The Sinner

by Petra Hammesfahr

  "This is my blood", lie thought, and "Father, forgive her!" He felt like swearing aloud. The Saviour and the fruit knife, Satan in the shape of a lover ... Religious mania! If what she had told them about her childhood were true, allowances would have to be made for that and one or two other things. In that case, no one should be surprised if she went on to say that an angel of the Lord had bidden her to kill any man who kissed his wife in public.

  He raised his hand, intending it as a sign to Hoss that he was terminating the interview Just then she shook herself and sat up straight. "I'm sorry," she said calmly, in a normal tone of voice, "I wasn't really with it. We were talking about Frankie just now, weren't we? Frankie - that was the name! I couldn't recall where I'd heard it, but I've just remembered. The man in Cologne called him that."

  She nodded as if in self-confirmation. Somewhat more briskly, she went on: "I also remember what his friends were called. Not the people from Cologne - I really can't recall their names at present - but the other two, the ones who were down in the cellar with us. I don't know their real names, of course, only what they called each other: Billy-Goat and Tiger."

  She laughed softly and gave an embarrassed shrug. "It sounds silly, I know, but that's what I heard in Cologne, when Frankie and the man were talking about them."

  Grovian didn't get this - didn't know what to make of it. She was back on track again, and this latest change in her manner banished his suspicion that it was all an act. What reason would she have for breaking off a successful performance? So it had just been a mental slip. The second that day, perhaps, except that the hand holding the knife had slipped as well.

  He couldn't bring himself to interrupt her and didn't know what to believe any more. In a calm, controlled voice, she was describing those few days she'd spent in Cologne. How she'd desperately tried to regain the affections of Horsti, AKA Johnny or Georg or Frankie. How he had coldly, implacably brushed her off. How his friends, that young couple, had helped her. Genuinely nice people, very sympathetic and touchingly concerned on her behalf. She would definitely remember their names tomorrow She was having trouble with names at present. Hardly surprising, perhaps, after such an awful day.

  It was a few minutes after midnight when the phone went. All three of them gave a start at the first ring. She broke off in mid sentence. Werner Hoss picked up the receiver with evident relief. "Yes," he said. He listened for a few moments, then gave Grovian an odd look.

  Equally relieved at the interruption, she saw Hoss hand the receiver to his boss. A short break would enable her to sort out the fragments. Her brain was in turmoil. The wall was collapsing. Big cracks had appeared in many places, and something was showing through them. The white lobby with the little green mosaics in the floor, the stairs, the splashy painting - they all belonged behind the wall. And that was only the start. At the bottom of the stairs lay a room filled with flickering light.

  She hadn't fallen in, but she'd looked down and seen some white powder on the back of a hand, teeth biting into a lemon. A crystalline paw, Billy-Goat and Tiger . . . It was terrible but ludicrous. Strange the chief hadn't laughed.

  Hunched up with fear and apprehension, she studied his face. The look of surprise that flitted across it gave way to one of satisfaction.

  "No, not necessarily," he said. "Tomorrow morning would be fine. Ten o'clock, say?" He listened some more - he even smiled. `All right, if it's so important to you. It won't be the first night's sleep I've lost."

  Having hung up, he gave the man in the sports coat a meaningful, semi-apologetic nod, then nodded in her direction. His smile was tinged with compassion. He pointed to the telephone. `A young couple?" he said. "Friends of Georg Frankenberg's?" He sighed. "Really, Fran Bender!" His tone became indulgently paternal. "Why didn't you simply tell us your aunt lived here in Cologne? You took refuge with her in December five years ago. There wasn't any young couple. That was your aunt just now, Frau Bender."

  She shook her head. The young couple had been a mistake. She sensed more fragments falling from the wall - she tripped over them and slithered a few steps down the stairs. There was no handhold anywhere, so she clung to Margret. "No," she exclaimed, "that's wrong! My aunt has nothing to do with this - she's never had anything to do with me. I've just remembered what the people were called. The wife's name was Alice, and the husband ... Wait, it's on the tip of my tongue. His name was ... He ... Damn it, what's the matter with me? I thought of it a moment ago. He ... He told me he planned to join a group practice."

  Damn it, thought Grovian: Winfried Meilhofer and Alice Winger, the lake ... That's all she remembers.

  But she was still vociferating. "Why should I have gone to my aunt? You really think I'd have asked for help from a woman I hardly knew?"

  "Yes," he said in a tone of disappointment and frustration. "I not only think so, I know so. Your aunt just told me. That poses the question of where you really heard the names Frankie, Billy-Goat and Tiger. Not from some man in Cologne. You picked them up at the lido this afternoon, am I right?"

  She stared at him, her brow furrowed with concentration. She might almost have been debating his question, but she didn't reply. It was superfluous in any case. Everything was in doubt again. He'd been taken in by her, fool that he was. Why, for God's sake? Because she'd told him exactly what he'd believed at first to be the only rational explanation: an idyllic love story with a tragic outcome. He sighed and made a gesture of dismissal. "Let's stop."

  "No!" It was all she could do to remain seated, he saw She was once more gripping the seat of her chair with both hands. "I can't go through this again. Let's get it over."

  "No," he said likewise, very firmly. "I've had enough for one day. I'm sending for the duty sergeant; he'll put you up in a cell for the night. A dose of sleep will do you good. You're very tired, you said so yourself."

  "I said it, I know, but I'm not-not in the least." Almost in the same breath, she added: "What did Margret want? Why did she call?"

  "She wants a word with us," he said, feeling that it was high time to speak with a member of her family. `And it's so important to her, she can't wait until tomorrow. She's on her way here right now"

  "You must send her away again," she said imploringly. "You'll only be wasting your time - she can't tell you anything. No one can but me."

  Grovian gave a mirthless laugh. `And you've said quite enough for today. It'll take us another three days to sort it out. Let's see if your aunt can help us."

  She shook her head again, even more fiercely this time, and slithered a few steps further down the stairs. "She can't! I never told her anything - I never told a soul, I was far too ashamed. You've no right to question Margret. She knows nothing, I tell you."

  She sprang to her feet, not that it helped much. Although her body rose from the chair, her brain slithered down the last few steps and landed in the midst of the flickering light. She blinked hard. "Please leave Margret alone," she entreated. "She hasn't done anything bad. No one has, only me. I'm a murderess, believe me. I killed an innocent child. That's the truth. And Frankie! Him as well, of course, but I had to kill him because he ..."

  She started stammering, gesticulating frantically, helplessly with both hands as if to emphasize the truth of what she was saying and compel him to devote a few more minutes of his time to her. "He ... He didn't know what to do. I told him to be careful, but he wouldn't listen. I told him to stop, but he didn't care. Do you know what he did?"

  Grovian didn't know, naturally, but he could well imagine. Her halting words seemed to be an attempt to refocus his attention on her pregnancy and miscarriage. However, what followed was out of context.

  "He threw himself on top of her," she said breathlessly, still blinking hard. "He kissed her. And he hit her. He kissed her and hit her in turn, over and over again. He was crazy, not me. He went on hitting her until she was dead - I heard her ribs snap. It was so terrible, so awful. I wanted to help her, but they caught hold of me. One of them lay on top of me, the
other gripped my head and stuck his thing in my mouth. I bit it, and ..."

  The light flickered once more before it went out. She couldn't go on. The chief was staring at her. The man in the sports coat jumped up, hurried to the door and went out. The tape recorder was still running. Having recorded every one of her words till now, it recorded the rest as well.

  "Call him back!" she shouted. "No one must leave. Please don't leave me on my own. Please! I can't stand it. Help me, for God's sake help me! Get me out of here. I can't stand it in this cellar. I can't see, turn on the light again. Help me, please!"

  Everything was blotted out. The chief was simply standing there without moving. He ought to have done something - anything. Taken her arm, held her hand, led her over to the stairs. Or turned on the light, at least, so she could find the way there by herself. It was so dark. Only a few green, blue, red and yellow flashes pierced the gloom and wrested fragments from its depths. "Let go," she gasped. "Get off her, leave her alone. Stop it! Stop it, you swine! Let go of me!"

  Grovian couldn't react, he was too shocked by a sudden realization: what she was saying sounded like rape, and what she'd blurted out before sounded like murder. And she'd mentioned a second girl who had been stupid enough to join them, so it may not have been as much of a fiction as he'd temporarily assumed.

  He saw her gesticulate wildly, gagging as she did so, with one hand over her crotch and the other in front of her face as if trying to push something away. There was no doubt about it: she was reliving what she was trying to tell him.

  He saw her throw up an arm defensively. Saw her clasp her head in both hands and cry "No!" Saw her sway, saw her puffy, contorted features abruptly go limp. But he wasn't quick enough. Almost within arm's reach, she was lying on the floor before he could reach her and break her fall.

  It had happened too suddenly. He froze for a moment, incapable of reacting. Then he smote his thigh with a clenched fist. He felt more like punching himself on the jaw or kicking his own backside - if only he could have reached it. This was his nightmare. He hadn't summoned a doctor, in spite of her battered face and Meinhofer's statement: "I thought he was going to kill her."

  Cerebral haemorrhage ... The words flashed through his mind. At last he kneeled down beside her and raised her head. "Come on, girl, up you get," he said, unaware that he was whispering. "Don't do this to me. Come on, please! You were all right before."

  A red patch the size of his palm was forming on her forehead. In search of further injuries lie brushed her hair aside with trembling fingers, knowing only too well that he wouldn't be able to detect anything serious with the naked eye.

  But he did see the dent in her skull and the jagged white scar on her hairline. Her breathing was shallow but regular. He lifted her left eyelid just as Werner Hoss re-entered the room closely followed by Berrenrath and his colleague, who had been detailed to hold her in custody overnight. Hoss picked up the phone at once.

  "She fainted," Grovian said helplessly. "I was too late."

  The doctor alerted by Hoss took ten minutes to get there - ten hellish minutes from Grovian's point of view Although she recovered consciousness even before Hoss replaced the receiver, every spark of life seemed to have left her. She suffered herself to be picked up and deposited on a chair like a rag doll, but when Grovian laid a hand on her shoulder and started to say something, she struck out at him feebly. "Go away," she sobbed. "Why didn't you stop? Why wouldn't you help me? It's all your fault."

  She turned to Berrenrath. "Can't you get rid of him?" she begged. "Please, he's driving me insane - he pulled down my wall. I can't take it any more."

  Grovian felt obliged to leave the room and give her time to calm down. Hoss followed him out into the passage. He cleared his throat several times.

  "How did it happen?"

  "How do you think it happened?" Grovian snarled. "You heard her: I wouldn't stop - I pulled down her wall."

  Hoss didn't speak for a moment or two. Then he said: "What do you make of her story?"

  "I don't know yet. It isn't all make-believe, that's for sure. I've never known anyone to faint from telling a pack of lies."

  "Me neither," Hoss said uneasily. "Still, I could have sworn she was taking us for a ride."

  The doctor's arrival absolved Grovian from replying. The three of them entered the office together. She was still sitting on the chair as before. Berrenrath was standing beside her with one hand resting on her shoulder - either consolingly or supportively, it was hard to tell which.

  But she seemed in no further need of support. As soon as she caught sight of the new arrival she shook off her apathy and started complaining bitterly. Despite her bemused, bewildered tone of voice, she claimed to be feeling fine. No headache, nothing. She certainly didn't need a jab.

  The doctor checked her reflexes and, after a long look at her pupils, diagnosed a straightforward fainting fit. He blandly assured her that an injection would do her good. Just something for the circulation, a harmless restorative to get her back on her feet.

  With a hysterical laugh, she began by hugging her stomach protectively. "No need to soft-soap me. I know what you're after - you want to get at these."

  Abruptly, she extended both arms in his direction. "Go on, help yourself. See if you can find a vein. Like to take a blood sample too? You'd better - you'll only regret it later. Who knows what was in that lake water I swallowed today."

  After tapping her forearms for a while, the doctor opted for the back of her hand. He muttered something about skin like leather, scar tissue, and the fact that he'd never seen such craters.

  Although Grovian overheard this, he was too relieved by her reaction to draw any immediate conclusions. Half an hour later he was facing her aunt across a desk.

  Margret Rosch had found it hard to persevere in the face of something she would rather not have known about. Unwilling to take no for an answer, tempting though it was, she'd tried again and again until she was finally put through.

  She insisted on seeing her niece, but Grovian put her off. Cora Bender was lying down in an adjacent room. The doctor was still with her, together with Berrenrath, whose presence she had requested. "One of you will have to guard me, I suppose. Would you be kind enough to take on the job? Compared to the rest of this bunch, you seem positively human."

  Werner Hoss had brewed some more coffee. Grovian, taking two cups with him, ushered Margret Rosch into an interview room. She made a dismayed but resolute impression. A buxom, attractive woman in her mid fifties, she was of medium height and had luxuriant hair of the same auburn shade as her niece's. Her face also displayed a family resemblance.

  Her response to Grovian's first and most important question whether her niece had ever displayed any signs of mental derangement - was a vigorous shake of the head. Before giving him any further information, she demanded to be put in the picture herself.

  There was no reason to make a secret of the facts, so he outlined the circumstances of the case. She heard him out, frozen-faced, before proceeding to answer his questions.

  The name Georg Frankenberg meant nothing to her. Horsti and Frankie elicited a shrug, nothing more, butJohnny she'd heard of Cora had mentioned him on one occasion, likening him to the archangel that drove Adam and Eve out of Paradise. `And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked."

  His friend called him Billy-Goat, thought Grovian. He was Satan, who had led the woman into temptation by means of the serpent. And then came the tiger with its paws of crystal.

  It sounded mad, naturally, but he'd seen the scar and the dent in her skull with his own eyes. And she'd also said something about an ashtray. It didn't take a lot of imagination to visualize what had happened in that cellar, and it was likely that anyone who had had to camouflage a Saturday night disco as the eye of God would also clothe a dire experience in biblical quotations.

  Cora's aunt could not recall her mentioning a Johnny Guitar, nor did she know when Cora had made his acquaintance o
r what their relationship had been, but she indirectly confirmed her niece's statements, rambling and intelligible alike.

  In May five years ago her brother Wilhelm had called her. He was worried about his daughter, he said, and suspected that she had got into bad company.

  "I didn't take him too seriously," said Margret Rosch. "In a household where a television set is the work of the devil, any young man is bad company."

  But her brother's fears were not as groundless as she thought. That August, Cora disappeared. For three months she seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth. Then, in November, Wilhelm received a call from a doctor.

  According to this doctor, Cora had been found lying beside a road some weeks earlier. She had been badly knocked about and was unconscious. Later she claimed to have thrown herself in front of a car. However, the doctor surmised from the nature of her injuries that she had been thrown from a car on the move.

  Grovian was feeling rather relieved. The rest of what Margret Rosch told him also fitted the picture. She spoke of a trauma. Whatever had been done to her niece, Cora couldn't bring herself to talk about it. So the suicide attempt could be consigned to the realm of fantasy - the pregnancy too, in all probability. He sought confirmation on this point. "Your niece has repeatedly claimed to have killed an innocent child."

  Margret Rosch gave a nervous laugh. "She most certainly hasn't. She's never had a child."

  "I was thinking more of a pregnancy," he said.

  'An abortion, you mean?" Margret Rosch shook her head. "I can't imagine it, not in Cora's case."

  "It may have been a miscarriage," he said. "That wouldn't be surprising if she was knocked about. Do you know the name of the doctor who treated your niece at the time?"