Strangers on a Bridge

by Louise Mangos

  He came home as I was taking a banana loaf Oliver had cooked out of the oven. The front door of the apartment closed firmly enough for me to wonder whether his day hadn’t gone quite as planned. Simon rarely brought his frustrations home, but now the joint-venture deal had been agreed and signed, the post-achievement euphoria had rapidly diminished to an anti-climax as the monumental task of hard work needed to prove the company’s worth increased. Family life went on, and we were still performing our same old duties at home. Although we were proud of his achievements, it was difficult to share in a business success the boys didn’t wholly understand, despite Leon bravely listening to his father’s explanations about mergers and acquisitions.

  As Oliver carefully shimmied a knife around the edge of the loaf to remove it from the baking tin, Simon came into the kitchen, placed the palm of his hand between my shoulder blades, and kissed me on the cheek. I smiled at this unexpected display of affection and felt some of my tension ebb as Oliver beamed at the two of us. I hoped this meant it was as good a time as any to tell him. But before I could even think about formulating sentences, Oliver piped up.

  ‘Hey, Dad. Good news today. You know the creepy guy, the stalker?’

  Oliver’s excitement masked the cloud that passed across Simon’s face.

  ‘Well, he’s killed himself. He won’t be around any more to bother us… bother Mum.’ Oliver looked at me pointedly, and placed a flour-dusted hand briefly on my arm.

  My young protector. I wished he would stop. Stop stressing the ‘us’ part, knowing I still hadn’t told Simon what Manfred had done to him.

  Simon turned to his youngest son, brow raised.

  ‘Wow, well, yes, I guess that gets rid of the problem. He killed himself, Oli? That’s quite gruesome. When did this happen?’

  Simon sniffed the banana loaf. I was surprised he didn’t seem shocked. Oliver might just as well have told his dad he’d been a brave boy at the dentist. His reaction seemed too casual, too detached. Unless he was protecting his son from the horrors of death, trying to make light of an atrocity.

  Oliver slapped at Simon’s hand as he attempted to pick at a crusty corner of the loaf.

  ‘You have to wait, Dad. It’s for dessert,’ he said with mock sternness, before answering Simon’s question.

  ‘It happened a few days ago, I guess. He took some pills, you know, like that Brad Renfro guy, like an overdose.’

  I looked at Simon, his expression puzzled as our eyes met. I could tell he was thinking ‘Who the hell is Brad Renfro?’ and I managed a smile.

  My own curiosity focused on where on earth Oliver had learned the term ‘overdose’. Simon turned back to him, paying more serious attention to his story. I saw consternation in his eyes that I hadn’t read before and wondered how I had become so immune to my husband’s signals. He probably thought we were treating this matter with too much apathy.

  ‘That’s quite some drama,’ he said. ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘Mum told me. The police were here today. They told Mum, I guess because the guy has been following us – her, and all,’ Oliver bowled on.

  I suddenly felt a little out of control, reminding myself again that the policeman hadn’t mentioned the details of Manfred’s suicide.

  Later that evening I climbed under the duvet, my chilled feet seeking some warmth from Simon’s side of the bed. With the change of season, the temperature was dropping outside and our ancient heating system hadn’t yet fully kicked in with its winter schedule. A north wind was blowing hard enough to make the wooden shutters creak. I made a mental note to alter the thermostats on the radiators in the morning.

  ‘Ouch!’ Simon exclaimed with a smile as my icy foot touched his leg.

  He turned towards me on his side, gazing at me as I tucked the duvet under my chin. Stretching his right arm over me, he gathered me to him. I turned to him and smiled, but felt I was unable to hide the permanent creases etched into my face, still holding the strain of my locked-up thoughts. Simon mistook them for a frown.

  ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Al, it’s time to relax now. A menace has conveniently removed itself from our lives. This thing has been bugging all of us… well, mostly you… for months, and it’s gone now. He’s gone. Let him go.’

  ‘I know, love, it’s just been such a stress, and then the police again, what with Oliver’s little adventure a while ago at the corner shop. Manfred’s presence became a kind of intimidating habit. It feels weird. I can’t quite believe he’s… dead, gone.’

  ‘Alice, you can’t possibly imagine you could have done anything to save his sorry soul a second time. You sound like you’re sympathising with him.’

  ‘Simon, I…’

  I felt myself spiralling, wanting to spill my emotions. But he silenced my dangerously repressed words with a kiss. The last thing I felt like doing was making love, but if I refused Simon now, months of rebuilding the delicate trust and love we had somehow lost might be ruined.

  ‘I feel strange, Simon. Can you just hold me?’ I whispered.

  He pulled back to study my face and I forced my brow to smooth out and smiled at him. I waited for an irritated quip that didn’t come. He pulled me towards him.

  ‘Spoons?’ he whispered. I nodded and turned on my side, back tucked into his chest, grateful for his sensitivity. Closing my eyes I pulled his arm towards me and pressed his hand to my heart, willing myself to turn the page in our lives and continue as if Manfred had never existed.

  After everyone left for work and school the following morning, snow-boots clopping on the disappointingly grey tarmac of the pavement, I decided to go for a gentle jog. It was my first in many weeks, as I was still carrying the injury. It was difficult to imagine I had been preparing for a marathon up until two months ago.

  I figured a good, strenuous jog on a forest trail would help exhaust my demons. I thought my ankle was ready for the test. Putting on an extra layer against the biting cold, I added gloves and a headband to my uniform. Clouds were thickening high over the valley, their grey bellies laden with the white jewels of winter.

  I ran too hard up the hill, throat burning with the effort in the cold. Wind hissed through the tops of the pine trees behind the farm. Every curve and landmark was so familiar to me on this hill trail, and I experienced unbridled euphoria in being able to gaze freely upon each object, each vista, and not fixedly earthwards to avoid the eyes that used to follow me everywhere. I ran up a gulley that fanned out onto open fields, affording a spectacular view of the Prealps from the ridge to the north of the Aegeri Valley.

  The cold made my nose run and my ears ache as the breeze found the gaps at the side of my headband. But worse, my ankle started to ache dully, and I turned for home, slowing my jog to a stride. The first tentative snowflakes floated magically from the sky. Perfect tiny crystals settled on the hair spilling over my headband. I raised my face, blinking flakes off my eyelashes, and stuck out my tongue to childishly catch one on its tip.

  As I came through the door at home, the phone was ringing. I answered as my heartbeat steadied, wondering when my angst would subside.

  ‘Hi, Al. Oh, my God, I just read an article in Twenty Minutes,’ Kathy said, referring to the local free newspaper.

  The phone grew hot in my hand as she continued.

  ‘I grabbed my dictionary straight away to get this one right. Listen: “The body of the man found dead on the Panorama Trail in the Aegerital last Friday has been identified as fifty-five-year-old Manfred Guggenbuhl. The events leading up to his death are still under investigation, but a witness at the scene said it appeared the victim had taken his own life. He leaves behind a wife and a son.” It’s him, Al.’

  My heart leapt in my throat.

  ‘A witness?’ I asked weakly.

  ‘I think they mean the guy who found him. A hunter came across him, apparently. The body was found on Friday afternoon. But they don’t say when they reckon he died,’ Kathy mused.

  But I knew. He most likely died betw
een midnight and dawn on Wednesday morning.

  Three days.

  I tried to imagine the state of his decaying body, although the cold might have preserved him. What would he have looked like? How long would it take for a body to start decomposing?

  ‘Al? Alice? Are you okay? Surely you should be totally relieved. The nutter finally topped himself, finished what he wanted to do all those months ago when you saved him on that bridge. Good riddance is all I can say. What’s up? You haven’t said anything.’

  ‘It just feels a little strange, Kath. Sorry, it’s all so surreal.’

  ‘Certainly a bizarre story, but Al, look, he won’t be stalking you any more. Surely you can be grateful for that…’

  I wasn’t ready to share Kathy’s excitement. I wasn’t ready to relive and rehash all those months of threat and uncertainty. I wasn’t ready to embellish my lies. It felt too early to relax, let down my guard, risk making more errors in the way I handled everything.

  I knew she wanted to share the juice of the story, but I couldn’t even face her.

  ‘Kath, I tried to run this morning, but my ankle’s still not ready. We’ll have to postpone our outings for a while, and now winter is coming, I’m not so sure about stability on the snow, even with crampons. I’ll call you soon. We’ll do something again before too long, I promise.’

  Kathy was right. I should have been relieved. But I’d lived with broken expectations for so long, it was hard to believe even death could be final in his case.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Hans Müller accompanied me from the front desk of the cantonal police headquarters near the appropriately named Schutzengel, Guardian Angel, quarter of Zug to an office at the back of the building. His card told me he worked for the KRIPO, the Kriminalpolizei.

  I was surprised to see Schmid standing in the hallway near the reception area chatting to a colleague. He greeted me neutrally as I passed. I imagined him homeless, occupying this space in the corridor because they’d closed his post in Aegeri. He seemed neither relieved nor suspicious as I returned his greeting, but I felt his eyes on my back as I passed.

  Although the police officials didn’t have specific titles – no DIs or DSs here – Müller exuded an air of higher authority, especially as he had a pleasant office with large windows. I called him Detective Müller in my mind, to give him a more senior role than Officer Schmid.

  A pot plant sat on top of a filing cabinet, and the screensaver on his computer was a photo of a small child playing with a Bernese mountain dog in a garden. I relaxed a little, having initially imagined I might be questioned in a windowless, dark interview room with only a table, two chairs and a police guard by the door. I’d seen too many detective movies.

  As Müller settled at his desk and I took a seat opposite him, I could hear phones ringing in adjacent offices, the white-noise fuzz of a walkie-talkie moving down a corridor somewhere, and the regular mid-afternoon traffic rolling past the slightly open window. He offered me coffee, which I refused, and thought it might be too complicated to enquire whether they had any tea.

  ‘Frau Reed, can you tell us what you were doing on the evening in question?’

  I’d gone over this scenario so many times in my head. My pulse hardly changed, but I felt heat rise to my face, and hoped the detective read this as the absurdity of having to provide an alibi. I decided to stick as closely to what I’d told Simon as possible. He’d been my only other contact during that whole evening.

  Müller loudly slurped his Schale, a large milky coffee, as he waited for my answer.

  ‘I went for a hike. I usually walk or run most Tuesdays,’ I said.

  ‘Where did you hike that evening?’

  He had the nervous habit of flicking his pencil between his index and middle finger, see-sawing it so the tip touched his notepad with an annoying pat-pat-pat. I found it hard to concentrate, trying to remember every detail I recounted in case I was asked again at a future date.

  ‘I took the path up behind the farm near our house, followed the gully upstream and joined the Panorama Trail at the junction to the Raten Pass. It’s a trail I’ve walked often over the past weeks.’

  ‘Did you see anyone? Is there anyone who can verify your path that evening?’

  ‘No, I didn’t see anybody. I sometimes see people working at the farm as I hike past, but that evening I didn’t see anyone.’

  I had no intention of saying I’d seen Manfred that day. I wanted to scream at them that I was never alone, never for one minute. But by admitting that, I would merely have implicated myself.

  ‘Can you tell me, please, exactly the times you went for your walk? What time did you leave the house, and what time did you come home?’

  ‘I left the house at about 5.00 p.m. I’m not sure what time it was when I came home. It was dark. I stayed near the top of the pass to watch the sunset, waited until dusk. It was a clear night. Then I came home. I think it must have been between 9.00 and 10.00 p.m. My husband was already in bed, but I’m not sure he heard me come in.’

  It had been late, I remembered. Simon had barely woken. He had turned slightly in his sleep, had laid that pacifying hand on mine, but we hadn’t spoken, and he would have had no recollection of the time. My heart fluttered. In reality it had been closer to midnight.

  ‘How long did you say the victim had been stalking you?’

  I wished they wouldn’t call him the victim. I was the victim, surely.

  ‘He began stalking me the same day I stopped him jumping from the Tobel Bridge on the Sunday in April stated on the police report. He came back to the house after I had dropped him at the bus station. Then, later that day, the phone calls started. On my mobile and on our house phone. And went on for about seven months.’

  ‘Did you have reason to believe Herr Guggenbuhl might still have suicidal tendencies?’

  I forced my mind back to the days when I still thought I could help him.

  ‘How can I answer that question? The man was stalking me. I had become his obsession. He seemed to think we belonged together in a normal life.’

  My rising anger made me blab. I should have just said yes. I knew I shouldn’t offer any more of my own opinions. I needed to let them do the psychology. I forced myself to calm down, and took a deep breath.

  ‘He never told me he was thinking about suicide. But how can I give an opinion about such a mentally sick person when I was the focus of his instability?’

  This was beginning to feel like an interrogation. Herr Müller could see I was becoming agitated.

  ‘I’m sorry, Frau Reed. I realise it would be difficult for you to answer that.’

  I settled in my chair, heart gradually beating a little less hard.

  ‘Do they suspect you of something, Al? What’s going on?’

  Simon and I were in the kitchen after dinner that evening. The boys had left the table to go to their rooms. We were sharing the tasks of clearing away the dishes, rinsing saucepans, filling the dishwasher, the mundane jobs conveniently reducing our conversation to idle chitchat. I felt shaky. I was worried about dropping a plate, but happy to have my hands occupied.

  ‘No, no, it’s just that I don’t have an alibi. I don’t know what they’re thinking. I guess they have to eliminate all possibilities. It’s just that, can you remember what time you went to bed that night? Only I remember you vaguely acknowledged me when I came to bed, and I don’t want us to have conflicting stories if they question you. The detective who interviewed me said there might be inconsistencies. I don’t know what he means. I don’t know if I would be implicated. Perhaps it was just an expression. But we need to get our details right, to avoid any suspicion.’

  ‘Suspicion of what exactly? Crap, Al, I honestly can’t remember. I know I was early to bed, not long after the boys. Ten maybe? I read a bit and then dozed off. I know you were there in the morning, but I must have crashed deeply into sleep. Jesus. Do they think you might have tried to chuck him off that bridge in the first place th
en? Don’t they think you’ve been hassled enough?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was hoping we could all just forget about this whole thing. We do need a break.’

  I put my hand out to place it on his shoulder as he reached down to close the door of the dishwasher. He didn’t look up at me, but stared at the machine. I wondered what was going on in my husband’s head. Surely this signalled a fresh start, especially after the softening of emotions the evening we’d found out Manfred was really dead. A new beginning without him in our lives.

  Come back to me.

  ‘I have to say it’s mightily convenient that Manfred took his life. It does seem a little ironic,’ he said.

  He turned to face me, laid his hand briefly on my upper arm and squeezed. As he left the kitchen I raised my own hand to grab the empty space where he had slipped from my touch. I still had a lot of work ahead of me to regain his trust. To regain his love. I knew he must still be having a hard time dealing with the fact that I had lied to him from the beginning, hadn’t told him the whole story.

  Chapter Fifty

  ‘I’m so sorry we have to call you in again, Frau Reed. There are a few formalities we need to complete, and… I know how difficult this has been for you. I apologise for the stress this has caused you and your family.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Müller smiled. This time, when an assistant offered me coffee, I enquired whether they had any tea, and he brought me a selection of herbal infusions and a glass of hot water. Not quite what I was expecting, but I was flattered by the attention. It felt like I was a guest, and I immediately relaxed.

  The detective pulled a clear plastic zip-lock bag I hadn’t noticed at the side of his desk towards him, then pushed it between us like a chess piece on a board.

  ‘Do you know this article of clothing, Frau Reed?’

  I was shocked. Hardly recognisable in its scrunched, vacuum-packed state was one of my favourite camisole tops. I suddenly felt ill at ease, wondering if it could implicate me. Where the hell had they found it?