‘And?’
‘For God’s sake,’ Gerd snarls, before quoting from today’s paper. ‘Given that the fruitless combined effort of two police authorities, open brackets, Cham and Munich, close brackets, continues to grope sedately in the dark, almost three weeks since the escape of Jasmin G, the woman who was abducted, we regard it as our responsibility as an informative and responsible newspaper to make the public aware that a photofit already exists, which could help identify the suspected perpetrator. The authorities are withholding this, however, for they seem to be shying away from the workload that would result if the public became involved in the process of identifying the hitherto unknown man. An unnamed witness recalls a comment to this effect made by one of the investigating officers: “We would have a flood of leads and it would take us ages to work through them all.” For this reason no attempt is being made to consult the public, even though this may delay the solving of a case, one of the most sensational of the past decades, for the victims and their families.
‘The unknown man, who was beaten to death by Jasmin G during the course of her escape, is also said to be connected to the case of the Munich party girl, Lena Beck, open brackets, then 23, close brackets. We, the Bayerisches Tagblatt, strongly disapprove of the decision taken by the authorities to withhold important information from the public, which with your help could ultimately lead to the discovery of Lena Beck . . . Can you imagine what it’s like here? Our phones won’t stop ringing – not because some freaks claim to have recognised the guy, but because they want to complain! It’s been like this all day long! Do you think I’ve got nothing better to do? Shouldn’t I be looking for your daughter? Wasn’t that what you wanted me to do? Instead I’ve got to sort this shit out! Look at the time! Can you see how late it is? And I’m still sitting in my office, fielding pointless calls.’
‘Somebody’s got to do something—’ I growl, but Gerd doesn’t seem to be finished.
‘We’re doing everything, Matthias! We’re doing everything we can to find Lena! But it won’t work if you hamper our investigation by turning that tabloid, and with it the whole of Bavaria, against us!’
‘What do you want me to say now, Gerd? That I’m sorry you’ve got to do a few hours of overtime just for once? No, I’m not sorry! It’s high time someone gave you lot a kick up the arse! Now you’ve got to deliver, you see, to prevent the public from losing faith in you and the system as a whole!’
‘Tell me, is this about your daughter still, or are you just trying to make some sodding point?’
‘How dare you?’ I bark down the phone. ‘Shouldn’t you have been round already and shown Karin the photofit, like Giesner said? Shouldn’t you have been outside our front door at eight this morning to’ – I give a disdainful sniff – ‘question people personally connected to the case? Where were you then, eh? If you’re taking the case as seriously as you claim to be? What if Karin had recognised the man? We might know by now where to start looking for Lena!’
Gerd grunts.
‘Just tell me one more thing, Matthias. So I can brace myself. Did you also let that fucking editorial team know that Mark Sutthoff came in for a DNA test?’
‘He did . . . what?’ I slump on to one of the sofas in our sitting room, by coincidence exactly where Mark sat on Wednesday evening and was given a cup of tea by my wife.
‘Well, that’s good.’ Gerd sighs with relief. He says goodbye.
‘Gerd, no, wait, don’t hang up! I’m sorry I complained to Rogner about you. But you have to tell me why you gave Mark a DNA test.’
‘Like hell I do!’ Gerd laughs.
‘No, Gerd, really! I swear on my granddaughter’s life, I won’t mention it to anyone!’
Gerd says nothing; all I hear for a moment is a slight crackling on the line.
‘I’m already regretting having trusted that Rogner again. In gratitude he set a mob of reporters on me when I came home with Hannah from the trauma centre.’
Gerd’s still saying nothing; more static on the line.
‘Please,’ I try again. ‘Mark paid us a surprise visit two days ago. Although he told us you’d requested his assistance, he didn’t say anything about having to give a DNA sample.’
‘Hmm, requested is relative,’ Gerd says. After another short pause, he adds, ‘Swear to me, Matthias. Not a word to anyone.’
‘Yes! I mean, no. Not a word, I promise. Now, tell me.’
Gerd sighs once more and for a few seconds I honestly worry that this time he won’t give in, seeing as after that article was published, my trustworthiness must appear about as steadfast as newspaper ink you touch with damp fingers, sweaty with rage. Yes, it’s true. After my conversation with Giesner outside the trauma centre, I really had nothing better to do than to call the editorial office of the Bayerisches Tagblatt and air my grievances to Rogner’s assistant about the police’s unsatisfactory efforts. But far too many things have gone wrong in the thirteen years during which the search for Lena ought to have been carried out thoroughly and consistently, especially now that all the pieces of the puzzle are on the table. No one seems to be prepared to make the effort to put them together, and I can’t accept that. How is it possible to have a perpetrator and a crime scene and yet fail to find the victim? How can it be that the most important witness, Frau Grass, has not been interrogated so she finally says what she knows? Why has the hit-and-run driver still not been found, and why have they dug only a metre and a half around the cabin – a pathetic radius – in the hunt for Lena’s body? They ought to have excavated the entire fucking wood! I am actually expecting Gerd to snub me this time. I bet he’s learned something from his obstinate colleague, Giesner, who wouldn’t let me take a picture of the photofit for my wife, not even when I dropped hints about my dicky heart. But it wouldn’t have made much difference in the end. One way or another, I’d have got in touch with the newspaper. The only difference is that I’d have sent them my picture of the photofit rather than whining down the phone. They’d have printed it in today’s edition and maybe the public would have come up with some useful leads.
Fortunately for me, however, Gerd isn’t the stubborn Giesner. Fortunately for me, Gerd is still Gerd, the man who used to be my best friend, my fishing chum, my daughter’s godfather. And so he stumbles again and says, ‘Okay, then. As you know, as part of our investigation we’re obliged to test for blood relationships, even if the case appears obvious. Just as we had to prove the relationship between Lena and the children. But, you see, there’s a discrepancy.’
My chest tightens and a ridiculous thought comes to mind: Hannah isn’t my granddaughter. It was all a big mistake. I realise I’m shaking my head. Don’t worry, it’s not possible. Hannah is your granddaughter. She looks just like your Lenchen.
‘The thing is, Matthias . . .’
She looks just like your Lenchen.
‘We haven’t been able to establish any blood relationship between the body in the cabin and the children.’
My heart sinks towards my stomach in relief. Of course Hannah is my granddaughter, it’s all good.
‘That means . . .’
‘That means the body in the cabin isn’t the biological father of the children. The DNA evidence means it’s not possible.’
‘Mark Sutthoff,’ I pant down the telephone, without really understanding the significance of what I’m saying.
‘My colleague, Inspector Giesner, came up with the idea of testing Herr Sutthoff, because Lena had got back together with him shortly before she went missing. Although officially they were separated at the time of the abduction, if you remember, her text messages from the time revealed that the two were back in contact and were planning to make another go of things just as soon as Mark came back from his trip to France.’
‘Go on,’ I say, grinding my teeth.
‘Well, we just did some calculations! We don’t have the exact birthdates
of the two children, so we have to rely on their statements and the doctors’ educated guesses. If Hannah is indeed thirteen years old and Lena disappeared thirteen years and nine months ago, there are only two possibilities. Either Lena fell pregnant immediately after her abduction and Hannah was premature . . . or Lena was already pregnant at the time of her abduction.’
‘By Mark Sutthoff,’ I say, putting a hand to my mouth.
‘Yes,’ Gerd says, though he doesn’t sound particularly convinced. ‘It’s just that the corpse’s DNA doesn’t match Jonathan’s either, and he’s roughly two years younger than Hannah.’
‘Well, is there a match with Mark’s DNA?’
‘We don’t know yet. The laboratory won’t have the results until Monday at the earliest.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Gerd! If Mark is the father, then . . .’ Words fail me as the significance of this sinks in, sinks deeper, burying me beneath its immense weight so I can hardly breathe.
Good God, I had him. I actually had him.
My hands on his collar. His back pressed up against the wall. His face as red as a lobster.
Where is she, you bastard?
I had him at a time when Lena must have still been alive.
‘Yes,’ is all Gerd says.
‘But who’s the guy in the cabin, then?’
‘Hold on, Matthias. Until we have the lab results, everything’s just theoretical, do you understand? Until we have the results, Mark Sutthoff remains a witness who’s kindly helping us rule out one particular line of enquiry. And, to be honest, I don’t think we’re going to get a positive result from the lab. He loved Lena, and he’s actually a rather nice guy, don’t you think? He even asked me for Jasmin G’s address because he wanted to send her a get-well-soon card. I couldn’t give him the address, of course, but it just goes to show what sort of a person he is.’
‘But if—’
‘And it’s a very big if,’ Gerd says. ‘Then the corpse in the cabin would be the wrong man. Or there was more than one man involved.’
‘One of whom was Mark Sutthoff.’ The agonising throbbing above my eyebrow that I’d felt when Mark visited us a couple of days ago begins again.
‘We’ll soon know. But . . .’ Gerd hesitates.
‘But what?’
‘Listen, Matthias. I want you to get Karin on the phone for me now.’
‘I can’t. She’s out with a friend.’
‘Okay, call her then, would you? Tell her to come home. I don’t want you to be alone now and do something rash that would end up getting us all into trouble again. You swore on your granddaughter’s life . . .’
Gerd keeps on talking: don’t do anything stupid, wait for Karin to get home. I stare into space; his words fly right past me. Even though I’m sitting with my back to the hallway, I can sense it. A shadow in the corner of my eye, at that moment scurrying towards the front door.
Jasmin
Part of me has shut itself off, huddled in a confined, black room with thick, impenetrable walls, while the rest of me is still sitting in my apartment with Giesner and Kirsten, who I’ve just lied to. Giesner’s sheet of paper doesn’t show my abductor but the driver of the car that hit me. And slowly, very slowly, drop by drop, the significance of this is trickling into my consciousness.
‘There’s something else I’d like to discuss with you, Frau Grass,’ Cham says, clicking the nib of his biro back into the casing. He’s just noted, witnessed by the other policeman, that I’ve identified my abductor beyond doubt.
My abductor who isn’t dead. I realise that what I’d thought when I was admitted to hospital was what actually happened. I hit him only once, not several times, as the police believe, and so furiously that it shattered the snow globe. Just one futile time.
‘Just a moment,’ Kirsten intervenes. ‘With all due respect for your work, Herr Giesner, I think Jassy has done her bit for today. She ought to get some rest now.’
The snow globe only broke when I dropped it on the floor.
Come on, children! Let’s go!
‘It’s fine, Kirsten.’
‘Are you sure, Jassy?’
Now I am. I didn’t imagine the cracking in the undergrowth as I was running through the woods. He followed me, killed the driver of the car and then stuffed him in the cabin in his place. That’s exactly what must have happened. Then he cut up his face until it was unrecognisable, while Hannah went in the ambulance with me.
‘Yes, I’m sure.’
Once again I’m seized by that strange feeling I had in the ambulance when I heard Hannah’s voice. Hannah, who didn’t belong there. And I ask myself why. Why did he let the ambulance take me away? Why didn’t he kill me along with the driver of the car? In his eyes surely that was the least I deserved after my attack on him and my escape.
‘Excellent, Frau Grass.’
But no, he didn’t drag me back to the cabin or into the woods to let me die. He even sent Hannah with me.
‘Just let me know whenever you want a break.’
I nod absentmindedly.
Why? Why didn’t he just grab the kids and run? Surely he must have realised that the police would launch an investigation, whether I succumbed to my injuries or pulled through. He must have known that the police would find the cabin, of course he did, otherwise he wouldn’t have put the driver of the car there in his place. So why? Why?
‘Okay, let’s go on, Frau Grass. You’re almost there.’ I think Cham is smiling, but I can’t smile back because my features are numb. ‘Does the name Sara mean anything to you?’
*
So there had already been a Sara. The third child your husband had always wanted. You’d given birth to her. The assumption is that she’s dead. He wanted to replace his third, dead child, just like he wanted to replace you. Thoughts shimmer in the part of me that’s huddled in the confined, black room. The rest of me, sitting with Cham and Kirsten, is completely empty, just a shell, like a dummy standing in for me, giving monotone answers to questions, incapable of telling the truth. Of course I know why. I mean, it’s not that hard. Your husband is alive. Your husband let me live. Your husband has a plan. Cham begins talking about the latest DNA results, which effectively prove beyond any doubt that they’ve got the wrong man. Only they can’t work it out, of course they can’t, because I’m still keeping my mouth shut. Maybe Cham thinks it’s an accident, a contamination in the laboratory that’s led to an inaccurate result. His words swirl, surrounding me, becoming more oppressive by the minute. My breathing gets shallower, ever shallower. As if simply by panting I could dismiss the realisation that is so horrific. For a moment it works. But then the heat surges in me again, a merciless, scorching heat. I’m suffocating.
You have to tell them. Open your mouth. The police can help you.
Nobody’s going to come and help you. You’ve just got us now.
For ever and ever and ever.
Your husband’s alive. Your husband let me live. Your husband has a plan. And he’s coming to get me. At that moment the dummy in my reading chair slumps.
Papa! Mama’s had another fit!
Matthias
A shadow flitting across our hallway.
As if in slow motion I turn my head, but I can already hear the door click shut. My mobile slips from my hand and lands with a thud on the living-room carpet. I leap up from the sofa. My footsteps, which ought to be rapid, are heavy. What this means. My heart. My hand reaches for the handle. I wrench open the door. It’s already dark outside, only the streetlamps providing yellow islands of light on the black tarmac. My eyes scope the scene. I glimpse her. Hannah, getting into a car about three hundred metres away. And the large, black figure slamming the passenger door behind her. As if paralysed, I watch the man hurry around the car to the driver’s door.
‘Hannah,’ I croak.
The engine starts. The ca
r gets moving. Drives off. It’s only now that my paralysis from the shock abates. I rush down the steps, through the open garden gate and into the street and bellow, ‘Mark! No!’
But all I can see of Mark and Hannah are two little red taillights in the darkness.
Jasmin
It’s too dark. Ever since I was discharged from hospital I’ve had to have a light on somewhere. Kirsten knows that. Darkness is the storeroom in the cabin, it’s the feeling of my arms being painfully stretched, wrists shackled to a waste pipe; it’s the terrifying black sphere where my thoughts cannot anchor, it’s the fear and the waiting for him to come back and kill me. I blink, but it’s still dark. I try to quickly recap what’s happened. Cham was here. He showed me the facial reconstruction. I lied, I identified the wrong man. Cham said the children’s DNA didn’t match that of the body they’d found inside the cabin. He asked me if I could explain that. I could explain it to myself, of course. But not to him. I was too worried he might think I was mad. Too worried that I might actually be mad after everything that’s happened. And how would Kirsten react if I came up with the next melodramatic story? How much longer could I punish her? I must have passed out, something inside me must have shut down and sought the easiest route to a short-term blackout. Like back in the cabin. How often did the ceiling tilt, the floor ripple and the room spin as soon as I felt unable to cope? And how grateful I was each time to slide into the redemptive blackness, surrendering to what Hannah called a ‘fit’.
I can feel the pillow beside me. Kirsten must have taken me to bed after I collapsed in front of her and Cham. So that’s where we’re at, and it speaks volumes. Nobody considered calling a doctor or even an ambulance. Because nobody takes me seriously anymore. Because I’m not ill, but at most hysterical. I picture Kirsten panting from the exertion of heaving me up from the sitting-room floor, having assured Cham that there’s no cause for concern. It’s just nerves, after all, I’d spent two days fretting about the moment when I’d come face to face with the picture of my abductor. Besides, I’m short on sleep, and need peace and quiet. She’s not well. In fact, she’s been wetting the bed recently. And I imagine Cham’s reaction. The obligatory comment about the importance of regular visits to the psychotherapist, the universal remedy for someone in my situation.
Dear Child: The twisty thriller that starts where others end Page 26
