‘But wouldn’t people notice a young man with a walker?’ Frank Weller asked, more of himself than his wife.
The doctor came up to the two of them and snapped off his rubber gloves.
‘Basically this man was killed twice. A deep stab to the upper torso shredded his internal organs, and then the culprit cut his vocal cords and extracted his larynx. Someone probably wanted to silence him, once and for all. More in the report.’
In the meantime Peter Grendel had worked his way through to Bettina Göschl. He suggested he drive her home and she accepted his offer with thanks.
*
Svenja Moers heard her stomach rumble, like an internal voice.
She had consumed the roast chicken long ago and would have liked to fashion a weapon out of the bones. Had she read about something like that or was she not remembering correctly? Didn’t Stone Age people or the Aborigines make tools and weapons from bones?
But little chicken bones were hardly suitable as weapons for cutting or stabbing. Besides, she felt she was being watched the whole time.
When she was small, her mother had often told her. ‘God above sees everything.’ She had acted as if someone somewhere was keeping track of her every move. She wanted to look good and be without reproach at the Final Judgement. She imagined it to be like a doctor’s waiting room. God sat behind his desk, wearing a white gown. He also had a doctor’s face, just with a halo, and his assistant was an angel. She still thought her childhood fantasy cute.
This time presumably her judge would be less lenient. Without question, Yves Stern wasn’t just inclined towards sadism, he was mad, a dangerous criminal. Capricious and mean. But she had to try to get him under control. Put him on a leash. Just as she had been able to do with her husbands. She knew men could be manipulated. Over the years she had learned this much. And now was her only chance.
Had Ingo realised that she’d been kidnapped? Was there anyone at all who missed her and would call the police? Her Ingo, the fine Mr Sutter from Oldenburg, didn’t seem a likely candidate. The longer she was here, the more it became clear to her that he would never leave his wife. Perhaps he was scared that she could betray him to the tax authorities. Perhaps he still loved her and enjoyed having two women in his life: a wife with whom he could play the perfect family man, and another woman to satisfy his sexual fantasies. Locked up behind bars, she began to despise him. He wouldn’t come and save her.
The slightest noise resonated like a motor in the sticky air and it was hard to breath. Every movement caused currents of air that she felt on the skin of her upper arms and neck.
She heard the tapping of a cane. The door opened with a hiss and a whirr. Air flowed into the room from outside. Svenja took a deep breath and felt oxygen flowing into her blood along with adrenaline. She shuddered with excitement. The old lady was back again!
She slowly came closer, leaning on a cane. She walked, bent forward as if she had a problem with her spine, as if she had a hunchback.
Her hair was white and tied into a knot. She wore a black dress, buttoned up, double breasted. Her buttons shone golden, as if they had been carefully polished. She had thrown a shawl, which looked handmade, over her shoulders.
‘Please help me, Mrs Stern! I’m sure your son is a good boy! But he needs help. A doctor! A psychiatrist! He’s having a crisis.’
The old lady stood very still, supporting herself with two hands on her cane. She tilted her head and looked critically at Svenja Moers, as if to decide whether Svenja was real or a hallucination.
Svenja Moers wondered if the elderly lady was suffering from dementia.
‘Look, Mrs Stern, these are iron bars!’ She banged against them. ‘If you have a key, please let me out!’
‘Key,’ said the lady, sounding to Svenja like an echo, as if she’d yelled into a deep canyon from the top of a mountain.
‘Yes, key! Where is the key?’
The old lady waved her cane in the air, and the shawl almost slipped from her shoulders. She repeated, ‘Key?’
‘If you don’t know where the key is, then at least bring me a phone so I can call someone! People will be worried about me. As a mother you should understand that. Don’t you always want to know where your son is and if he’s safe? Please, please, bring me a phone or a computer – anything.’
The old woman leaned back on her cane again and then bent forward. Slowly, very slowly, she turned her head away. ‘My son,’ she said, ‘Yes, yes, my son. You want to seduce him. You want to take him away from me.’
‘No, damn it, I don’t! If you let me out, I’ll leave right away. I don’t want anything from your son.’
She knew it was a mistake, but she couldn’t stop herself. She would have liked nothing more than to pelt the woman with objects, just like she’d done to her first husband.
‘Your son is crazy! He’s pretending to be God! He’s sick! Sick!’
‘That’s what that journalist said too, darling. That Faust, the dirty rat.’
‘You mean Faust from the television?’ Finally she’s talking to me, Svenja thought. Maybe everything will work out after all.
‘Do you know what happened to him?’ the old lady asked stepping closer to the bars.
Just a little closer, Svenja Moers thought, just a tiny bit more, and I’ll be able to grab you. She didn’t know what she’d do then, but maybe he would let her go in exchange for the life of his mother. At the moment she held poor cards. She had to make sure the deck was shuffled again.
‘What did Faust say? Does he know Yves?’
The old lady babbled something and spat. She retrieved pictures from under a cloth. They were colour prints on white A4-sized paper.
So she must have access to a printer and where there’s a printer, a computer can’t be far away, Svenja Moers thought. Then she started. The pictures showed a man in a pool of blood. His neck was cut open and he had something between his lips.
‘He’ll never say anything stupid again.’ She cackled like a witch.
The old lady ran her right hand through her white hair and ripped the wig from her head. The giggle became a loud, chuckling laugh. Mean and vulgar.
Svenja Moers leaped back, even though there were bars between them. She bumped against the bed. Her shock was so great that she barely noticed the pain, even though there would be a big bruise later.
‘Yep, you’re surprised, you little bitch? It’s me! And now you’re thinking about that guy, aren’t you? Norman Bates, who had his mother sitting in a chair as a mummy. Psycho!’
While he was speaking, he climbed out of the dress and stood up straight. The fragile old lady became an athletic man with no trace of a hunchback.
‘But I’m not crazy! I’m not running through the house and yelling for my mother. I just chose the perfect disguise to move around without being recognised. No one who is chasing after a killer looks twice at a nice old lady. This way I get through every roadblock.’
He pointed to the photos on the ground. ‘He fell for it. I think even as he was dying he thought he had been killed by a granny.’
Svenja’s knees went wobbly and she had to make an effort to stay standing. She reached back into the air but there was nothing to support her. Just the bed below her.
He grabbed the bars, as if to test how solid they were. ‘OK, and now back to you. It’s obvious that you killed your first two husbands. And what about number three? Good old Ingo Sutter? The honourable member of Oldenburg society? Let me guess – at the moment he’s easily worth half a million. The house isn’t quite paid off and things haven’t gone so well in the last few years, but after the divorce he’ll still be worth at least half that. And then there’s the maintenance for the wife and kids. She’ll take you to the cleaner, believe me. She’s copied the most important documents long ago and deposited them with her lawyer. A real piece of shit, if you ask me. Known for messy divorces. Oh, you don’t need to act so clueless! Your Ingo will lose a lot. So if I were in your shoes, I’d think about ki
lling her before the divorce rather than waiting to get him after you’re married. Then you could comfort the mourning widower.’
She sat down on the edge of the bed, her body as stiff as a candle, and tried to push her feet down firmly against the floor. Her legs quaked.
Intoxicated by his own words, he continued, ‘He’s worth double – at least – if you send her into the great beyond early. And if you get married after waiting a bit – for the sake of decency – he can have an accident or die of . . .’
The shaking started from her knees and spread throughout her whole body. It was as if she could hear her own blood rushing through her body. Loud and unpleasant, like a warning signal.
He pushed his head through the bars up to his ears. His nose moved like an elephant’s trunk. He could smell her fear.
‘Oh, I can see it in you. I can smell it. You had the idea long ago – it’s so obvious. Does he already know? Or maybe he even gave you the idea? Do you talk about these things, when you’re lying in bed next to each other after sex? Most couples smoke afterwards. Some eat ice cream. I personally like a beer and a cigarette. I’m completely normal when it comes to that. And you? Come on, talk to me!’
She tried to get the shaking under control by pressing her palms to her knees. It didn’t work. But her mind was crystal clear. She had to try to get him into the cell and then risk a struggle. If she stayed behind these bars she would only become weaker and eventually die.
You’re only a man, she thought. I’ll get you, or I’ll kill you.
‘Sometimes,’ she said, trying to smile, ‘the chocolate cake afterwards was better than the sex.’
He pulled back his head and opened his mouth in astonishment. The lipstick made him look strangely feminine. Powder from his face had stuck to the metal bars and two indentations next to his ears made his face look as if it had recently been stuck in a cake tin.
He made a face. ‘Chocolate cake?’
She nodded. The shaking subsided. He had responded to her. He hadn’t won the game yet, even if his hand was damn good. And she was encouraged by the thought that he was insane, while she was acting with a clear head.
‘Yes, chocolate cake. Best with a scoop of vanilla ice cream.’
‘And that was better than the sex?’
She looked thoughtful. ‘Sometimes,’ she said, hesitating, and then corrected herself, ‘Often.’
He’s really listening me, she thought. I’m starting to get through to him.
She acted as if she were taking him into her confidence. ‘To be perfectly honest it was most of the time.’
He pushed off the bars with both hands, turned around once and snapped his fingers. ‘I knew it! I could see it from a way off. You’re frigid!’
‘Oh no,’ she laughed, and hoped that she didn’t sound offended. ‘No I’m not.’
Arms akimbo, he said, ‘So you’re telling me you have multiple orgasms, are you?’
The words sounded silly coming from his mouth, as if he was talking about things he had no knowledge of. ’
‘Of course!’ she exclaimed. ‘My second husband was a tantra master.’
She looked at him. He hadn’t expected that and had trouble meeting her eyes.
‘No, he wasn’t,’ he chided.
‘Yes, he was!’
‘You’re lying!’
‘I’m the one who’d know!’
He walked around nervously and clumsily stumbled over the dress lying on the floor. Now it seemed like he was the one behind bars, not her.
He waved his arms in the air. This created a slight breeze on her skin, as if someone had just turned on a fan. He stood still, pointed at her, and almost barked it out. ‘If he was such a wonderful lover, why’d you kill your Tantra master, damn it?’
‘I didn’t.’
He waved her away tiredly. ‘Let’s not start with that again. I thought we were done pretending.’
He bent over, lifted the dress with the golden buttons off the floor, and went to the door.’
‘No!’ she called. ‘Please stay! Don’t leave me alone.’ The steel door was already whirring shut behind him when she heard herself cry. ‘But I love you! Stay!’
She stood still. Had she really just yelled that at him? Had he heard it? Or was the metallic sound of the door too loud when he was on his way out?
Then the door opened again. He danced up to her, wiping under his nose with the back of his hand and smearing the lipstick across his face.
‘What did you say?’ he hissed in a reptilian way. ‘You love me?’
She stood up straight, like a soldier at roll call, and nodded silently.
If you ever come into my cell, she thought grimly, it’ll be a life and death struggle.
She decided to attack his neck, his eyes and his genitals. A kick between his legs and a finger in his eye would take a lot out of him.
He came closer. She wasn’t shaking anymore now that she had a plan.
Just come in here. I’ll rip out your fucking Adam’s apple. I don’t even need a knife. My fingernails should be enough.
‘Shall I open the door and come to you?’
She ran her tongue over her lips and nodded again. She didn’t say anything. She was afraid her voice could betray her.
As if he sensed it, he demanded, ‘Say it again.’
‘I-I love you.’
She thought it sounded believable. Appropriate for the charged situation. Not exactly passionate, but a little aggressive.
He moved from one leg to the other, hopping around like a rapper on cocaine and gloating, ‘You mean you want to sleep with me, here and now? We’ll have wild, uninhibited sex on the bed there?’
‘Yes, I’d love to! Come in. I can hardly wait.’
So, now I’ve got you. You’re also nothing but an idiot controlled by his dick. Come on. Come.
She wondered if she should start taking off her top. Would that push him over the edge or make him wary?
She moved her hips to see if she could attract his attention.
Oh yes, she could!
Now she reached under her breasts and lifted them briefly, moving as if she had to put everything into the right place. All the time, she was only paying attention to his eyes. She could move his gaze wherever she wanted to.
Open the fucking door! Come on, do it!
She saw him on the floor in front of her, crying with pain and disappointment. But could you even cry with your eyes gouged out? Should she leave one of his eyes?
He played with the key.
Yes, you stupid motherfucker, enjoy your power one last time. It’ll be over soon. Forever. I’ve put two husbands into the great beyond. It wasn’t fun. Not for any of us. But I’ll enjoy it with you.
She felt wolfish, cunning, positively superior.
As if he’d guessed her thoughts, he suddenly made a cutting gesture through the air, as if wielding an imaginary Samurai sword.
‘So you did do it, right?’
‘Did what?’
‘With your husbands. Feigned love, lulling them into a false sense of security and then—’ He made a throat-cutting gesture. ‘You’re one of those death spiders, or whatever they’re called. Those creatures where the female eats the male while mating.’
‘They’re called wasp spiders and the males sacrifice themselves. It’s the most they can do for their progeny.’
‘You,’ he laughed, ‘won’t ever get me. You’re in here for life, my dear. Life in prison!’
He turned on his heel and walked through the shiny steel door, provocatively aping a feminine swing of hips. There he turned around one last time, pointed to her, promising: ‘This is the final destination for you. You’re done for, baby. You could get some relief if you write down your confession, but other than that . . . ’ He ticked off the possibilities. ‘One meal a day. Fresh clothes once a week. Maybe I’ll even turn down the heat and turn on the radio. Maybe.’
He reached to the right, touching a switch, and the door cl
osed by itself.
*
Everyone who had attended the cooking class with Svenja Moers and the supposed Yves Stern had to be questioned. Rupert saw Ms. Meyerhoff and was immediately enthused by the job. She was so much his type that it was almost as if she’d been made for him.
If there was a God, Rupert thought, he sent me to this woman to make up from the suffering of the last few days and weeks. Thank you, Lord! I want to be your loyal servant and your courageous warrior. Whatever you need.
Rupert had his own way of praying, but at that moment he thought he had a great connection with heaven.
Agneta Meyerhoff led him into her apartment, and the way she walked ahead of him, every step was a promise to Rupert. Maybe she does yoga or dance, he thought. It’s possible that she works out on the step machine every day. At any rate, she had firm calves and a tight arse. But not so much that she seemed manly. Rupert loved curves. Too much sport and fitness was not always a good thing.
She wore a maroon dress that stopped just above the knee and had a slit down the back. Her black nylons had a silk sheen and a seam up the back that sparked Rupert’s interest.
She offered him either ice tea or an espresso. Because he hesitated, she asked, ‘Or are you allowed to have a beer? I also have Prosecco.’
Rupert decided on a beer. She fetched it from the fridge, telling him that her husband was away on business, and they only saw each other once every few weeks. Usually at the weekend.
Rupert looked at the ceiling. Thank you, Lord.
Rupert thought beautiful women who were aware of their bodies were fantastic. Neglected beautiful women who were aware of their bodies were a godsend.
She held out an East Frisian brew.
‘Well?’ she asked, ‘Glass?’
‘Bottle is fine,’ Rupert said opening the bottle and taking a long swig. He liked dark, traditional beer from Grossefehn.
She’d given him a small bottle. At home, Rupert always had a six-pack of the litre bottles in his garage.
He poured her a glass of Prosecco from the half-full bottle. The wine already seemed flat and stale to Rupert, and he was happy that he hadn’t chosen Prosecco. Only women drank that kind of thing anyway.
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