Night Work (20 page)

He thought for a moment. Yes, that was the lot.

He was worried there wouldn’t be room for the 4WD, but the tailboard shut even after he’d driven it up the ramp
and stopped a good two metres short of the Spider, which he’d loaded aboard the truck in Hollandstrasse. There was even some room to spare.

He found a filling station near the Augarten. While diesel was flowing into the tank he explored the shop. He’d already skimmed every newspaper and magazine on the shelves. The shop also stocked a wide range of soft toys, personalised coffee mugs, sunglasses and models of St Stephen’s Cathedral, as well as drinks and chocolate bars. Jonas filled one plastic bag with a random assortment of snacks and tossed some cans of lemonade into another.

On a revolving stand, in addition to products for cleaning car windows and polishing bodywork, were some Day-Glo nameplates of the kind truck drivers liked to display behind their windscreens. Albert headed the list, followed by Alfons and Anton. Out of curiosity he looked for J. To his surprise he found a couple of Jonases sandwiched between Johann and Josef. He took one and put it behind the truck’s windscreen.

Although it wasn’t dark yet, he got the cameras ready for the night. He was tired, and he wanted to make an early start. Besides, he hoped that if he watched last night’s tape before sunset, it wouldn’t prey on his mind so much.

Jonas locked the door and shut all the windows. He looked out at Hollandstrasse. The truck was parked outside the building next door, so as not to obstruct his view. No movement was visible. Standing close to the window pane, he thumbed his nose and stuck his tongue out.

The bed was empty.

No sign of the Sleeper.

The knife was embedded in the wall.

Jonas wondered when the recording had been made. He couldn’t remember what time he’d set it for, and, as so often, the alarm clock was lying face down on the bed although he’d turned it to face the camera.

He was about to fast-forward when he heard a sound coming from the TV. It was a long-drawn-out, high-pitched wail. So high-pitched it could well have been made by a human voice, but also by a musical instrument.

Eeee!

Angrily, he jumped out of bed and darted across the room. Either he was hearing a ghost, or someone was making fun of his fear of ghosts.

Eeee!

He was tempted to switch off, but his desire to know what would happen next proved too strong. He got back under the bedclothes. For a while he turned his back on the screen, but that was even more unendurable. He looked again. No one to be seen.

Eeee!

‘Very funny,’ he called out. His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat. ‘Oh yes. Yes, well. Oh. Yes, yes.’

Should he fast-forward? He might miss some message. It wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that the sound would lead to something.

Eeee!

He immersed himself in a comic. This enabled him to push the wailing sound to the back of his mind sufficiently for him to let the tape run on. He even grinned at some drawing now and then, but he more than once had to start a page again from scratch.

Music?

Where was the music coming from?

He turned off the sound. Listened. The wall clock was ticking away.

He turned up the volume again. Wailing. But there was something else, something softer. A kind of tune.

He listened, but he couldn’t hear it any longer.

Eeee!

‘And the same to you!’

It was getting dark. Assailed by toothache and a fit of conscience, Jonas pushed away the box of chocolates he’d been eating, there were hardly any left in any case, and pressed the pause button. Then he went to the bathroom and cleaned his teeth. On the way back he noticed that the kitchen was in darkness. He turned on the light.

All he saw at first was someone’s back coming into shot. The figure turned round. It was the Sleeper.

Wide-eyed, Jonas watched the Sleeper go over to the wall and grip the hilt of the knife, staring defiantly at the camera. He pulled it out with ease.

The Sleeper walked towards the camera until his head almost filled the screen. He stepped forwards, his eyes and nose becoming visible in extreme close-up, then stepped back again and winked in a strangely endearing manner. The only thing Jonas didn’t care for was the way he brandished the knife near his throat.

Having nodded as though in confirmation of something, the Sleeper moved out of shot.

Although it was only first light, Jonas padded barefoot across the creaking floorboards to his clothes, which were draped over a chair. He peered out of the window. Some rubbish skips were standing on the other side of the street, just visible in outline. The street looked as it did on a normal Sunday morning, when the last of the night owls had come home and everyone was asleep. He had always liked this time of day. Everything became easier when the darkness receded. It was appropriate that murderers should be strapped into the electric chair or sent to the gas chamber a minute after midnight, Jonas thought, because there was no more hopeless time than the middle of the night.

He had some breakfast and packed the camera. When the sun came up he said: ‘Goodbye, have a nice time!’

He not only locked the front door behind him, he sealed it with sticky tape. No one would be able to get in without his knowing.

While driving along the motorway he pondered on the latest videotape.

How had the Sleeper pulled the knife out of the wall with no effort when he himself had failed to do so several
times? True, the Sleeper wasn’t in bed when the tape started. He could have messed around with the wall and the blade beforehand. But how? The wall was undamaged.

Where the motorway had three lanes, Jonas drove in the middle. Where there were two he kept to the right. He sounded the horn from time to time. Its powerful blare gave him a feeling of security. He’d switched on the driver’s transceiver, which was emitting a soft hiss. So was the radio.

In Linz he looked for the pub where he’d eaten during the thunderstorm. He spent some time cruising around the district where he thought it was, but he couldn’t even find the chemist’s he’d raided for cold cures. He gave up and drove back to the main road. Finding the car showroom was all that mattered.

The Toyota was standing outside, just as he’d left it. Although it didn’t appear to have rained for quite a while, the car was quite clean. The air was evidently less dirty than it used to be.

‘Hello, you,’ he said, and drummed on the roof.

He’d never felt sentimental about the Toyota before. But now it was
his
car, the one he’d owned in the old days. The Spider would never be that for the same reason that Jonas never got himself any new clothes. No new shirts or shoes, because he couldn’t have regarded them as his property. What had belonged to him before 4 July belonged to him now. He would never get any richer.

He backed the 4WD and the Spider off the truck. The Toyota started first time. He drove it aboard. Although the Spider had been smaller, there was still room for the 4WD.

He left the motorway at Laakirchen. The road to Attnang-Puchheim was well signposted, but the house he’d slept in
was considerably harder to find. Not having expected to return, he hadn’t bothered to memorise the route. Eventually he recalled that the house with the few windows had been near the station. That narrowed it down. Five minutes later he spotted the DS standing beside the kerb.

Jonas trod on the kick-starter and the engine fired. He let the moped putter away for a while. Then he pushed it up the ramp and into the truck and secured it to the side. He counted backwards. It was almost incredible but true: he’d been here only a week ago. It felt like months.

Whether or not he’d turned off all the lights before leaving the house, he had to turn them on again now. Going into the bedroom with the bundle of clothes under his arm, he caught sight of his approaching figure in the wardrobe mirror and dropped his gaze. He put the shirt and trousers back where they belonged.

‘Thanks for these.’

He left the room without looking back and headed, stiff-backed, for the front door. He wanted to walk faster, but something held him back. He paid no attention to the curious pictures in the hallway and replaced the car key on its hook.

Just then it struck him that there was

one

more

picture

than last time.

He shut the front door behind him and made his way along the narrow path to the street with marionette-like movements. Nothing in the world could have persuaded him to set foot in that house again

He wasn’t mistaken. One of those pictures hadn’t been there a week ago. Which one, he didn’t know, but there had been seven. Now there were eight.

No, he must have miscounted. That was the only explanation. He’d been tired and agitated and soaked to the skin. His memory was playing tricks.

On the way to Salzburg he felt hungry. He opened the bag of sweets lying on the bunk behind him and drank some lemonade. The weather was deteriorating. Just before the Mondsee exit he drove into a violent rainstorm. Memories of his last visit were not pleasant and he didn’t want to stop, but at the last moment he braked and swerved off down the exit road. The truck’s big wiper blades were whipping back and forth across the windscreen, the cab was warm and he had plenty to eat and drink. He felt almost snug. His shotgun was lying beside him. Nothing bad could happen.

There was a crash as he drove through the lido gate. The signboard above the entrance went flying, but he didn’t feel the slightest jolt.

The car park roads were narrow and separated by strips of grass enclosed by low walls. Ignoring the rows of saplings he was mowing down, he made straight for the stretch of grass beside the lake. With malicious glee he rammed the Hungarian car, which was still there. He put his foot right down. A metal barrier hurtled through the air. He giggled. The grass was slippery. He braked so as not to plunge the truck into the lake.

Keeping well clear of the water’s edge, he reconnoitred the area without getting out, without even stopping. Rain was drumming on the roof of the cab with such violence that he had no need of the inner voice warning him not to get out.

No trace of his tent. Jonas turned and drove as far as the changing cubicles, then back to the car park, which was
strewn with branches and debris. He lowered the driver’s window and put his arm out into the rain. Levelling his forefinger at an invisible passer-by, he yelled some garbled sentences, the content of which he himself didn’t understand.

Finding the Salzburg Marriott presented no problem, in part because it had stopped raining. When he got out in front of the hotel he was both alarmed and exultant.

He couldn’t hear any music.

The CD of the Mozart symphonies, the one that had been meant to attract people to the scene, had evidently been turned off. Or had turned itself off. Or there’d been a short circuit.

Had someone been here? Was someone here?

He would know soon.

Soon.

Shotgun at the ready, he entered the lobby. The notes on the door and the reception desk had both disappeared, but a video camera had been set up in the middle of the passage, its lens trained on the entrance.

‘Who’s that?’ he shouted.

He fired at a lampshade, which exploded in a shower of glass. The sound of the shot continued to echo for several seconds. Without knowing why, he ran out into the street and looked around. No one in sight. He drew a deep breath.

Step by step, hugging the walls and taking cover behind columns, he ventured back into the hotel. He couldn’t stop gulping.

He reached the video camera. No lights were on in the corridor beyond it, which led to the restaurant. Jonas raised the gun, intending to fire into the gloom. He tried to
cock the weapon, but it jammed. He flung it away. The missing knife crossed his mind.

‘What’s the matter, eh? What’s the matter? Come on, don’t be shy!’

He yelled the words at the darkness. All around, everything was quiet.

‘Hang on! I’ll be back in a minute!’

He grabbed the camera and dashed outside. Tossing it onto the bunk complete with its tripod, he locked the doors of the cab and drove off.

He pulled into the next service area. There was a TV in the café. He looked at the video camera. It was the model he used himself.

He went and fetched a lead from the truck. Having connected the camera to the TV, he raided the drinks shelf. His toothache was coming back.

He started the tape.

A man on a station platform wearing the blue uniform of the Austrian State Railway. Whistle in mouth, he was pumping his bat up and down as though signalling to an engine driver.

It was night-time. A train was standing alongside the platform. The uniformed man blew a shrill blast on his whistle and gesticulated in an incomprehensible manner. As if the train were about to pull out, he ran along beside it and leapt aboard. Recovering his balance, or so it seemed, he disappeared inside the carriage. The scene was so perfectly staged, Jonas had the momentary impression that the train was moving.

He looked more closely, his head swimming. The train was stationary.

A blue sign in the background read: HALLEIN.

The uniformed man did not reappear. A few minutes later, without any footsteps being heard, the tape ran out.

Jonas pocketed the tape and replaced the camera and lead in the truck. He acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Whistling a tune with his hands in his pockets, he sauntered across the car park to the filling station and back. He looked round surreptitiously. Nobody seemed to be watching him, no sign of anyone near him. He was surrounded only by the wind.

He felt defenceless without the shotgun. When he passed the station building in Hallein and gained access to the platform by a side entrance, he behaved as if his leg were hurting. He hobbled along, clutching his knee and groaning.

“Oh, ouch! Arrgh!”

Nothing. Nothing spectacular, anyway. According to the noticeboard, the train standing at the platform was bound for Bischofshofen. Jonas got in. Coughing and calling out, he searched each carriage and compartment in turn. The train smelt of stale tobacco smoke and damp.

At the end of the train he jumped out onto the platform again. He was so bewildered, he forgot to limp.

The automatic door that led to the booking hall whirred aside. He sprang back. Motionless, he stared out into the concourse. The door slid shut again. He stepped forward and it opened once more.

Dangling from the roof of the booking hall were eleven ropes with greatcoats attached to them. They looked like hanged men. Only the bodies were missing.

A twelfth was lying on the ground. The rope had snapped.

His legs were numb by the time he hurried back to the truck. He was breathing heavily. The stitch in his side was growing more painful by the second. Now and then he heard himself cry out. His voice sounded hoarse and strange.

Jonas got to Kapfenberg late in the afternoon. He still had time, so he drank a coffee in the garden of a café in the main square. He relaxed and stretched his legs, looking around like a visitor checking out his holiday resort. He had passed through Kapfenberg in the train a few times. Apart from that, he hadn’t been there since he was a boy.

He went in search of a gun shop. After walking around fruitlessly for half an hour, he went into a phone booth and consulted the directory. There was a gun shop on his route. He returned to the truck.

The shop catered exclusively for sportsmen. He couldn’t see a pump-action, and there weren’t even any ordinary small-bore shotguns on display. On the other hand, he couldn’t complain of the selection of sporting rifles. He helped himself to a Steyr 96 – he seemed to recall reading about its ease of operation somewhere – and filled his pockets with ammunition. Then left the shop in double-quick time. He had to get there before sunset at all costs.

From Krieglach onwards he followed the map. He hadn’t been there for twenty years. Besides, never having driven there himself, he’d paid little attention to the route.

Beyond Krieglach the road began to wind and climb. Just as he began to worry that the truck would be too wide for the steadily narrowing road, he came to an intersection. After that the road widened again.

Jonas had estimated that his destination would come into view after half an hour, but forty minutes went by before he thought he recognised a particular bend in the road. He had a feeling his goal lay just beyond it, and this time he wasn’t mistaken. Almost obscured by the long grass bordering the road was a wooden sign welcoming him to Kanzelstein. The sign was unfamiliar, but not the view that met his eyes when he rounded the long bend. On the left stood the inn run by Herr and Frau Löhneberger, which only attracted customers from the surrounding villages on Sundays. On the right was the holiday house. Between these two buildings the strip of asphalt petered out into a narrow, dusty track that disappeared into the forest. This was as far as you could go, at least by car. Jonas had found it surprising, even as a boy, that a village could consist of only two buildings, the more so since one of them was occupied only at certain times of the year: at Christmas, New Year and Easter, and during the summer.

Where it came from he didn’t know, but the sight of the two lonely buildings filled him with a vague sense of dread. It was as if something was wrong with the place. As if something had been waiting for him and had hidden itself just before he arrived.

That was nonsense, though.

His ears popped. He pinched his nose and breathed out with his lips compressed to equalise the pressure. Kanzelstein was 900 metres above sea level. ‘The healthiest altitude of all,’ his mother had never failed to mention when they got there, ignoring the look of impatience on his father’s face.

Jonas sounded his horn. Once he had satisfied himself that a light flashing in one of the windows of the inn was just the reflection of the sun, he jumped down from the cab. He breathed deeply. The air smelt of forest scents and grass. A pleasant aroma, but fainter than he’d expected.

Parked outside the holiday house was a brightly painted Volkswagen Beetle, and beside it a motorbike. Jonas checked the number plates. The holidaymakers came from Saxony. He peered into the car but could see nothing of importance.