Page 73 of Anatomy of a Killer
‘Yes?’
‘The girl you read about in the online article. It was Nathalie who kidnapped her.’
He stops again, as if he’d been struck by lightning.
‘And there’s more. She also—’
‘She needs help,’ he reiterates, more emphatically this time, and climbs the rest of the steps to the front door.
He wants me to try, to knock, call her name.
‘I don’t know how she’s going to react to seeing me,’ is his reasoning.
I shake my head. ‘She was landing punches on me only a few minutes ago. I doubt I’ll do any better.’
‘Please, we’ve got to give it a try.’
I hesitate. His story sounds convincing, and yet. . . ‘What are you planning to do to her?’
Rather than answer me, he now jiggles the handle, gently at first, then more forcefully. ‘Nathalie!’ his voice thunders. ‘Open the bloody door!’
My stomach tightens; there’s a vague hunch rumbling inside. Something bad’s about to happen. I feel for the stone in my trouser pocket, for support, for protection. Fester lets go of the door and dashes around the house. ‘What the. . . ?’ he cries in horror when he discovers the grave behind the terrace.
‘That’s her cat,’ I explain, upon which he puts a hand in front of his mouth.
‘Oh no. Our Milly? She took her from Berlin too. And she—’
I just nod.
Fester hammers against the shutters in front of the terrace door, which Nathalie must have closed again after I ran out of the house.
‘Wait. . .’ I tighten the grip around the stone in my hand, in the knowledge that it’s the very tool Fester could use right now. ‘She’s not going to end up in prison. People will realise she’s sick. Please, let’s call the police.’
‘I want my daughter back,’ he says. He picks up a large and– judging by the way he’s breathing– heavy piece of wood, which he slams against the shutters until they break open. I jump with fright when he also uses it to smash the glass. But tears come to my eyes too. I don’t know why. I’ve seen the monster inside Nathalie. I’ve seen it in Kerstin Seiler’s lifeless body, in the wound in her neck, in the sea of blood. I’ve experienced it myself, earlier when she came rushing at me. And yet I fear for her.
‘Herr Fester, wouldn’t it be better if we called the police?’ We climb through the frame of the terrace door, one at a time. The candles are now out. Fester turns around like a spinning top, then rushes to the windows above the sofa to open the shutters.
‘Didn’t you smell that when you were here?’
‘Yes. . . I. . . I did,’ I stammer. ‘That’s the mould—’
‘That’s Lenia!’
He hastens towards the kitchen, whereas I run up the stairs to the top floor. Straight ahead is the bathroom; its door is open. On either side of it are two other rooms.
‘She’s not here!’ Fester shouts from downstairs.
No, I think. Because she’s here. Nathalie. In the room to the left of the stairs. A bedroom. She’s sitting in a thin white nightie on the floor beside an unmade bed. Her legs outstretched, a teddy in her lap. The smell. . . I wish I could still believe it was just mould. Half a dozen grave candles are lined up by the closed shutters. The room flickers black and red.
Those are soul lights, my Beetle.
‘Ann.’ She smiles as if in a trance. ‘You’re back. You didn’t leave us all alone.’ How weak she looks, how vulnerable. A gorgeous, broken work of art. A monster. Right beside her is a knife. Not one with a long blade, more like a vegetable knife, and yet it’s a knife, an unpredictable weapon.
‘Have you found Nathalie?’ Footsteps clatter on the stairs. Without thinking about it, I throw myself against the door and lock us in.
‘Your ex-husband is here. He says you took Lenia, Lenia’s—’
‘What the. . . ?’ The handle is wrenched several times. Then Fester pounds his fists against the door.
