The Shadow

by Melanie Raabe

  All the way from her flat, the streets were plastered with the same posters she’d seen in town. They were everywhere—deep black letters on a garish background.

  ARE YOU SURE?

  The roads were more or less deserted; Vienna was getting on with things, without bothering about her. She could see Cafe Jonathan ahead.

  She had been to the cafe once before, with Tanja. Cosy and warmly lit, it seemed to her the perfect place for the rendezvous she had planned. You felt at ease there; it was busy but not bursting, loud enough to prevent eavesdropping, but not so loud that you had to shout across the tables. As Norah walked in, she looked about her to see if anyone stared at her or reacted to her in any way, but apart from two men drinking beer at the bar, who gave her the once-over, she noticed nothing. Certainly, neither of the men—young, well-dressed, dull and attractive—was the person she was here to meet; Norah was sure she was looking for a woman. She found a table tucked away in a corner near the door and sat down on a chair that gave her a good view of whoever came in.

  She ordered a glass of wine and waited.

  It wasn’t long before the door opened. Norah froze, but immediately relaxed again when she saw a small group come into the cafe—presumably students. A glance at her watch told her that it was just gone ten. She sipped her wine and wondered how she would recognise the woman she’d been texting. She had no answer to the question, but felt sure that her instinct would guide her. A couple paid at the bar and left. Before the door had closed behind them, a tall red-haired woman walked in—late twenties, Norah guessed. Her eye caught Norah’s for a second, as she scanned the cafe—then she turned away and sat down at the bar. No, Norah thought, sipping her wine, that wasn’t her. Too conspicuous. And too young.

  Norah kept her eye firmly on the door. Through the buzz of voices, she heard the red-haired woman order a gin and tonic and begin to flirt with the two young upstarts next to her.

  Two hours later, Norah called a taxi and went home. Given that she hadn’t really expected the woman to turn up, she felt unduly disappointed.

  49

  Norah slept a kind of hospital sleep—the fitful half-sleep you drift in and out of at the bedside of someone who is gravely ill. She remembered dozing like this, without ever feeling rested, in the weeks before her mother died.

  Now she was lying on the sofa, staring into the semi-darkness of her flat. Every now and then the headlights of a passing car threw small illuminated artworks onto the living-room wall. Norah groped for her phone, squinting when the screen lit up in her face. She didn’t hold out much hope of a message. She’d checked so many times already it seemed unlikely there’d be anything this time.

  There wasn’t. Norah made sure that the text-message tone was activated and put the phone back down, then dozed off again. When she woke, the light in the room had changed. She tried to heave herself up, but had been lying on her right arm for so long that it gave way beneath her when she tried to lean on it. How long had she been asleep? Two hours, according to her phone. Better than nothing. Norah massaged her arm and checked for messages. She must have slept deeply; she hadn’t heard a thing, but there in her inbox was the text she’d been waiting for when she dropped off.

  I don’t go to bars.

  Norah got up and switched on the lights. Then she sat back down on the sofa. What was the point of that? Whoever wrote that might just as well not have bothered. But she did, Norah thought. Because she wants to communicate with me. The text had been sent only half an hour ago.

  What are you afraid of? Norah wrote.

  The reply came immediately.

  You ask the wrong questions.

  Norah almost hurled the phone at the wall, but forced herself to stay calm.

  Did Arthur Grimm kill Valerie? she typed.

  You’ve met him. What do you think?

  That he has guilt written all over his face, Norah thought.

  How do you know it was him? she asked.

  This time she had to wait for an answer.

  What difference does it make?

  We could go to the police, Norah wrote.

  No proof. Not enough, after all these years.

  Was it you sent me the gun? Norah asked.

  No reply. Norah noticed that she had started to pace furiously up and down—probably just thinking about the gun under her bed. She was suddenly livid with rage.

  How did you get in my flat? she added.

  No reply.

  I threw it in the canal! Norah wrote.

  A short pause, then:

  Doesn’t matter.

  Norah ran a hand through her hair.

  Do you want me to do it? she wrote.

  Silence again. Norah put her phone down on the table, finished smoking her cigarette, then went into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. She hadn’t expected an answer—certainly not a direct one—and was surprised to find a reply when she got back to the living room.

  Yes.

  Why me? Norah wrote.

  Who else?

  I’m not sure that I can.

  The question is do you want to? And you do.

  What makes you think that?

  The fact that you’re still speaking to me.

  Norah blinked, stunned. The next message popped up on the screen. You want to and you can.

  Why is it so important to you? Norah asked.

  For a while, there were no more texts. Then, once again, Norah saw three dots skipping up and down on her screen.

  Because I loved her too.

  ‘Who are you?’ Norah whispered. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  Why don’t you do it yourself? she asked.

  I would if I could.

  Norah thought feverishly. Who had loved Valerie? Her parents, of course. Her brother. But that was absurd. Who else? Was there someone she didn’t know about?

  Why February 11? she asked.

  It was a test, that was all.

  Tomorrow, she thought dully. It’s tomorrow.

  You know why, was the swift reply.

  Of course.

  And why the Prater?

  The next three messages came in swift succession. A salvo.

  He’ll be there.

  The two of you will be alone.

  It will be perfect.

  •

  Norah stared at the screen, her anger growing by the second. No way was she going to act as hitman for somebody who was hiding behind an anonymous phone number and obscure insinuations.

  I won’t do it, she wrote.

  Again, the reply came quickly.

  It’s your decision.

  For a long time, Norah sat there, staring at the messages. She was sure the other person was doing the same. Was it possible to get a feel for someone you were only texting? Norah tried to listen to her gut. Man or woman? she wondered. Woman. Old or young? Old. Older than Norah anyway. Or was she? Already Norah was beginning to feel less certain. Glancing at her watch, she realised that the sun was about to rise.

  Don’t you ever sleep? she wrote.

  Three dots jumped up and down on the screen.

  I can’t.

  Why not?

  I’m too sad.

  Why? Norah asked.

  There was no reply for a long time; then she saw that the other person was writing a message.

  I’m lonely.

  Me too, Norah thought. She put her phone down and waited for the sun to rise.

  50

  Rain pelted against the windows and the winter landscape was a never-ending strip of earthy brown, tired green and dead grey. Behind Norah, across the aisle, sat an elderly couple whose old faces looked grimly similar, as is sometimes the way with people who have lived together for a long time. Norah had often wondered whether one changed more than the other—and if so, which—or whether the two met somewhere in the middle. Further up the carriage, Norah could hear a group of teenagers talking in an almost impenetrable dialect. She was glad the train wasn’t crowded and that the seat next t
o her was empty so that she was spared having to make conversation.

  Arriving at the station to catch the Salzburg train—it was the day she was to interview the conductor—Norah had heard piano music in the distance and soon spotted a grand piano which had been put there so that passing train travellers could entertain one another. It was something she’d often seen in other cities—at the airport in Rome, for instance, and in various stations in the Netherlands—and she’d always admired those who had the guts to sit down and play in public. As she hurried to her platform, she saw that in this case the pianist was a young woman. Norah vaguely recognised the pop song she was playing, without knowing what it was, and the tune must have lodged itself in her head because she soon heard exasperated throat clearing behind her and realised she was humming along. She fell silent—and then gave a start when her phone rang.

  ‘Norah?’ said Max.

  ‘Yes, hi,’ she said. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Norah? I can barely hear you. Hello?’

  ‘Yes. Sorry. Hello? Sorry, I’m on the train.’

  ‘Ah, now I can hear you,’ said Max. ‘Can you hear me?’

  ‘I can hear you. What’s up?’

  Instinctively, Norah glanced over her shoulder at the elderly couple, as if she could feel their disapproving looks on the back of her head. And indeed: the corners of their mouths had slipped even lower. If she hadn’t had an alarmed-sounding Max at the other end of the line, she’d have been tempted to smile.

  ‘Okay,’ said Max. ‘It’s a bit weird, and I’m not sure what it all means.’

  ‘Spare me the suspense,’ Norah said.

  ‘I’ve been trying to find out a bit about this woman,’ Max said.

  Norah felt her antennae twitch.

  ‘What woman?’

  ‘Dorotea Lechner.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Her name rang a bell,’ Max said, ‘so I googled her and found out that I saw her in a play not all that long ago. And it seemed strange that she should have turned to begging.’

  ‘Very strange,’ said Norah, ‘but—’

  ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So I asked—a bit. And—what’s weird?’

  ‘Max, I can’t really hear you.’

  ‘I said: do you know what’s weird?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She—acting jobs until—died. Nothing major—still.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘She was engaged by a theatre again soon before she died. And guess—’

  The connection broke off. Norah cursed under her breath.

  ‘Max?’

  Nothing. A few seconds later, the train entered a tunnel. When it came out on the other side, Norah tried to ring Max back, but without any luck. Never mind. She’d try again after the interview. Dorotea Lechner was dead—it could hardly be urgent.

  THE CAPACITY TO KILL

  Some years ago I met a profiler at a party.

  I told him I was interested in serial killers and asked him all kinds of questions, which he answered in such weary, blasé tones that I soon realised I’d asked the things everybody asked when he told them what he did. There was only one question he had to think about and I was a little annoyed at my childish pride at having finally managed to pique his interest. After all, I’d already made a name for myself by then; if anything, he should have been the one trying to impress me.

  What I wanted to know was whether there was any way of recognising serial killers. Good question, my then-wife said. What would set your alarm bells ringing? she asked the profiler.

  I’d expected him to laugh and say that he was afraid there were no simple telltale signs. But he had to stop and think, and his answer was interesting. A lot of serial killers, he said, have a desperate urge to talk about what they have done. Of course, they can only talk in hedged and shrouded terms, but the compulsion is strong; there’s this hefty great thing in their lives, an obsession that occupies them day and night, but is completely taboo. Many people who unwittingly come into contact with such types report being asked, apparently jokingly, ‘Do I look like a murderer?’ Or, ‘Do you think I’m capable of murder?’ So to answer your question, the profiler said, being asked a thing like that might well set my alarm bells ringing.

  Since that evening, the question has been part of my repertoire of dinner-party small talk: Do you think I’m capable of murder? (My ex-wife was never amused by this, which always rather puzzled the women I was making conversation with.) Of course, the opinion of a casual party acquaintance is of absolutely no consequence, but the answers to the question are invariably entertaining and I always take a well-considered ‘yes’ as a compliment. What is more interesting is to ask the question of others. There was a time when that was a real fixation of mine—perhaps a professional tic. Would the taxi driver who was giving me a lift be capable of murder? My local chemist? The policewoman on the beat? That photographer setting up his tripod? The man on that park bench over there? The waitress taking my order?

  And Norah Richter? Is she capable of murder? I can hardly wait to find out.

  51

  On the train back to Vienna, the landscape flashing past outside was a dim haze of black shapes against a deep blue background; only here and there lights flared up and went out again like dying stars. The conductor—a tall, slim woman with a cloud of bouncing grey curls—had turned out to be unpretentious and easy to talk to. Given the circumstances, Norah thought, the interview had gone well.

  The only trouble was that the woman had talked about her current projects with such enthusiasm and at such length that Norah had got behind schedule and would have missed the Vienna train if it hadn’t been a quarter of an hour late leaving Salzburg.

  When at last she’d found her seat and settled down, she listened to the message Max had left on her voicemail. He had a business dinner to go to, he said, so just very quickly: not long before she died, Dorotea Lechner had been engaged to act in an installation in public space. The role of Cassandra. Max repeated that and Norah could hear the excitement in his voice. ‘What I’m trying to say is I don’t think Lechner was a real beggar; I think she was playing the part of a beggar. Someone went to some lengths to organise all that. And I don’t like that, Norah. I don’t like it at all.’

  Norah looked out of the window wondering what it all meant. A sense of unease crept over her and for the first time since the strange goings-on had begun, she felt that she had all the pieces of the puzzle in front of her and had only to put them together. But she couldn’t get them to join up; there was still something she couldn’t put her finger on—a crucial piece of information she couldn’t bring to the surface.

  She looked alternately out of the window and at a white-haired man who was filling his pipe in anticipation of their imminent arrival. Funny, Norah found herself thinking, pipe tobacco didn’t smell as bad as she’d thought. It was actually rather a nice smell.

  The driver announced that they would soon be arriving in Vienna. When Norah got off the train, a glance at the display panel told her that it was past midnight. February 11 had begun—and once again, Norah had the feeling she was being watched. She scanned the faces on the platform, but couldn’t see anyone she recognised. She suddenly felt as if her body were fighting a disease—viral flu, or worse—and for a moment she thought of getting back on the train and going away, spending February 11 far from Vienna—escaping. But she wasn’t like that. She wasn’t the kind to run away.

  Norah shouldered her bag and took the stairs down to the concourse.

  Dank cold and piano music. A requiem, though Norah wasn’t sure of the composer. She shuddered, looking about her as she made for the exit, unsteady on her feet as if she’d discharged herself from hospital in defiance of doctors’ orders. All she wanted was to get home, but she had to keep dodging lurching drunks and latecomers running to catch trains.

  Norah was amazed at the number of people still about at this time of night; more than once, someone bumped into her
before she had time to get out of their way. The atmosphere, though, had changed since the afternoon, almost as if the mood in the station had shifted with the music. The pop song that had accompanied the afternoon’s buzz of activity had given way to a lugubrious tune for late-night commuters, tired night owls, defeated football fans and a homeless man, rolled up asleep near the left-luggage lockers. Norah approached him cautiously, wary of waking him, and stuffed a crumpled five-euro note in his paper cup. Then she went on her way, advancing slowly, one step at a time, as if battling through a snowstorm. The lingering sounds of the piano drifted over to her, faded and died, and for a moment there was silence. Then a new piece began, sedate and solemn, the ‘Moonlight Sonata’. It was a piece she had always associated with death.

  The feeling of being watched didn’t leave her. When she reached the exit, she stopped and looked about her. Nothing. But then she smelt it—barely perceptible, and yet unmistakable. That smell. All at once, Norah knew what it was she associated with pipe tobacco. Not the scent of pipe smoke as such, but a particular old-fashioned aftershave. She had just caught a whiff of it—sweet and bitter at the same time. Nauseating. And then it came to her. She knew who it reminded her of.

  The station concourse before her was suddenly red with blood. It dripped from the roof, streaked the ground, covered people’s skin, soaked into their clothes, matted their hair. Norah could smell the sweet, metallic smell. She could taste it on her tongue.

  It lasted only a moment, then Norah blinked and the station was just a station again.

  But that smell. She turned away, the taste of blood on her lips, and hurried off.

  52

  Strange, Norah thought. It’s worse than anything I’d expected, and yet I am suddenly completely calm.

  Heading home in a taxi, she tried to get the sickly-sweet smell out of her nose. The theme of the sonata she had heard in the station washed over her, seeping bleak and solemn into her pores, as faces and snatches of words flashed into her mind and vanished again.