Page 34 of Anatomy of a Killer
And yet. . . this feeling. It has bitten into my neck with sharp teeth.
My room is my room is my room. I can’t make out any disruption to the system of forms and outlines accentuated in the dark by the streetlamps outside. I go over to the window.
There’s nobody here. Nobody was here.
Get better soon, Inspector Brandner says in my mind. I shake my head in resignation about myself.
Outside a car is approaching. That can’t be Ludwig already; it’ll take him at least half an hour to return with our dinner. Pushing the curtains apart, I crane my neck. It’s the Harberts’ car turning into the drive next door. The outdoor lights come on; Elke and Caspian get out. I watch them go up to the house; it looks as if they’re shuffling, weak and tired after the worst of all possible days. There’s a clunk when Elke turns the key in the lock, and another clunk when she shuts the front door behind them.
The view from my bedroom window is ideal if you want to keep an eye on what’s going on outside. If a car arrives. If someone comes home who could interrupt you. But my bedroom window is closed. So it couldn’t have been Elke and Caspian who made the clunking noises.
I know exactly where they came from.
I heard them everyday when my father, lost in thought, would pace up and down on the old floorboards in his study. Carefully I slip my boots off. Then I creep back on to the landing, holding the knife in front of my stomach, tightly clutching the handle.
First my gaze falls on the console table at the end of the landing, the vase that has its fixed place in the middle of it. There’s something comforting about symmetry, something dependable. I squint to make sure, though it’s hard in the darkness, punctuated only dimly by the light from the streetlamp. But I’m sure of it: the vase is no longer exactly in the middle; it’s a few centimetres off-centre to the right. I creep further down the landing. The study is still a few paces away on the left, but I can already see it: the door.
The only door in this house that– normally– is never open. Which I keep locked to preserve a sense of importance, hiding the key in the vase on the console.
My heartbeat goes wild, blood roars in my ears. I tense every muscle, an animal ready to pounce into the study in a single bound.
Then everything happens very fast. In the dark, crashing into a wall and being dragged off my feet. The room tipping and me losing my knife. The clank as it hits the floor. A moment later I slam into the wooden boards, a stifled cry. My opponent teeters and falls too, a hoarse panting. In panic, I feel the floor for my knife. My opponent hobbles out the door. Finding my weapon, I try to get up, but a pain in my right shoulder pushes me down. I fight against it, struggle to my feet, go after my foe. Their footsteps are already clattering on the stairs. I’m quicker; I know this staircase, having often taken it in the dark. My left hand shoots forwards, comes into contact with material and tugs at it; my opponent stumbles. I let go just in time, grabbing on to the banister before they can drag me with them down the last few stairs. A dull thud then suddenly it’s silent again. Only two people breathing jerkily in the darkness, both numb with shock. Then, groaning. My knees trembling, I make my way down, my knife aimed at the noise. At the bottom of the stairs, I press the light switch and the groaning briefly stops. Standing as tall as I can, I look down at my foe, lying at my feet, doubled up with pain. A man. He’s wearing dark clothes and a black balaclava that disguises his entire face apart from the wide-open blue eyes staring up at me, prompting something I can’t put a finger on. I turn the knife in my hand to signal that he ought to stay precisely where he is and not try anything stupid. He blinks a few times rapidly in succession. Either he’s understood my warning or he’s merely adjusting his eyes to the surprising brightness of the hall light. My mind comes to life like a spluttering engine. Laid out in front of me is none other than Marcus Steinhausen. The man I’ve been trying to find. But who found me first. Slowly, very slowly, I kneel before him, still firmly clutching the knife with my right hand, while the left one reaches for the balaclava. I pull it off his head.
And freeze.
Now I know what it was about those blue eyes. I know them. I’ve seen them glisten when the man they belong to tells me in my lunch breaks how he crushes the old cardboard boxes at the recycling centre.
RECORDING 04
Berlin, 7 May 2021
(laughs)Oh, you’re afraid.
No, I’m not.
All right then, give me your hand. I want to show you exactly where I made the cut.
No, I think you just want to test my reaction and unnerve me.
Your mind seems to be elsewhere at the moment. Otherwise you’d make more of an effort. I’d have already explained your mistake to you.
What mistake?
No, you first. You’re questioning my motivation, and I’m just as keen to know about your decision. You say you want to understand.
Yes.
Why? Do you feel affected personally?
Look, like I already told you, I’ve met Larissa Meller’s mother.
Oh, but that’s not all, is it? On the contrary, that’s just a tiny bit of it, maybe even just an excuse. I did some research into you before agreeing to our meeting.
So what? I don’t have any skeletons in my cupboard.
We all have those.
In your case there are ten of them, and not just proverbial ones. Talking of which, let’s get back to Larissa. What did she trigger in you? Did she remind you of somebody? Why was she your first victim?
