Page 46 of Anatomy of a Killer
A few minutes later we’re sitting in the large, cold kitchen of Seiler, the butcher’s. It’s inhospitable here, the floor and walls all covered in tiles. Like a repurposed slaughter room, I think, all the more so when I spot a drain the size of a beer mat beside my foot. Only the units along with the cooker and fridge, and the chunky wooden dining table suggest that this is a kitchen. Sarah’s mother, Kerstin Seiler, is a petite woman, more like an overgrown little girl. It’s strange to think that she slaughters animals and processes them into the joints and cuts that will later be on display in her shop. Her face is young and pale; her dark ponytail looks as if it had been tied a few days ago and not touched since. She’s sitting limply on a chair, the focal point of a tragedy, slightly apart from the table where Jakob and I have sat. A man with gelled hair and a severe side parting is standing just to the right of her, his hand protectively on her shoulder. He’s barely taller than me, in stark contrast to his beefy upper body with its pumped biceps that he puts on show in his stained, white sleeveless T-shirt, despite the temperature. This is Schmitti, from Schmitti’s Garage, Brock told us. Kerstin Seiler’s fiancé, a good bloke– he can fix everything that goes wrong in Schergel, from a car to a toaster. To Kerstin’s left is a friend, an attractive blonde woman who strokes her knee and passes her fresh tissues at irregular intervals. Everything about her face is so delicate, perfect and symmetrical– it reminds me of Zoe. I would often stare at Zoe, simply fascinated by the interplay of her features. When the woman catches me gazing at her, I look away. Brock is leaning against the edge of the table. He’s really selling us to Kerstin Seiler: Jakob and me, two important journalists who are going to bring the search for Sarah to the attention of the media nationwide. Frau Seiler doesn’t seem to hear a word he’s saying; she just sobs. Schmitti, on the other hand, gives us suspicious looks vicariously. Me with my baggy turquoise knitted hat over my unwashed, jet-black dyed hair, and the plaster above my eyebrow as if I’d just been in a street fight; and Jakob, who’s still wearing my father’s jumper, its old-fashioned diamond pattern making him look like a penniless student.
‘What good’s it going to do Sarah being in the national newspapers?’ he snarls at Brock. ‘What’s important is that the police are here looking for her. And that’s exactly what’s happening. So how would it help us?’
‘Come on, Schmitti, it means Schergel will be on everyone’s radar! We’d get more people volunteering to join the search. And if the kidnapper tries to flee with her, he won’t get very far, because everyone will recognise Sarah as the missing girl.’
Schmitti growls again. ‘Schergel will be on everyone’s radar. . . Is that your new ploy to attract tourists, Peter? Or nutters who get a kick out of visiting crime scenes? I mean, those people have to stay somewhere and eat too, don’t they?’
Brock takes a step forwards, as does Schmitti, who plants himself in front of Kerstin like a barricade.
‘How dare you accuse me of trying to profit from the disappearance of an innocent little girl!’
‘No, Peter, how dare you—’
‘Wait!’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘We won’t publish anything you’re not happy with. We only want to help.’ I look at Jakob, who ought to be backing me up, but he’s just sitting there, arms crossed like a passive spectator.
‘We had a row,’ a voice says softly from behind Schmitti’s back. Kerstin Seiler, who’s now commanding everyone’s attention.
‘Kerstin, you don’t have to—’ her fiancé says, but she shakes her head.
‘We were invited for lunch with friends. I sent Sarah home early because she was playing up. She was so loud and hyper, she kept interrupting every conversation– she was being impossible. I grabbed her by the arm, dragged her into the hall and told her she was being a right nuisance.’ Kerstin sobs loudly. ‘It was all my fault that she was out there on her own. If I’d been with her. . .’
‘You mustn’t write any of that!’ Schmitti hisses. ‘Nobody must find that out, least of all the police.’
I look at him, puzzled.
‘That there was an argument!’ he explains. ‘The police won’t take the thing seriously anymore because they’ll think Sarah simply ran away. They might even stop their search.’
‘I don’t think there’s any danger of that. I mean, they found the red ribbons, just. . .’ I break off, ashamed.
‘Just like the ribbon murderer always left,’ Kerstin Seiler’s friend says, finishing my sentence, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say softly, but it’s too late. The air is thick and heavy with unspoken speculation and fears. It’s Schmitti who brings an end to the unpleasant situation.
‘Right then. Here’s the plan. You’re going to leave now, all of you. It’s late and Kerstin really needs some peace and quiet. You’– he points at Brock– ‘are going to keep your nose out of it from now on. The two of you’– Jakob and me– ‘can make yourselves useful by joining the search tomorrow. We’re going to the upper common. The more we are, the better. And Nathalie’– that’s the friend’s name– ‘I’m going to take you home now. Your little one will be wondering where her mummy’s got to.’
‘But Kerstin can’t be on her—’ the woman tries to protest.
‘I’ll stay the night with her,’ Schmitti says. ‘And then we’ll all meet back here tomorrow morning, seven o’clock.’ He gives Jakob and me a look of defiance. ‘Woe betide anyone who’s not punctual.’
Us
Can you hear that, my girl? The shouting. It’s echoing up from the valley. It’s the red ribbons in the woods making them sound shriller, louder, more panicky. Was it too early to put out the ribbons? Maybe. But they’re all part of it, just like the missing shoe in theCinderellastory or the poisoned apple inSnow White. Look, Sarah! Come here, I’ll lift you up so you can look out of the window. The men from the search unit have been having a break, but they’re getting going again now. It’s said that the first twenty-four hours after someone goes missing are the most important– you’ve been missing considerably longer than that. What’s more, it’s supposed to get down to minus ten or more tonight again; they must be really worried. The dancing lights of the torches in the woods, the shouts, all the commotion– and just for you, my sweetie, just for you. What would they give to get you back unharmed, hmm? What do you think? Their lives, they’d answer if they were asked. That’s what they’ve all said, in the paper, on telly, all the parents who’ve ever spoken publicly about it.I’d swap my life for my daughter’s. That sort of thing’s easy to say when it’s not an option. I mean, they’ve never been offered a deal like that:You’ve got the choice. Your child’s going to die unless you sacrifice yourself.That’s not what this is about. That was never part of this story. Still, saying something like that sounds good. Words society expects to hear in such a situation. But what I want to know is, how many of these people really meant it? If they were given the offer to swap places with their children, how many would take it up? Let me tell you, sweetie: none of them. But your mummy, she might be very close right now. She’s at rock bottom, broken, chastened. You know what that means, don’t you? It means it’s time, Sarah. The last act, then the end.
Ann
Schergel, 28 December 2017
A restless night, a peculiar dream. Me, sitting motionless on the bed in room 113. It’s a simple room: a bed, above it Christ on his cross as a reminder, a wardrobe with a double door and a narrow desk. The only slight nods to luxury are a small television set, a kettle, a basket with a selection of teas, sugar sachets and capsules of condensed milk, and a cup. I’m still fully dressed in my coat, hat and boots. Beside the bed is my bag, with tracksuit bottoms and the fresh sweatshirt I could wear to sleep in after a nice shower. Jakob has the room next door. I’m grateful for the wall between us, for some distance. I’m exhausted and confused. As if I were trapped in one of those psychedelic spirals that open and close again and seem to be permanently rearranging themselves, while I desperately look for a fixed point to focus on. But the spiral twists and turns, overloading my brain. Why Schergel, this tiny, anonymous village in the Bavarian Forest? What has driven Steinhausen here?
I dream that I get up from the bed, in a trance, being controlled remotely. I leave my room, cross the landing to the stairs, and then creep downstairs. I turn the key in the back door and step out into the night. I dream I’m running. There’s no particular goal; I tell myself to be guided by my instinct. Down the main street, past houses where only the odd light is on. A few insomniacs who likewise feel it’s wrong to happily go to bed while Sarah’s outside somewhere, in the cold, in danger, terrified for her life. Maybe she’s no longer alive. Maybe she’s lying undiscovered in the woods, her face blue and the blood from the deep wound on her wrist already frozen. Something is driving me, I dream, driving me on. The distance between houses increases, the broad road becomes narrow and uneven beneath the blanket of snow. There’s no longer any light to help guide me; it’s a darkness I’ve never experienced in the city. I take my mobile out of my coat pocket and turn on the torch, but it has a tiny radius. I spin around, first in one direction, then the other. I’m wheezing as I breathe, hemmed in by the blackness closing in on me.The fear of fear gives rise to more suffering than the actual cause. . . I don’t believe myself. I try to shout for help but the cold constricts my throat. My chest contracts. My spray, is all I can think. My asthma spray, which is in my rucksack, which in turn is on the desk of room 113. I dream I fall to my knees; now I’m on all fours in the snow, not knowing what to do next. They say you don’t die in your dreams; you always wake up in time. So I roll on to my side, curl up and wait. Soon I’ll wake up, I must wake up soon. . .
My mobile rings. A sound that bores into my head like a nasty little hand drill. I sit bolt upright in bed. Orientation. Room 113 and sunshine slanting dazzlingly through the window. My heart racing, my mouth gasping in panic for oxygen, as if I’d just been holding my breath for minutes. Jakob sitting on the edge of the bed. His outstretched hand stroking my cheek.
‘Hey, nice and calm now,’ he says gently, then turns away and remarks, ‘She’s really hot.’
I recoil in sheer panic. What’s Jakob doing in my room? How did he get in here? What’s happened?
‘We should at least take her temperature,’ a woman says, and a moment later Frau Brock, the landlady, comes into view. She sits on the other side of the bed and hands me a thermometer. ‘Here, put this under your armpit. And then drink your tea.’
