Dear Child: The twisty thriller that starts where others end

by Romy Hausmann

  ‘Karin, it’s all right.’ I take a step towards her and take her shoulders. ‘I promise I’ll give Mark a call later. Gerd too. In return you’re going to join Hannah and me at the table and have breakfast with us. Okay?’

  Karin opens her mouth, but then appears to change her mind and just nods weakly. I take her hand and pull her into the dining room. But Hannah’s no longer in her chair.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In the loo, probably,’ Karin says, but I know at once that can’t be the case.

  ‘Hannah!’ I race into the hallway.

  ‘I’ll look upstairs,’ Karin says, scurrying up the stairs.

  The guest loo at the back of the hallway is empty. I close the door I just opened a second ago. Of course she didn’t go to the loo. It’s not Hannah’s time for the loo, and she wouldn’t go without asking permission first. She probably did hear Karin and me arguing and got a fright. I can’t help thinking of Lena, who also hated it when we argued. She always hid, usually in the big cupboard in the hallway. She would sit there, her knees up to her chest, waiting for us to look for her and eventually find her. It was as if she was trying to distract us from arguing. About the household goods we had difficulty paying off every month, my practice, which wasn’t going so well, parenting, the washing, which I had promised to do but forgot, and all those tiny things that blow up from time to time.

  I carefully approach the antique fir wood cupboard beneath the stairs, where Karin keeps the jackets and coats we don’t use every day. A memory . . .

  Found you! Finally!

  Were you worried about me, Papa?

  Terribly worried, darling!

  That’s good . . .

  I’m just about to open the cupboard door when Karin calls out from upstairs, ‘She’s in her room!’ In a flash my heart returns to normal and a smile darts across my lips. I’m relieved, but slightly disappointed too. Maybe I wanted to find Hannah in the cupboard.

  Were you worried about me, Grandad?

  Terribly worried, darling!

  ‘Would you come up, Matthias?’ Karin says.

  When my foot is on the bottom step I detect a movement from the corner of my eye: a shadow darting about behind the pane of frosted glass in the front door. I don’t think, I make straight for the door and yank it open at the very moment a woman puts a large cardboard box sealed with packing tape on our doormat.

  ‘Herr Beck . . . hello,’ she stammers, clearly as flummoxed as I am, and takes a step back in shock.

  At the same time the small bunch gathered outside our gate has been stirred into a frenzy of activity. Cameras click like keys on a typewriter and questions are shot at me like missiles.

  ‘How’s the girl, Herr Beck?’

  ‘What about the boy, Herr Beck?’

  ‘Any news on the whereabouts of your daughter, Herr Beck?’

  ‘Is it true you feel let down by the police?’

  My eyes flit between the brown cardboard box by my feet, the woman who’s going unsteadily back down the steps to the front garden, and the bawling mob on the other side of the garden fence.

  ‘Is Hannah going to live with you permanently now, Herr Beck?’

  ‘Are you going to bring Jonathan back here too?’

  ‘Herr Beck! Herr Beck!’

  Then everything erupts, a sudden explosion of sheer despair. ‘Piss off!’ I bellow. ‘Piss off, you bastards, or I’ll call the police and sue you for harassment!’ I kick the heavy box on our doormat, kick it towards the woman who has now negotiated the last of the four steps and is continuing her retreat on the flat, tiled path. I know her. I recognise the red hair and light blue coat. She was here yesterday when I came back from the trauma centre with Hannah. ‘Just leave us in peace,’ I growl at her before going back inside the house and closing the door noisily behind me.

  ‘So that’s the headline we’re going to be reading tomorrow.’

  I hear Karin’s grim voice coming from the top of the stairs. I turn my head feebly towards her.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  My wife rolls her eyes.

  ‘You’re always saying that. By the way, Hannah has locked herself in her room. Maybe you can try.’

  ‘She’s—?’

  ‘Locked herself in. Voluntarily.’

  Jasmin

  I wake up. It’s not ten to seven and I haven’t got his voice inside my head, but I do have a hangover-like feeling, which immediately reminds me of yesterday evening. I feel beside me, where Kirsten ought to be, but then I remember she’d planned to go home this morning to feed Ignaz and then do some shopping for us. She must have already left, for I can’t hear any sounds coming from the bathroom or kitchen. Maybe it’s a good thing that I’m on my own, a sort of grace period. When she comes back we’re going to call Cham. I need to look at the facial reconstruction. I have to, of course. Especially as since yesterday evening there’s now another urgent reason why I should meet him.

  ‘That could be an important piece of information, Jasmin,’ Dr Hamstedt had said. ‘It may even help establish the identity of your abductor and his motive. It sounds very personal somehow, don’t you think?’

  ‘Or maybe he just read the reports in the newspaper and was having a bit of fun.’

  ‘Possibly. But I think you should talk to Inspector Giesner as soon as possible.’

  The very thought of it makes me want to turn over and go back to sleep. But how could I, Lena, with you staring at me from the walls a hundred times over? Encouraging me, urging me, smiling from all those photos in the countless newspaper articles I stuck up on the walls? I concede defeat and get up.

  My apartment is indeed empty, Kirsten already gone. I toddle into the kitchen, still feeling sluggish, fill a glass with water from the tap and take my painkillers, half a tablet more than necessary, as ever. Yesterday evening is still playing as a loop inside my head. My meeting with Dr Hamstedt. I’d never intended our conversation to go the way it did. I just wanted to tell her why I’d hit on the idea, which must have sounded utterly ludicrous at first, that the letters might be from the children. I didn’t want to come across as crazy, not like someone who for good reason would be better off in a room without a door handle. All I wanted to tell her was that the children, especially Jonathan, had very good reason to be disappointed in me. Hate me. Send me letters reminding me of my guilt. I had abused Jonathan’s loving gesture, the greatest act of his life, his gift and his trust, to kill his father. Then, without looking back, I’d run to my freedom – in front of a car, perhaps – but I’d run away. First I’d taken everything from the children – their father, their mother, who they’d accepted me as, their home – and then I’d abandoned them.

  As I told Dr Hamstedt of my escape, I drifted ever further away. I’d become so drawn in to my own story that I felt as if I were experiencing the whole thing again. I ran through the woods. I felt the uneven ground beneath my feet, which made me stumble, the branches hitting my face and scratching my skin. I could hear the cracking of the undergrowth, my own, laborious panting, and everything was so real. The moment when I emerged from the woods on to the road. The car that hit me. The bright flashes exploding before my eyes. The hard, muffled thud when my body landed on the tarmac. I blinked when I heard the voice of the driver, bent over me, as if I were under a bell jar.

  ‘Frau Grass,’ I heard him say several times before realising that there was something not right about his voice. Of course he couldn’t have called me by my name. The person really talking to me at that moment was Dr Hamstedt, trying to haul me back to reality.

  ‘Frau Grass! Nice and calm, now, Frau Grass!’ I heard her say emphatically, and felt her hands around my shoulders. I hadn’t even twigged that as I was telling my story she’d got up from her chair on the other side of the desk. ‘Are you all right, Frau Grass?’

  ‘Yes,’ I gasped. ‘Ye
s, I . . .’ I grabbed my head and realised I was burning hot. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what got into me.’

  ‘No need to apologise, Frau Grass. Would you like a glass of water, perhaps?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m better now.’ I hardly dared look her in the eye, so I searched for another, more innocuous object to focus on. The notepad, which lay on Dr Hamstedt’s desk beside the two letters. But then I realised what I was staring at. Dr Hamstedt had been taking notes.

  ‘You’ve been writing?’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded, but she was smiling. ‘You were incredible, Jasmin. I know similar things from therapies that work with hypnosis techniques. But you went back of your own accord and without my help, and relived the day of your escape. And you mentioned something . . .’ She picked up her notepad and tapped with her finger on a particular place. ‘Here,’ she said, looking almost excited. ‘You said your abductor wanted your baby to be called Sara or Matthias. Do you know that Lena Beck’s father is called Matthias?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, but neglected to tell her that I had my extensive research to thank for this detail, the research that covered the walls of my bedroom. Dr Hamstedt didn’t appear to think I was crazy and I wanted it to stay that way.

  ‘That could be an important piece of information, Jasmin. It may even help establish the identity of your abductor and his motive. It sounds very personal somehow, don’t you think?’

  ‘Or maybe he just read the reports in the newspaper and was having a bit of fun.’

  ‘Possibly. But I think you should talk to Inspector Giesner as soon as possible.’

  ‘Do you really think it might be so important?’

  Dr Hamstedt nodded.

  ‘Why should the abductor want to call your child after the father of his first victim?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he was a sick bastard?’ With the tip of my tongue I felt for the hole in my jaw, which had healed, but was still there. ‘You’re the expert. So, what was he? A sadist?’

  Dr Hamstedt rocked her head from side to side and said, ‘For Lena Beck, Matthias would have had a significance. It would have probably been torture for her, having to call her child by her father’s name all the time, a constant reminder of the life she’d had. But for you, Jasmin, the name would have had no meaning at all during your time in the cabin. You only found out that Lena’s father was called Matthias after your escape. So as far as I’m concerned, there’s definitely a personal aspect here. Even if he couldn’t torture you with the name, it must have satisfied him in some way or other.’

  ‘Well, he did think I was Lena.’

  ‘He tried to turn you into Lena. There’s a difference.’ She pursed her lips pensively. ‘Maybe he knew him.’

  ‘Who did he know?’

  ‘Lena’s father. Although . . .’ she said, still thinking this through. ‘So far as I know, Herr Beck didn’t recognise the perpetrator from the facial reconstruction. But you’d best discuss these things directly with Inspector Giesner.’

  The facial reconstruction. All at once I felt sick, the same feeling that’s overcoming me now. I try to convince myself that it’s just a picture, a piece of paper, but that doesn’t help. My stomach cramps; my cheeks suck inwards at the sour taste in my mouth. I slam my water glass on the kitchen table and hurry into the bathroom, where I kneel beside the toilet bowl, my fingers clutching the rim. I kneel there for a while and the reflex won’t come to an end, although by now my stomach’s empty and all that’s coming up are deep, hollow sounds.

  ‘I beg you, Jasmin,’ Dr Hamstedt said, picking up the letters from her desk, folding them and slipping them back into the envelopes. ‘Do call Inspector Giesner. Talk to him. Tell him about the letters too,’ she said, holding them up pointedly. ‘Although it’s out of the question that the children could have been involved, I think Inspector Giesner ought to take a look at them.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Okay, yes. I promise I’ll give him a call in the morning.’ I got up from my chair and offered her my hand to say goodbye, but noticed a hesitation in her movements which unsettled me fleetingly.

  ‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’ I said.

  ‘For the time being I’ve left Hannah in the care of her grandparents.’

  ‘She’s . . . out of the clinic?’

  My heart started racing. Dr Hamstedt realised that I was worried by what she’d said.

  ‘Please give Dr Brenner a chance, Jasmin. I’m sure it’ll be of help.’

  *

  She’s out of the clinic . . . I crawl over to the sink and pull myself up weakly. There are still cramps in my stomach; I try to breathe. I turn on the tap and wash my face. The woman in the mirror looks sick. Her complexion is grey, dark shadows circle her eyes. Nonetheless she nods at me determinedly. You should ring Cham. I know. He can check the letters for fingerprints and then you’ll have certainty. But he’ll take the opportunity to show me the facial reconstruction too, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to take that. What if I lose control like with Dr Hamstedt yesterday evening? The last morsel of control I still possess? What if I see the reconstruction, then everything surfaces and I simply start talking, telling him everything, unable to stop? I shake my head. I will ring Cham, but not till later and only when Kirsten’s here. Kirsten, who thinks you’re sick. Who’s right. For whom you’re a burden. I slap the side of the sink and breathe out the resulting pain through clenched teeth. All of a sudden the woman in the mirror looks up. Someone’s here.

  Jasmin

  I dash out of the bathroom and into the hallway. I know at once that it’s not Kirsten. She must have taken the key because it’s not in the lock. And the knocking on the door isn’t our signal. I’m expecting it to be Cham, who must have taken the decision of whether and when I’m going to talk to him out of my hands. But then I hear the voice in-between the knocking.

  ‘Frau Grass? It’s Maja here. I’m a bit early with lunch today!’

  I pause.

  ‘Frau Grass?’

  As I quietly approach the front door, Maja starts knocking again.

  ‘Frau Grass, it’s Maja here!’ The floorboard outside my apartment creaks several times. Maja’s getting impatient. I take a deep breath and open the door.

  ‘Did I wake you, Frau Grass?’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ I sigh.

  Maja holds out a Tupperware container with a green lid. There doesn’t seem to be any post.

  ‘I’m afraid I wasn’t able to warm the food today,’ she says. ‘My microwave is broken.’

  ‘That’s fine, don’t worry. Thanks.’

  I take the container and am just about to turn around to put it on the cabinet when Maja pushes the door and is now inside my apartment.

  ‘No, Frau Grass, it’s not,’ she says so firmly that I flinch. ‘I gave Frau Bar-Lev my solemn promise that I’d look after you, and now I’m bringing you cold food. She’ll kill me if she finds out.’

  ‘I won’t tell her,’ I say briskly, still trying to comprehend that Maja has just entered my flat and right now is shutting the door behind her as if it’s completely normal.

  ‘No way.’

  She grabs the container from my fingers, which are still stiff with fear, and hurries past me. ‘I’m just going to quickly heat this up for you. You’ve got a microwave, haven’t you?’

  My eyes, which can’t believe what they’re seeing, are fixed on the doorway to the kitchen where Maja has just gone. A moment later I hear her call out, ‘There you go.’

  When I enter the kitchen she’s turning the timer on the microwave, which starts humming.

  ‘I hope you’re hungry, Frau Grass. It’s vegetable gratin today. I chose it myself, I hope it’s okay.’ She spins around and gives me an overly sweet smile. ‘In my freezer there’s still a pasta bake and something with mince. At least I think so. Frau Bar-Lev’s handwrit
ing isn’t that easy to decipher. So you can decide what you’d like tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks, Maja. I think I’ll manage now.’

  ‘I could wash up if you like?’

  ‘That’s not necessary. My friend will do it later.’

  ‘Oh yes, Kerstin. I met her yesterday. I hope you liked the chicken soup.’

  ‘Kirsten. Her name’s Kirsten. She told you she’s moved in here temporarily. She’s a very good cook, so I won’t starve.’ I turn to the hallway, encouraging her to leave. ‘Well . . . I don’t mean to throw you out, but I’d really like to have a lie-down. I don’t feel so well today.’

  Maja is still smiling, though now there’s something stiff and unnatural about her expression. As if she were a sculpture created by an artist who’d never seen a real smile and had fashioned it merely on the basis of what they’d heard and using their own imagination. As if Hannah had done it.

  ‘But first you’ve got to eat something, Frau Grass.’ The microwave beeps as if on cue. ‘Ping!’ Maja says, imitating the sound. ‘Look, it’s already done.’

  She turns her back to me and I watch her open the kitchen cupboards and drawers in the search for a plate and some cutlery. She’s too close, I think. Too close to the knife block. It would take a single swish of the hand. I carefully take a step backwards.

  ‘Where did you vanish to so quickly last time, Maja? When I came from the kitchen with the dishes you were gone.’

  Maja darts to the other side of the kitchen, to the microwave and away from the knives.

  ‘Smells delicious,’ her cheery voice says.

  I take a further step back and bump into the kitchen door.

  ‘Maja?’

  ‘Last time? Oh yes. I remembered I had a pizza in the oven and there’s nothing worse than burned pizza. Although that’s not true, is it? There’s much worse, isn’t there, Frau Grass?’

  I grab my throat, which suddenly feels constricted.

  ‘My friend’s going to be back soon.’

  Unfazed, Maja empties the contents of the Tupperware on to the plate.