Page 53 of Anatomy of a Killer
‘Where do you come from originally?’
‘Wiesbaden. And you’re from Berlin, aren’t you?’ By way of explanation, she adds, ‘Village radio.’
‘Oh, I see. Berlin, exactly.’
‘Do you know the weekly market in Nestorstrasse?’ As if at the push of a button, the hint of a smile gives way to a serious expression. ‘And I suppose that’s also the reason why you’re here, isn’t it? Because the other ten girls all came from Berlin?’
‘That’s right, yes. My colleague and I are writing about the case.’
We stop outside the house. It’s small, but on three floors and divided into two apartments. The bottom one is empty, according to Nathalie. To keep it that way, she’s renting it as well, she tells me. Because the house is on a slope, the front door to the upper, larger apartment, where Nathalie lives with her family, is accessed via steps on the left-hand side. Plenty of steps that are going to require plenty of effort again. ‘Just put the basket down here, I’ll take it inside in a minute,’ Nathalie says, as if she’s read my thoughts, heaving the trolley up the first few steps.
‘I’m not going to abandon you with just a few metres to go,’ I reply with a laugh. Only now do I notice that all the shutters are closed. ‘When you’re working at the butcher’s or go shopping, does your mum look after your daughter?’
‘Yes, she’s almost eighty and physically not very fit anymore. So she doesn’t venture outside on her own these days. But she gets on brilliantly with Lenia. I don’t know what I’d do without her.’ Nathalie opens the front door and calls out, ‘I’m back!’ I don’t catch the response because I’m still a few steps behind. She manoeuvres the trolley into the entrance, then comes back to me to take the basket. ‘Thanks so much. Will you find your way back to the village, or should we have dropped a few crumbs on the way?’
‘Keep going straight, I know.’
‘Thanks again.’
‘No problem, my pleasure. . .’ I stop short when out of the blue Nathalie hugs me. Maybe she’s sensed how similar we are. For a few seconds I’m worried my eyes will fill with tears, but the moment passes, as does the impulse to tell her who I really am. She lets go of me and says, ‘Right, then’– my cue to leave. She waves at me from the top of the steps; I keep turning back to see if she’s still standing there. So gorgeous to look at in spite of all her pain. Then she suddenly goes into the house and I shake my head, amused by myself. Oh, Ann. . .
Bond. (Ann, 10 years old)
A bond is a magical feeling and that’s why it’s a bit unbelievable too. You never have to think too hard about what your saying because you know the other person will understand you anyway. Your like twins even if your not related and nobody can separate us even though Eva sometimes says girls should love boys. But it’s not what you should do, it’s about finding someone you feel like a twin with.
My head is empty, yet at the same time swimming with a thousand thoughts, none of which can be fished out in isolation. With every metre, every step I get closer to the centre of the village, I become more ponderous, angry, disillusioned, until I finally reach the inn and am utterly livid. We don’t have a new lead, just a child who won’t say anything, and otherwise, no idea. Jakob is still sitting at the same table, although now he’s got his laptop in front of him rather than a plate. When he sees me he leaps to his feet.
‘Where’ve you been? I’ve been looking for you.’
‘Why?’ I gesture to him to sit back down and plump myself on the chair opposite, the same one I sat on for lunch– a shitty metaphor: everything’s the same, nothing has changed, and no doubt we’ll be sitting here like this tomorrow, and the day after that, because we’re stuck, bloody well stuck again unless a miracle occurs and Sarah opens her mouth. ‘Were you worried the copycat might have got me?’
‘What copycat?’ Frau Brock asks, coming over to our table with a cup of coffee for Jakob. ‘Would you like one too?’
I shake my head.The village radiocomes to mind, the expression Nathalie used. But it’s a chance. ‘Tell me, Frau Brock: Sarah’s disappearance and the red ribbons in the woods. . .’
‘Yes?’ In a flash she’s sitting beside us. Jakob nudges his laptop to one side to make way for Frau Brock’s crossed arms on the table.
‘You’re all very observant here in Schergel. What are people saying? Who could have done something like that and why?’
She leans across the table conspiratorially. ‘My husband says it’s the real ribbon murderer. It’s definitely him.’
I look around. Brock’s nowhere to be seen, not a good sign considering that he’s been shadowing us ever since we arrived in Schergel.
‘That’s why a meeting’s been called for this evening,’ his wife continues excitedly. ‘We want to discuss the precautions we should take, and make a plan of how we can help the police clear this up.’
‘The invitation to this meeting has even gone out nationally,’ Jakob remarks sarcastically. ‘That’s why I was looking for you.’ He turns his laptop so I can see the screen. It’s the online edition of one of Germany’s best-known dailies, even bigger than the one he works for. A photograph. Sarah, her face pixellated, in Schmitti’s arms, beside Kerstin and Nathalie. None of the adults’ faces are pixellated and they’re easily recognisable. That was this morning in front of the butcher’s. Sarah, who’d suddenly reappeared, the miracle; and Brock capturing the moment with his camera.
My hands shoot across the table and pull the laptop closer. The headline of the article accompanying the photograph reads:Have they got the wrong man?Beside it, a small photo of my father, doctored to make him unrecognisable. The screen turns blurry, I can’t make out whole sentences, only scraps of text. A little girl, abducted in the style of the notorious ribbon murderer. An idyllic village in great danger. The police, who undertook a large-scale search but did little else, either to help the terrified inhabitants or to solve the case. But, most strikingly, a quote from the village publican and chairman of the local council, Peter Brock: ‘We’re looking specifically for a man with short blond hair and freckles.’
I look Jakob square in the eye. ‘This is a disaster,’ I say, unable to manage any more. A few days ago I’d have been happy if the reporting had been in my father’s favour, but now the timing couldn’t be less helpful. My head throws up images, the worst-case scenario: people from everywhere flooding to Schergel because they’re inquisitive, and eager to take part in the murder hunt as if it were some kind of tourist event. Other journalists, now that the first major article on Schergel has appeared, wanting to get a piece of the story as quickly as possible and arriving in their droves too. But, most importantly, Steinhausen, who, if he’s still in the area after Sarah’s escape, is now going to do a runner.
‘Hopefully Kerstin will have had a good rest by this evening,’ Frau Brock says, her voice mingling with my thoughts. ‘As the mother of the victim, her presence would help people realise how serious the situation is.’
Jakob and I first look at each other, then at Frau Brock.
‘God knows we’d all be deeply shocked if the rumours turn out to be true,’ she adds. ‘But she should have the chance to explain herself, shouldn’t she? I mean, Sarah might have got those bruises while playing.’
Jakob is the first to twig. ‘Are you saying Kerstin Seiler’s back home?’
