Page 45 of Anatomy of a Killer
‘As I said: I grew up in a village like this.’
We get out. Jakob locks the car and we make for the inn. ‘And I also want you to be mentally prepared for this. The moment we go in, it’s going to be like one of those old cowboy films. Two strangers enter the saloon, conversation stops and everyone eyes us up and down suspiciously. . .’
We’re only a few steps from the door when it opens suddenly. Police officers come pouring out and head for their vehicles.
‘You see? They’re not keen on interlopers here. We’d better watch our step or we won’t get any information out of them.’
I roll my eyes and go ahead. ‘That doesn’t mean they’ve been shown the door. Maybe they just went in for something to eat and now they’re finished.’
The inn is called ‘Zum alten Brock’. It’s furnished in rustic oak, the air is thick and the tiles sticky. It smells of spilled beer, sweat and gravy. My attention is drawn at once to the silver serving platters, at least five on each table. Some still have a few sandwiches, others are empty save for the odd crumb and the parsley garnish. A fat old man with a shiny bald head peels away from a group of people in civilian clothes, some of whom are holding beer tankards.
‘Welcome, welcome!’ he says, his arms wide open, and all eyes now focus on us. ‘Police, psychological support, press?’
‘No, no,’ Jakob stammers beside me. ‘Just, er. . . passing through.’
The man looks visibly disappointed. ‘You can have a room but the kitchen’s closed,’ he says, turning away. I think of Eva, who immediately sensed who we had to pretend to be so that Rainer Meller would talk to us.
‘Press! From Berlin!’ I call out, then say more quietly to Jakob, ‘Come on, show him your press pass.’
The man’s name is Brock. Together with his wife, who he introduces to us, he’s the owner of this place, which has been in his family for three generations. One of the Schergel old guard, a village elder, chairman of the local council and treasurer of the heritage association– he comes up with all sorts of labels to make us aware just whose serving platters are on those tables. We also get two tankards of beer on the house and a promise of the best accommodation. Because we’re journalists– finally, some journalists!– and what’s more, we’re from Berlin. Although the regional paper was here today too, all the guy did was take a few photographs of the police search. Which makes Brock’s face turn red with indignation.
‘They’re only interested when there’s a dead body,’ he complains, and he’s probably right. So long as Sarah’s still missing, there’s hope, and hope doesn’t sell papers. ‘They don’t even think itwasthe ribbon murderer who took the little girl, because he’s meant to be in prison in Berlin. But who put all those red ribbons in the woods, then?’
To signal my agreement, I lift my tankard and take a sip of beer. The group that was standing in the middle of the room when we came in has now gathered around the table where Brock has placed us. It’s the best table, normally reserved for the council. Jakob sits next to me, on the corner bench covered in coarse woven fabric, looking stiff and bewildered.Things happen differently here, he just whispered to me. And he wasn’t talking about canapés.
‘What are the police up to?’ I ask Brock, in reference to the men we just saw leaving the pub. ‘Have they clocked off for the day?’
‘No, no, they just needed a little break for refreshment. In fact, they’re expanding the search area tonight. The village community was out there too, all day long, looking for the little one. The police wanted to discourage us, worried that we might destroy potential evidence. But they were banging their heads against a brick wall there.’ He turns to the group around us. ‘Sarah will come back home!’ General agreement, clinking of tankards. ‘She’s Kerstin’s daughter, you know. Kerstin Seiler, who runs the butcher’s here, a good woman. She’s all on her own with the child and does her work too.’ He shakes his head. ‘She doesn’t deserve this, does Kerstin.’
‘Who does?’ I say quietly, thinking of Michelle, whose entire family died along with Larissa.
‘I’m sure the police have questioned all of you already,’ Jakob chimes in. He finally seems to have stirred from his numbness. ‘But did you notice anything in the days before Sarah’s abduction? Any unfamiliar faces in the village?’
‘Well,’ Brock says, rubbing his chin. ‘Helping with the search yesterday and today there was all manner of outsiders. But in the days beforehand. . .’ He shrugs. ‘I mean, it was Christmas, wasn’t it? Not much happening here. Even though it’s a wonderful place to spend your Christmas holiday. The woods, the mountains, the old fortress ruins. We’ve spent years trying to raise our tourist profile. I’ve got a few holiday houses of my own on the upper common, if you fancy taking a look.’ Again the clinking of tankards, no doubt toasting the magnificent local landscape.
‘It’s really shit that there’s no photo of Steinhausen on the internet,’ I whisper to Jakob, but no sooner have I said this than something occurs to me: brothers whose resemblance has deceived many people. I take out my mobile with trembling fingers and do an image search for Andreas Steinhausen. Apart from the blond hair and freckles, he has scarcely anything in common with the man on the chair with a swollen eye and fat lip who I saw in the basement of the construction site. Nonetheless I recognise him at once. The architecture practice he owns has a website with photographs of all the members of staff. I hold out my screen to Brock and the others. ‘Recognise this man?’
‘Hard to say; maybe, maybe not. Is that him? Is that the guy who’s taken our Sarah?’
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘No,’ Jakob says. ‘But he is someone we’d like to speak to. Talking of which, do you think it would be possible to have a word with Sarah’s mother?’
Brock gets up at once. ‘Come with me.’
In a second. First Jakob and I have to get something clear, just between us two. We do it outside in a whisper. Am I out of my mind, setting the village mob on to Steinhausen? ‘Just imagine if he really did turn up here and they recognised him from the photo you showed them. He’d be lynched, Ann! And if later people are asking,How could that have happened?, the spotlight will fall on those two journalists from Berlin, who were so reckless with their information.’
‘Are you worried about your reputation, or do you really sympathise with that bloke? Steinhausen is a murderer, Jakob!’
Jakob grabs my arm and I immediately feel a stabbing pain in my injured shoulder. ‘No, right at the moment your father is the murderer and Steinhausen is just a lead. Can you get that into your head?’
I jerk my arm to free myself from his grip, which causes more pain, but most of all I feel anger. At Jakob, who’s right. I mustn’t make any mistakes now. Steinhausen could be close by. What if he got wind of the fact that he’s no longer a phantom? That the village mob is openly looking for a blond man with freckles? He would disappear, perhaps for good. And he’d take Sarah with him or dispose of her.
‘I understand,’ I growl.
‘Good. Then let’s talk to the mother.’
A mother like Michelle. I picture her lying on the rug in her sitting room, writhing with anxiety, her chest open; and us, the supposed journalists, lusting after sensation, leaning over her, rummaging in her pain, disembowelling her. The worst thing is that Jakob seems to think nothing of it. He strides buoyantly as we follow Brock to the butcher’s, which is opposite the inn, with only the round marketplace in between. Jakob, who’s concerned about the safety of a killer, but who has no scruples when it comes to the victims. I feel sick.
