Page 40 of Anatomy of a Killer
Disappointment feels like having water poured in your face. First your sad and you want to cry because you never thought someone could be so mean. And then your angry at yourself because you were so stupid to trust that person. That’s why your to blame for your disappointment too and next time you should be more clever.
Yesterday evening.
I waved the knife about as I frisked Jakob’s body. ‘Who are you?’ I said, shouting and howling. He just lay there, dazed after falling down the stairs, dazed after the shock of having been unmasked. In the inside pocket of his coat, I found a wallet as well as his car keys, and inside that his press ID. Fury paralysed my wits, leaving nothing but bitter hatred and the thought that Ludwig might be back with our food soon and so I didn’t have much time. I tugged at Jakob’s body until I’d forced him to his feet. He made an attempt to resist, but I was the one with the knife. I wasn’t going to let him go. The garage, I thought. Or– even better– our car, to stop him drawing attention to himself by shouting and banging. Then I had another idea: I could use the break-in to steer the investigation back towards Steinhausen. Although then the police would go searching our house for clues and would definitely examine the garage as well.
‘Where did you park?’ I asked. Jakob, who in his state probably thought I just wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible, told me. We took a detour via the garage, where I knew there was a roll of thick masking tape left over from when I helped Dad redecorate the sitting room a few months ago. . .
‘You must realise you can’t keep me detained here for ever,’ Jakob says now, in the kitchen, rubbing his mouth. The masking tape I used to gag him has left visible red marks. ‘Yesterday evening, after I’d fallen down the stairs, I was easy prey. I was completely out of it and you had a knife.’
‘That hasn’t changed,’ I say, nodding to the knife beside me.
He shakes his head. ‘You’re not like that, Ann. I simply don’t believe it.’
‘By all means stand up and go to the door if you want to find out.’
‘Let’s both agree that this whole thing has got out of hand. We’ve both made mistakes.’
‘Nice try.’
‘I need to see a doctor, Ann!’ Now he wrings his hands and forces a pained expression on to his face. ‘I fell down the stairs and lay in a car boot for twelve hours in freezing temperatures. I’ve got hypothermia and I might have damaged a vertebra. For fuck’s sake, Ann, honestly, why are you doing this?’
Without answering, I take hold of the knife and move towards him. Jakob leaps up from his chair and lurches backwards. Smiling, I withdraw to my initial position and put the knife back down beside me. ‘You seem fine to me.’
Jakob growls; his reflexes have given him away. ‘All right, what do you want?’
‘Like I said, I want to talk.’ With my chin I motion for him to sit down again. ‘What were you looking for in my father’s study? For proof the police have overlooked?’
‘I dunno, perhaps. It seemed strange, at least, that the room was locked. And then I found the documents.’
The documents. Ludwig’s folder, which I claimed the burglar had stolen. In fact, I’d actually hidden it in my rucksack before Ludwig returned and now it’s lying on the kitchen table in front of Jakob, its cover closed.
‘You’re on thin ice, you know that, Ann?’
I nod feebly. He’s right. This isn’t me. The crack running through my life since my father’s death seems to end in a crater that’s getting wider and wider, swallowing up ever larger pieces of my old world. And maybe me as well. I hid the folder because I thought it would be good if the burglar had taken something linked to the case. Besides, it can’t hurt to keep hold of the information about the case. Merely the thoughts my mind has been entertaining– they’re so callous, so calculating. I had no problem forcing Jakob into his car boot, switching off all the lights in the house and then waiting as the distraught victim for Ludwig.
The end justifies the means, I tell myself. I’m not a bad person, just determined.
‘You’re not a hostage, Jakob. You can leave whenever you like.’ I pointedly take the knife and return it to the block on the work surface. ‘Go back to your paper, sit in front of your computer and write an article about your miserable night in the boot of your car. Or. . .’ I smile.
‘Or what?’
‘You help me and end up writing the article of your life about one of the greatest miscarriages of justice this country has ever seen.’
It’s theor, of course. Someone who’s gone as far as Jakob has doesn’t shuffle off without reaching the end. I remember what he said to me on Christmas Day:Seek out a trustworthy journalist and give them an exclusive interview with your version of what happened.From day one,hewanted to be that journalist. And when he broached the subject of my supposed daughter after my attack on the newspaper dispenser, this was just an attempt to break my shell. He already knew I didn’t have children; he’d been watching me, studying me for weeks by then.
I don’t trust him one bit, Dad. But I trust his ego. He’ll do anything and everything for his story. And I’ve got support again.
Jakob’s now in one of your jumpers. He’s used your shower gel and shampoo. I don’t like it, but I didn’t want him to go home just for a hot shower. We can’t waste any more time. He’s read through all the documents in Ludwig’s folder and he listened attentively as I told him about the past couple of days. He believes me, or at least he doesn’t think it out of the question that Steinhausen, given his backstory, could be the real ribbon murderer.
‘The guy’s got to be somewhere,’ was the last thing he said before unlocking my laptop to comb the internet. Sitting opposite him, I’ve drawn up a timeline of the murders in the hope of stumbling across a pattern.
June 2003– Larissa, 10
January 2004– Jana, 8
June 2005– Kati, 9
2006– Nothing
