Page 41 of Anatomy of a Killer
September 2007– Olivia, 7
March 2008– Laetitia, 10
2009– Nothing
2010– Nothing
April 2011– Hayet, 9
2012– Nothing
October 2013– Jenny, 6
December 2014– Saskia, 8
2015– Nothing
July 2016– Alina, 9
November 2017– Sophie, 7
‘One killing per year, albeit at different times, and then there are the years of inactivity: 2006, 2009, 2010, 2012 and 2015,’ I summarise, sighing. ‘That isn’t a pattern. It could—’ I’m interrupted by the ringing of my mobile, which is charging beside the empty fruit bowl on the work surface. I get up to check: it’s Ludwig. Either he wants to appeal to my conscience or apologise. I reject the call.
‘If you ask me, one murder per year is enough of a pattern,’ Jakob says, when he sees I’m not going to take the call. ‘As for those years when he takes a break, you’re right. Either he didn’t kill anyone because he couldn’t, or he was abroad. Or there’s a third possibility: the bodies simply haven’t been found. When exactly was Steinhausen in rehab?’
I check the papers. ‘September to October 2003, and then again from June to October 2005.’
‘So he could. . .’
‘Yes, he could. What have you found?’
‘I’ve got. . .’ Jakob starts to turn the laptop to face me, then stops. ‘I’ve got a confession to make.’
‘Okay?’
‘Maybe it wasn’t Steinhausen who tied the red ribbon to your olive tree.’
‘Who, then?’
‘Maybe there’s a journalist out there who thought a little psychological pressure might help you open up.’ He lowers his eyes, probably in expectation of my next outburst– screaming, scolding, swishing the knife. But I don’t even shrug; I’m not surprised.
‘Say something, Ann.’
‘It’s an oleander, you idiot.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’
‘I realise that,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘It doesn’t change anything.’
‘With regards to Steinhausen or between us?’
‘Steinhausen. I didn’t get why he would threaten me and risk blowing his cover.’
‘And between us?’
‘Maybe,’ I say harshly, ‘you know by now that I’m able to defend myself, and so in the future you’ll spare yourself the bother of trying to provoke me.’ I nod at the laptop. ‘Show me what you’ve found.’
A website. From Spain.Servicio de artesano, a tradesman working near Málaga. My heart leaps when Jakob points to a M. Steinhausen on the homepage. I’m already breathing with excitement, but Jakob beats me to it: ‘Not so fast. This site hasn’t been updated in over three years and it’s impossible to say for certain that this is our Steinhausen.’
