Page 72 of Anatomy of a Killer
Again he grabs my face, his hand squashing my cheeks together. But he’s shaking, everything about him is shaking, even his voice. ‘I’m talking about her! About Nathalie!’
I shake my head; I’m no traitor. Not even after everything she’s done.
The man lets go of me. He gets to his feet and paces up and down while rubbing his brow, then his neck, clearly thinking things through. I tentatively stand up. To his left I can see a branch, a long, thick piece of wood in the middle of the snow. I just have to reach it.
‘What do you want from her?’ I ask to distract him, while I edge towards the branch.
He stops and looks at me. ‘Are you a friend?’
‘Sort of.’
In a flash he leaps towards me and grabs my upper arm. ‘Then help her by helping me. I’m Steffen Fester, her ex-husband.’
‘Steffen Fester,’ I repeat, drawing out the words. And yet I couldn’t care less about his name. All I’m thinking about is what till now I’ve believed was an excuse to disguise Nathalie’s real reason for fleeing Berlin: that her ex-husband behaved violently towards her.
‘I’ve been looking for her for weeks. . .’
‘Let me go– now!’ I hiss. The fact that he does tells me he’s uncertain. Or unpredictable. I take a large step to the side, a step further towards the thick branch I’ve nominated to defend me– but without taking my eye off Fester. He’s very tall, with broad, angular shoulders, and his emaciated face exudes an alarming harshness.
‘Where’s my mobile?’ I ask. I remember trying to call the police before passing out.
‘Oh yes. You dropped it in the snow.’ He reaches nervously into his coat pocket and holds out the phone and a cloth handkerchief. ‘For your face.’
I take both, dab my eyebrow and say, ‘I’m going to call the police now, okay? Because whatever’s going on between you and Nathalie, it would be better for all concerned if it were sorted out under supervision.’
‘No, no, no!’ Again he comes at me, but this time I’m quicker. Two large, quick steps and I’m facing him with the branch.
‘You’re not going anywhere near me or Nathalie, understood?’
He makes a placatory gesture, as if I had a real weapon in my hands rather than just an improvised bit of wood. That’s fine by me; I jab the wood in his direction to make him keep his distance. Fester stumbles but recovers.
‘You don’t understand. If you call the police, she’ll kill herself, definitely. And then I’ll never find out where she took our daughter.’
‘Lenia?’
He nods. ‘She ran off with her.’
‘Don’t try to muck me around. I know Lenia’s dead.’
Fester grits his teeth. ‘I’m talking about her remains.’
‘Her. . . ?’
‘Not now, please. . .’ Later, he says. He’ll give me a detailed explanation later. ‘We need to go to Nathalie right now before she gets any silly ideas!’
Not with me. I don’t trust him and I make a few provisos, or I’ll call the police. Fester agrees sulkily, but insists we head for the house without any further delay. I have trouble keeping up with him. He runs, he pants, he tries giving me the story in a nutshell. The grave had already been dug and Lenia’s body laid out for the burial. But then, the night before the funeral, there was a break-in at the funeral director’s and the body was stolen. Fester immediately suspected his ex-wife was responsible. He felt justified when he went to the family home he’d left to Nathalie after their separation and found it deserted. He also discovered she’d hired a car, as well as the fact that this car had been returned in Munich a few days later. He assumed that she was either there or somewhere nearby. Only later did it occur to him that Nathalie might have hidden Lenia first, before giving the car back and then simply taking the bus, the train or hitchhiking to her new bolthole, which might not be that close to Munich after all. In the end he was led to Schergel by an online newspaper article about a little girl who had returned home safe and sound after a suspected abduction. He’d recognised Nathalie in the accompanying photograph. I nod, realising that he’s talking about the picture Brock took outside the butcher’s yesterday morning.
‘I’ve read all there is to read about the ribbon murderer,’ he says. ‘If only because after Lenia’s death, Nathalie seemed to be obsessed with the man.’
‘Does this mean you’ve been searching for her for weeks on your own?’ I ask, still suspicious. ‘Why didn’t you put the police on to it?’
He did, of course, he says. But nothing much came of it. Nathalie was a grown woman, they told him, who could go where she liked when she liked. Especially as the substantial sum of money she’d withdrawn from her bank beforehand suggested that Nathalie hadwantedto go– it was her free decision rather than a case of coercion or even abduction. And as far as Lenia was concerned. . . He stops abruptly. We’re at the house. ‘No leads so far in your case of the missing body, they said.’ He lowers his gaze. ‘You might find this hard to believe, but. . . once upon a time I really loved Nathalie.’
‘You don’t want her to go to prison.’
He nods. ‘She doesn’t belong there. She needs help.’
He climbs the steps; I follow him. ‘Herr Fester?’
