve been watching her for quite a while, watching her very closely. Her expressions, my angel. I can read her face: she’s longing for it too. Life isn’t that great for her at home; her mother’s a dragon who doesn’t deserve such a charming, lovely daughter. And it’s not fair on Sarah that she’s not appreciated. Do you want her to visit us? Should I go and fetch her? Yes, I think I should. But not until tomorrow. It’s too late today, we have to go to bed. Come on, my angel, off to bed. We’ll snuggle up really close, just as you like it. I’ll hold you as tightly as I can and cover your head with a thousand kisses until you’ve fallen asleep.
Ann
Berlin, 26 December 2017
‘You knew Larissa?’ Eva’s eyes are wide open.
For now all I can manage is a vague movement of my head. The surname– I can’t believe it. Ludwig mentioned it during our conversation in the prison and I remember being overcome by a feeling of unease. I thought this was because I was worried he might be in cahoots with the DPP. But maybe it was the name gnawing away at me. And then Eva read it from Larissa’s photograph. So far I must have heard Meller at least twice without really registering it. Even though for the past few weeks I’ve seen the name on an almost daily basis, stitched on the chest pocket of a green polyester shirt. And Larissa’s file confirms it.
‘No,’ I say. ‘But I know her mother.’
‘You know. . . ?’
I skim once more the information I find on Larissa’s family. Her mother’s first name: Michelle.
‘It must be her, it all fits.’
My colleague Michelle, who told me on Christmas Eve that her grown-up daughter hasn’t spent Christmas with her in ages. Michelle with an ex-husband who’s twice been in prison for GBH, and two sons who are now teenagers. Michelle who, as I may have suspected, sometimes laughs only to stop herself from crying. But I’ve always believed those tears were a result of the stress of being a single mother and the additional burden of the job. Now it dawns on me why she always wears so much make-up. Every morning she stands at the bathroom mirror, and paints on a mask, from behind which she feels able to face the world.
Eva’s getting impatient; I fill her in.
‘Wow!’ she says, unable to say any more either.
I think out loud. I need to speak to Michelle if I want to find out what significance her daughter could have had for the killer. But there’s a problem: she knows me by my dead mother’s maiden name, as Ann de Groot, and thinks I’m a single mother too.
‘Are you saying the woman doesn’t have a clue who you really are?’ The expression on Eva’s face speaks volumes. As if she supects I might have deliberately applied to Big Murphy’s to work side by side with the mother of one of the victims. She’s wrong, but I don’t want to waste any time explaining myself, having to justify myself over a coincidence.
‘I have to call her and ask for a meeting!’ I pick up my mobile and scroll through my phone book.
‘You’ve got her number?’
‘Of course. We’re work colleagues, we need to be in touch about shifts.’
