He drew a deep breath. "Frau Bender, can't we discuss this another time? It's a very complicated matter. I'll have to see if there's some way out of the problem - and I will, I promise you. But now you must tell me the name of the hospital that treated you. If you don't know the name, tell me what town it was in. Give me some clue - something that will enable me to prove you weren't a drug-addicted whore. You weren't an addict, Herr Grovian has already proved that, and he can't imagine that you ever associated with perverts."
He was hoping that another reference to Grovian would revive her willingness to cooperate, but in vain: she merely stared at him without expression. To hell with Helene and her psychologist's instructions. Being a lawyer, he had different arguments to hand.
"Do you really want to stew in here for the rest of your life, counting to avoid having to think? Wouldn't it be far better to clear your head by thinking things over thoroughly for once? You'll survive a few years in prison - and it won't be more than a few, I promise you. But this place" - he tapped the tabletop - "can drive a person insane. Is that what you want?"
She didn't answer, just looked at him and chewed her lower lip.
"I don't think it is," he said firmly. He had talked himself into form, and his voice carried more and more conviction. "You killed a man, Frau Bender. Only a man, not the Saviour. I don't want to hear you utter that word again. We shall find out why you did it. We shall prove that you had a reason any normal person can understand. And within a few years, Frau Bender, you'll be truly free. Think it over. You're only twenty-four, you can make a fresh "
Her expression scarcely changed. A trace of bewilderment crossed her face, but that was all. "He knew how old I was," she broke in.
`Aha," he said, not knowing whom she meant and uncertain whether to bring her back to the point. The look on her face betokened concentration.
"How did lie know that, when I had no papers on me? Naked by the roadside, he said, badly injured, full of heroin and without any papers. And then he said: `You aren't even twenty' Was it guesswork? He couldn't tell from my face, I looked so awful. Check my driving licence - I had to apply for a new one, and I still had some old photos, but the authorities wouldn't accept them. They didn't believe they were of me because I looked so old. He can't have known my age."
She fell silent for a few moments, drew a hand across her brow and sighed. "I really don't know his name," she said eventually. "He didn't tell me, and I never even asked him where I was. He didn't tell me that either. I can't remember how I got into the train. A porter told me when to get out. I had a slip of paper with the address on it. I also had money. Someone must have given the cabby the slip of paper and the fare. Grit said I arrived in a taxi."
She sighed again and shrugged apologetically. "If you promise to help me cremate my sister without getting Margret and Achim punished for the death certificate and the dead girl's body, I'll describe the doctor to you. I can't do more. Will you promise me that?"
Brauning did so, and half an hour later he was on the phone to Grovian. "I don't know what to make of it," he said. "She insists there was only a doctor plus a nurse whom she seldom saw Her room was very small, she says. No window, and just enough room for a bed and a few items of medical equipment. It sounded to me like a box room."
He went on to describe the man. Several seconds' silence followed. "Herr Grovian?" he said, wondering if they'd been cut off.
"Yes, I'm still here. It's just that . . . " Another silence, then: "My God, that's quite impossible. It must be ... How far is it? Four hundred miles at least. But that's impossible!"
She'd been sitting beside him in the car for a good half-hour. Grovian had spent the first few minutes trying to prepare her for the coming confrontation. He'd told her where they were going and why. By arrangement with the district attorney, the examining magistrate, Professor Burthe and Eberhard Brauning, he had rehearsed her at least three times.
It wouldn't have been in the least worthwhile under normal circumstances, but circumstances were anything but normal. Even Professor Burthe was of the opinion - and had convinced the DA and the examining magistrate - that only a crack of the whip could induce her to point a finger and say: "This was the man who treated my head injury."
Being the chief, Grovian needed no whip. She had heard him out in silence. She had even nodded when he asked if she'd understood it all and would do him this favour, considering the time and effort he'd expended on finding the medical man in question.
A consultant neurologist and brain surgeon who headed his own private clinic: Professor Johannes Frankenberg!
He should have withheld the name from her. It wasn't hard to follow her train of thought. If Frankie had been the Saviour, Johannes Frankenberg must logically be God the Father. As such, he must often have stood beside her bed at a stage when she was not yet fully conscious: the Almighty, who had performed a miracle upon her - a miracle in the truest sense - by patching up her shattered skull and transforming it into a serviceable head once more. How often he must have bent over her, shining a little torch on her motionless eyelids and saying: "My son wasn't to blame for this disaster." Perhaps he'd felt it his duty to send her on her way to eternity with that thought in mind. He couldn't have expected her to pull through.
Helene Brauning had pointed out that one could never tell exactly how much a comatose patient takes in.
And Cora Bender had said: "I'll gladly do you a favour, but I don't know if I can. What shall I say to him? My God, don't you understand? He was so kind to me, and I killed his only son. Frankie hadn't done me any harm."
That had been two days ago. Professor Burthe's immediate reaction to his proposal had been less than favourable, and it had taken a long conversation to convince him. Grovian had laid his cards on the table. They didn't amount to much, but Cora Bender had supplied a detailed personal description. Even Professor Burthe had to concede that it couldn't have sprung from her imagination, so he'd permitted Grovian another brief interview with her.
He still remembered vividly how startled she'd been when he came in, how she'd stared at his neck and trembled. She didn't calm down until he'd told her twice why he was there. "I'd like to make a trip with you in the next few days, Frau Bender. Just the two of us. To Frankfurt."
She'd understood two days ago, but when he'd picked her up half an hour before ... She was staring straight ahead. He tried once more. "Well, Fran Bender, as I already said, you won't have to speak to Herr Frankenberg. Just a quick look at him, then we leave. And then you'll tell me if
She reacted at last. "Can't we talk about something else?" she broke in, looking tormented. "I'll do it. I'll look at him when we get there, but we aren't there yet. I don't want to have to think about it till then."
Her speech was slightly slurred. He felt pretty sure they'd given her some kind of medication before they handed her over. He only hoped she wouldn't fall asleep. Talking was a good way of staying awake, but they didn't have to talk about Frankenberg.
"What would you prefer to talk about?"
"I don't know. My head feels like a bucketful of water."
"I know a cure for that."
There was no hurry. They didn't have to be there before one o'clock, which was when Johannes Frankenberg could spare them a few minutes. Grovian had fixed the appointment without mentioning that he wouldn't be alone. A coffee break would do her good.
Soon afterwards he pulled into a service area and sat her down at a window table in the cafe. She went on pouring sugar into her cup from a dispenser until lie gripped her wrist. "You'd better not stir that - it'll be undrinkable. You don't take sugar normally, or am I wrong?"
She shook her head and stared out of the window Her face looked even paler in profile. "I'd like to ask you something."
"Go ahead," he said.
She drew a deep breath and took a sip of coffee. "That girl," she began hesitantly. "You told me that a girl's remains had been found near a military training area. Do you know what happened to
them?"
"They were buried, I assume."
"I thought as much. Do you know where?"
"No, but I can find out - if you're interested."
"I am, very. I'd appreciate it if you could find out and tell me." He merely nodded, speculating on the reasons for her request. The true reason escaped him, however. Although Eberhard Brauning hadn't grasped what death certificate and what strange girl she'd been alluding to, he had naturally kept his promise. Grovian still assumed that Magdalena Rosch had died on 16 August - of cardiac and renal failure.
She picked up her cup again and put it to her lips, but her hand shook so violently, she spilled some coffee on the table. She replaced the cup on its saucer with a clatter. "I can't do this. It can't be right. Work it out for yourself. We didn't drive as far as this. We were in Hamburg, not Frankfurt - I saw the signs on the autobahn. We must turn back. He was such a nice man. Perhaps he really did find me beside the road. I may have walked a long way."
"I don't think you were capable of walking, Fran Bender."
"Oh, you!" She made a dismissive gesture. "Lies are all you ever believe. No one has told you the truth, take it from me." She turned away again and gazed out of the window in silence for several seconds. Still with her head averted, she asked: "What would happen to me if I confessed to a second murder? That would make two. What would I get?"
"For the confession, nothing," he told her. "You'd have to produce another dead body."
She stared into her coffee cup, then raised it to her lips again. Although her hand was still trembling, she managed a sip without spilling any. Having replaced the cup, she said: "You already have one: the girl on Luneburg Heath."
She gave a fleeting smile. "I killed her. It was me." When he made no comment, she added: "That's a confession. I want you to treat it as such."
He nodded. "Then I'll need more details."
"I know I lied to you about Magdalena's birthday. I drove back to the Aladdin when she was asleep, but Johnny wasn't there any more, just the girl Tiger had been dancing with. She told me the two of them had gone on somewhere. Johnny had said it wasn't worth waiting for an inhibited prick-teaser. That made me so mad I freaked out, but I remained friendly. I asked her if she'd care to come somewhere else with me. Then I drove her to the heath, where I punched and kicked her to death. I jumped on her chest with both feet and broke her ribs. When she was dead I undressed her so it would look as if some men had done it. I threw her clothes away on the return trip. We'd better go back now, then you can take this all down."
"We aren't going back, Frau Bender," he said firmly. "Your statement can be taken down later. An hour or two won't matter, not after five years."
Her lips twitched as they had on the night he first questioned her, when he still thought she was putting on an act. "But I don't want to go there," she said. "I really can't. He'll ask me why I did it, but my lawyer says I mustn't mention the Saviour. And then he'll say he should have let me die. It would have been better if he had, but he saved my life."
Grovian reached across the table and took her hands. He held them tight - tugged at them until she finally brought herself to look at him. "Listen to me, Frau Bender. Professor Frankenberg saved your life, which was praiseworthy of him. But before he could save it someone must have endangered it, and he didn't want that someone to go to prison. He wouldn't have done such a thing for a stranger. Concentrate on that, just that. Have I made myself clear?" When she nodded he released her hands.
"But I'll have to go to prison for killing that girl?"
"Yes, of course."
`And not just for a year or two?"
"No, it was premeditated murder. That would mean a life sentence."
He paid for the coffee, took her arm and led her back to the car. She seemed to be easier in her mind. While they drove on she told him about her life with Gereon. Three years in a soap bubble. Soap bubbles burst easily. Still, her son was in good hands with his grandparents, she felt sure.
They got there with almost an hour in hand. He pulled up in the car park outside the clinic, a handsome two-storey building in dazzling white stucco. He was hoping for some sign of recognition, but none came. "If it really happened the way she says," the DA had said, "they probably doped her before taking her to the station. But none of this can be proved, unfortunately, even if she recognizes Professor Frankenberg. We would need a confession on his part, and you'd better not count on that."
She sat there for some minutes, shoulders hunched uneasily, peering out of the car window Then she insisted on his taking down her confession to the girl's wanton murder. Just to be on the safe side, she said. You never could tell. She mightn't feel up to it later on, and she'd sooner get it over.
He humoured her by scribbling a few lines in his notebook and getting her to sign them. She sat back.
"How much time do we have?"
`Almost an hour."
"Could we stretch our legs a little?"
The car park was enclosed by shrubs, the clinic itself by mature trees. "It looks so peaceful," she said.
He opened the passenger door and locked the car behind them, then strolled towards the clinic with her. Frankenberg's private residence, which was situated behind it, was still out of sight, but he knew from his previous visit that it was built in the same style.
Grovian didn't feel like stretching his legs. He shepherded her slowly towards the house, eager to get it over and done with. She was saying something - like a child whistling in the dark, it seemed to him, and he knew so well how she must be feeling: guilty through and through.
His own feelings he strove to ignore. He couldn't help her, nor could Brauning or the district attorney. They might find a thousand plausible reasons for Georg Frankenberg's death, but nothing could unburden her of Magdalena's death. Burthe could try to explain to her that it had been an accident or a mercy killing.
Grovian had grasped that he'd been wrong and fathomed what she'd tried to tell him about the manner of Magdalena's death. He even realized whose skeletal remains had been discovered on the heath in August five years earlier. But jumping on her chest with both feet? What nonsense! She must have exerted a little too much pressure with her hand while masturbating her and hankering for Johnny, that was all.
And her father, who loved her above all else, had kept his mouth shut. Her crazy mother didn't understand, and the neighbour wasn't allowed in the house any more. The body had lain upstairs for a few months until Margret decided to act at last. She'd dumped the remains on the heath and procured the death certificate. It was as simple as that.
The front door of the private residence was approached by three steps. He climbed them ahead of her and rang the bell. Moments later the door opened. Ayoung woman neatly attired in a white coat looked at him enquiringly and cast a dubious glance at his companion.
"May I help you?"
He produced his warrant card. "We've an appointment with Professor Frankenberg at one. I'm afraid we're a little early."
No matter, she said, they could wait in the drawing room. Grovian led the way across the entrance hall. Cora followed, her apprehensive expression and hunched shoulders seeming to suggest that an executioner's block awaited her in the middle of the drawing room. But there was just a sofa and, beside it, an enormous parlour palm whose outspread fronds resembled the spokes of an umbrella. Above the sofa hung an abstract painting in a plain frame. Grovian had been shown into another room on his first visit, so he was seeing it for the first time.
She headed straight for it and came to a halt in front of the sofa. Her face registered a mixture of surprise and bewilderment. She looked down at the floor, then up at the wall beside the sofa.
"It can't be," she said in a low voice. "The stairs have been blocked up." She made a helpless gesture that encompassed the whole room. "They've rebuilt the place." She pointed to the opposite wall. "That's where we were standing, Johnny and me. I was feeling bad because Magdalena ..." She broke off in mid sentence, shuddering
and gagging. Then, haltingly, she went on.
I never hated her more than I did at that moment, when she stretched out on the bed. I knew my finger and the candle wouldn't be enough this time. She usually liked to talk and have a cuddle afterwards. If I wanted to make her really tired, I would have to do it with my tongue ... The very thought of it made me feel sick.
That was when I realized that everything was topsy-turvy. I didn't live for her; she lived my life through me. Father used to call her his little bird, and that's what she was like, a bird pecking the best bits out of my miserable life. All she left me was a sense of disgust.
Maybe it was only the champagne that made my head spin. Maybe it was the thought of Johnny, whom I'd walked out on. I felt I was burning up inside as I kissed and caressed her. Johnny would have been doing that to me, had I stayed with him.
So I proceeded to tell her the truth - all of it. No real boyfriends so far, just a well-meaning wimp. No red-hot sex with randy Casanovas, just a few lukewarm, beer-flavoured kisses. And now this uniquely different boy who had turned my legs to jelly.
She lay still and listened to me. When I started to weep she put her arms round me. I felt her hands on my back. She pulled my T-shirt out of my waistband, slid her hands beneath it and stroked my back. "It's all right," I heard her whisper. "It's all right, sweetheart. I'm sorry. I'm a terrible burden to you, I know, but not for much longer. Not for much longer, sweetheart, I promise you." She slid her hands beneath my arms and cupped them around my breasts. I didn't want her to touch me like that. I wanted to feel Johnny's hands there, yearned for Johnny's whispers, Johnny's kisses, Johnny's body.
I can't recall if I told her that, but I must have done so because she suddenly let go of me and said: "You can have him, sweetheart. Go get him, and I won't ask you afterwards what it was like." She sat up. "Know what we're going to do now? We're going to Johnny."
She always said "we" when she meant me. I couldn't help thinking of the kindly student nurse she'd told me about, and how she'd longed for a cuddle from Mother when things were really grim. And the only person she'd had was me.
The Sinner Page 34
