I’m grateful to you for a lot of things, but most of all for the fact that you were never alone by my bed in Barcelona. I wouldn’t have been able to bear the silence between us. You never uttered a word of reproach. But I will be eternally ashamed, to the depths of my being.
Until my dying day.
No member of the Department ever left a wounded comrade behind.
Only her.
There was only one person she could talk to about it.
Since she’s been able to think, her father was the most important person in her life. Aren’t all girls like that? Later he became her mentor, then her adviser, her confidant. For many years they were both short of time and didn’t see each other often. And they didn’t need to. They were connected by many things, but they were one in the knowledge of how long a fraction of a second is.
Jörg Aaron. Old hand in GSG 9, the counter-terrorism unit. 18 October 1977, 22:59 hours, barracks of Mogadishu airport. Helmut Schmidt gave the go-ahead for the storming of the ‘Landshut’ aircraft. Colonel Wegener stands in front of the troops and asks: ‘Who’s going in first?’
Ten men take one step forward.
Jörg Aaron takes one more.
He is the one who pushes open the escape hatches in the fuselage and kills the first two terrorists with shots to the head.
For fifteen years he’s always been at the front. Later commander of GSG 9. On first name terms with Yitzhak Rabin. Cross of Honour. Legend.
At every stage of her career she saw the glances.
So that’s Jörg Aaron’s daughter.
In the hospital he was the first one who held her hand. Who fed and bathed her and rocked her in his arms when she cried. Who made sure that the third-floor window couldn’t be opened.
‘I ran away. I just left Niko to his fate.’
‘You were scared, that’s normal.’
‘How am I supposed to live with that?’
‘Stop thinking about it.’
‘Say it.’
‘You’ll learn to get up and go to sleep again. Eat, drink, breathe. There will be lots of days, good days, when you forget. But you’ll never get rid of it.’
She asked him: ‘How do my eyes look?’ Because she knew he would tell her the truth, ruthlessly.
‘Perfect and gorgeous.’
The best sentence of all time.
*
After a week she had been able to answer questions. Two officers from Internal Affairs flew to Spain and spoke to her by her bed. They were like all the others Aaron had sat opposite over the years. Accountants with no adrenalin in their veins, no fear of death, no pain.
Her father insisted on being present when she was being questioned. It was against the rules, but they didn’t dare refuse him.
He was Jörg Aaron.
They read Niko’s statement to her. ‘“I had one bullet in my spleen, one in my lung. Jenny couldn’t move me. She was under fire, had to get help. She made the right decision.’”
‘Miss Aaron, can you confirm this account?’
The question wasn’t a complicated one. She wanted to answer it, too. But she didn’t know what to say.
‘Miss Aaron?’
‘Yes.’
How often she has thought about that ‘yes’. Eventually she convinced herself that it meant: ‘Yes – could you please repeat the question?’ and not ‘Yes, that’s what happened.’ But the ‘Yes’ stayed in the files as an agreement.
‘You were up against three adversaries. By now you’d already eliminated two of them. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’ That was what she’d been told.
‘Miss Aaron, you are part of the Department. You were trained in combat shooting and in four martial arts techniques, you are extraordinarily resilient and have distinguished yourself in extreme situations. You couldn’t get rid of the third man?’
She should have told the truth: that she doesn’t remember. She knows that she glanced back once at Jordi, Ruben and Josue before the hall door closed. And next thing she’s lying outside the warehouse, unable to move. Bending her little finger. Somehow getting to the car. The rear window shattering. Flying along the freeway, with next to her, where Niko should be, only a bag of money.
Seeing the Audi in the rear-view mirror and knowing: it’s over.
A glance, a shot. Over.
‘Between the warehouse and the tunnel, according to our calculations, four minutes must have passed. Do you reckon that’s correct?’
Her father’s voice was a fingernail on a blackboard. ‘Do you think my daughter looked at a stopwatch?’
‘It’s about the following, Miss Aaron: if you wanted to call for help, why didn’t you? You didn’t call the Flying Squad from the Daimler, and you didn’t try to make a connection.’
Four minutes.
They sped past like seconds and lasted for centuries.
‘Miss Aaron?’
‘I’d been shot several times,’ she managed to say helplessly.
Again her father leaped to her support. ‘Let me tell you something, you clowns. None of you has ever sped along a crowded freeway with a hitman on your tail. From my modest experience I can assure you: it’s hard to make a phone call.’
Aaron was asked to sign.
The men left. Her father’s hand rested on hers. She felt his blood thumping in it. They didn’t speak.
She knew that he was ashamed for her.
*
But he loved her.
He had another one and a half years to go until he retired and left the service that meant everything to him and yet not half as much as his daughter. He found the rehab clinic for her in Siegburg, near Sankt Augustin, where her parental home stood. Every morning he read to her from the newspaper before he worked with her. He was unforgiving if she failed to do the simplest things. He practised shopping with her, and telling by the weight of the fork whether she had speared a piece of meat or a potato, helped her learn to do her make-up again, and above all he spurred her on: Again! Again! Again!
How often she heard from her mobility trainer: ‘You’re trying to do too much, only people blind from birth achieve perfection.’
Every time her father said: ‘My daughter can do it!’
And he also plagued her into using her hated cane, unfortunately with limited success. Even today Aaron only has a moderate mastery of it, because she is too reluctant to be identified immediately as a blind person.
He swotted up on Braille with her, and was the guinea pig to whom she expectantly served up the first steak that she had fried herself. At that point she didn’t yet know how to tell the difference between salt and pepper, that salt makes a sound when you shake it and pepper doesn’t. When her father, coughing, croaked, ‘Delicious!’, they both laughed like lunatics.
But above all he taught her the most difficult thing: to receive help, to accept that she will be dependent on others for as long as she lives, and that she must perceive that not as a burden but as a necessity.
On the first day when she dared to leave the rehab clinic on her own, there was only one way to go: to him. She had spent the night anticipating the moment when he would open the door and she would surprise him. Aaron knew that he was at home because a friend wanted to come and see him. She was so proud when she caught the right bus and, after getting out, had taken her bearings from the guidelines she had learned, had been steered as in childhood by smells and sounds, until she knew at last: I’m home.
She felt for the gate and heard murmurs. She was asked to step aside. Men walked past carrying something. She heard the hoarse voice of her father’s friend: ‘It’s me, Butz.’
He had collapsed after the words: ‘The Minister of the Interior gave me this whisky when I joined the service.’ Aaron will never get over the fact that she was unable to say goodbye to him, and tell him she would be dead without him.
*
The traffic is more sluggish as they approach the Fernsehturm. Aaron can tell by Niko’s breath that he is look
ing at her again and again. She turns her eyes directly towards his. He concentrates on driving. Accelerate, brake, accelerate.
‘Sorry about your father.’
She just nods.
Niko had served under him. He didn’t have to apply, her father had chosen him from among a thousand possible candidates. Eventually he dismissed Niko, keeping the reason to himself. He had never been as disappointed as he had been by Niko, Aaron sensed as much when Niko’s name was mentioned. It was a blow to her father when they became a couple. Once she asked him what had happened between them. Her father said only: ‘He’s a ship in search of an iceberg.’
A thumping heart brings the memory to a close. Niko has turned off the wipers. He leaves the freeway. ‘The guys in the Fourth have copied the file in Braille.’
Which she can’t read. She curses the fact that she burned two of her fingertips on the stove last Friday.
Aaron reads with her left index finger, which she won’t be able to use for at least a week.
‘You know the facts. Tell me.’
*
Reinhold Boenisch, fifty-nine, life for four murders, in prison for sixteen years. Two days ago the prison psychologist had visited his cell before going home because he had invited her for a cup of tea.
Boenisch killed her, and since then he hadn’t uttered a word.
Apart from the sentence: I’ll only talk to Jenny Aaron.
2
In the double door system at Tegel Correctional Facility Niko has to hand over his gun. Excessively correct control in spite of their IDs. Papers are meticulously checked. There is whispering.
*
Ten things that Aaron doesn’t like to hear:
the rattling of heavy keys
crows
whispering
‘Are you blind?’
chalk on a board
car engines at top speed
water boiling over
‘I’m just doing my job here.’
traditional German pop songs
lies
*
‘What is that?’ Aaron knows that the officer who takes her handbag is referring to the telescopic walking stick that isn’t recognizable as a blind person’s cane to the undiscerning eye.
‘What does it look like?’
A colleague says: ‘A club. It’s staying here.’
Aaron reaches out his hand. ‘May I?’
She swiftly extends the stick and hears a murmured, ‘Sorry.’
As they leave, someone says very quietly, probably too quietly for Niko to hear: ‘Does she remind you of anyone?’
An officer takes them to the prison Psychology Service. As a case analyst and interrogation specialist, Aaron is involved in large-scale areas of investigation at the BKA, organized crime, terrorism, where the victims are only abstract qualities, shadowy entities. Here it’s different. She wants to know who the murdered woman was, to understand what life she was torn from.
The wind drives the snow along ahead of them. Aaron feels the flakes on her wrist, hasty, wet guests which don’t want to stay. She’s been here often, she imagines the broad, apparently deserted grounds, she knows that all the inmates are working now, or locked in their cells. The Psychology Service is based in the school building, to the back near the sports ground. Her thoughts slip into the past, she hears furious men shouting. ‘Play the ball! Too dumb to wank!’
This time she hasn’t linked arms with Niko, but allows herself to be guided textbook-style, thumb and index finger on his elbow, half a pace back, her hip behind his, but without making contact. Her mobility trainer would be delighted.
But she only does this so as not to be aware of the holster under Niko’s jacket and feel like a dry alcoholic in an off-licence.
*
‘How old was Dr Breuer?’
The murder victim’s colleague has been crying a lot. Her voice is hoarse, dull, empty. ‘Thirty-three. Her birthday was in December. She invited all her colleagues to go to the cinema.’
‘How long had she been working in the correctional facility?’
‘Three years. We knew each other from university. Then I started here, for a bit of security. Melly always wanted her own practice. But it didn’t work. She waitressed part-time, it wasn’t a life. When the job here came up I was on at her until she applied.’
Tears start to come, but get stuck in her throat.
‘Did she like the job?’
‘No. She found everything here oppressive. She started losing her spirit. I said: “It happens, you’ll get used to it.”’ The tears try to come, but get stuck in her throat.
‘Did she enjoy her work?’
‘Everything here depressed her. She was wasting away. I told her, “It happens, you’ll get used to it.”’ The tears work their way up a little further, but still don’t reach her eyes.
‘Did she have family?’
‘A sister in Norway, who’s coming today. Both her parents are dead.’
‘Was she married?’
‘She was on her own for a while, because she’d had a few bad experiences. But she’d had a boyfriend recently. Tall, handsome. Melly was really smitten. When she came here in the morning even the wallpaper seemed to brighten.’
‘What did she look like?’
No reply.
‘Do you have a picture you could show my colleague?’
Her voice quivers. ‘She was tall, about a metre eighty. She had black curly hair, freckles and skin like porcelain. Melly was beautiful, she was special. In spite of her black hair she seemed temperamentally quite cool. But she wasn’t, in fact.’
Aaron feels dizzy.
‘You look very like her.’
‘How often did Boenisch come here?’
‘Every week. He hardly opened his mouth. She wondered why he came at all.’
‘Was she uneasy when she went to see him?’
‘Not at all. She was really glad that he invited her to have a cup of—’ She breaks off.
Aaron gives her time.
‘She said: “Hey, maybe he’s going to thaw.”’
‘I’d like to see Dr Breuer’s notes.’
‘I’ll put them together for you. Half an hour?’
‘Fine.’
The woman reaches for Aaron’s hand. ‘Thank you.’
‘What for?’
‘No one from the Homicide Unit has asked about Melly at all. They haven’t even been here.’
*
On the path leading to Block Six, from which the snow has been cleared, her heels create a rough-grained image. Aaron also clicks her fingers and immediately recognizes the fence that surrounds the building, and even if she didn’t know the place she would be able to tell by the clicks that it wasn’t a wall.
Four or five metres to the entrance. She stops in front of the door just a second before Niko, which must irritate him. A familiar smell inside. Sweat, disinfectant, bad food.
*
Ten smells that Aaron doesn’t like:
hospitals
fish
the perfume ‘Femme’ by Rochas
raclette
coffee
the air in the underground
prisons
chrysanthemums
cigarette smoke
fear
*
A new building. They are passed on to an officer who leads them to the second floor. A mop slaps against the linoleum. Apart from the inmates and the domestic staff who prepare the food, clean, change the laundry, there are no inmates here in the late morning.
‘How did Boenisch behave?’ she asks the officer.
‘He didn’t stand out. In a few weeks he would have disappeared into preventive detention. The building’s just over there, all smart as anything. Twenty square metres, kitchen, tiled bathroom, big garden. Only a matter of time before they introduce room service.’
Another smell. ‘They smoke dope here,’ she says to the man.
‘And snort, and jack up, and drink. Tell
us how to stop it and we’ll do it straight away.’
Suddenly she feels eyes on her back. Involuntarily she turns around. Always the same stupid reflex.
‘Here it is.’ Aaron hears the man opening the seal with a key from his keyring. ‘You’ll be fine.’ As he leaves, he mutters: ‘In Vietnam they eat feet.’ His footsteps fade away like those of a man counting every day until his retirement.
‘I’d like to go in on my own first.’ Aaron steps into the cell and closes the door. She stands still. The smell is so subliminal that it takes her a minute to be aware of it. Tea. She kneels down and feels around on the linoleum. Just before she reaches the plank bed there’s a sticky patch with a thin dry trickle disappearing from it.
She straightens up. She knows what a cell looks like. Ten square metres, plank bed, wash basin, toilet, cupboard, television. Still, she clicks her tongue, very quietly so as not to cause a hubbub of echoes in the small room. Her lips form an ‘e’, which produces a sound with a high resolution. The sound comes dully back from the left-hand wall. She clicks again. Waist-height, above the bed. Aaron kneels on the mattress and feels her way along the bookshelf. Her fingers glide over the greasy, tattered paperbacks. The second-to-last book is bound, the cover intact. She sniffs the paper. Slightly woody, as if freshly printed. When she is about to put the book back she notices that there’s a gap in the middle.
There’s a DVD or a CD between the pages.
She opens the door. ‘What kind of books does he have?’
Niko looks at the shelf. ‘With You by My Side… Your Breath on My Soul… The Joy of Knowing You… Cherry-Red Summer. Shall I go on, or do you feel ill already?’
Aaron holds out the book that she’s removed from the shelf. ‘What about this one?’
‘…Because They Are Made for Kissing. Another piece of schmaltz.’
‘Read out the blurb, please.’
‘“The black detective and psychologist Alex Cross faces an almost insoluble task.”’ He pauses, then goes on reading. ‘“On the campus of a university in North Carolina attractive young women are being abducted and raped by a psychopath.”’ Niko’s breath quickens slightly. ‘It’s about a serial killer.’
‘Open it up. What’s inside?’ Aaron asks.
‘A DVD. Mr Brooks,’ Niko says hesitantly.
In the Dark Page 3
