The Lie (22 page)

Perhaps she shouldn't have said that, but she just couldn't resist. Nadia stared, her eyes spitting fire. She'd really got into her stride by now and
went on without stopping, “If you're not in agreement I'll have to ring Michael and ask for a meeting. I can play him the little tape you recorded in my flat. I can show him my ID card and your letters to me. And one or two more. I can do all sorts of things to convince him there's a faithful version of his wife. And that he won't have to worry every time that version takes a drink.”

Her heart started to pound as she listed everything she could do, but overall she felt strong, just as strong as she'd felt when she'd placed herself in front of old Herr Schrag during the second bank robbery and pushed him towards the door. For a couple of seconds she thought she was in the stronger position, too. Then Nadia started to smile. It wasn't a nasty smile, not an icy smile any more, it was just bored. It reminded her of the red stain on the branch manager's shirt.

“Don't try to threaten me. Given your life story, you must realize you'll come off worse. It would break Mama's heart to stand at the grave of her only daughter and I just have to snap my fingers to make it happen. Rest in peace Susanne Lasko. You couldn't have made anything more of your life anyway. Is that what you want? Then ring Michael.”

Nadia turned on her heel and went back to the car park. She followed slowly, all churned up inside. She could hardly believe it when she found herself her eyes actually scouring the ground for a piece of wood or a stone she could use as a weapon. She couldn't stop herself. A few steps in front of her, dangling from Nadia's shoulder, was the handbag that contained everything she needed. And a few miles further on was a man for whom she obviously had something to offer that he didn't get from his wife! The Porsche was only a hundred yards away. But she didn't know where she was to go with it to swap it for the Alfa Spider. And she wouldn't know how to take the piss out of Henseler, young Maiwald or Barlinkow at the next party Lilo Kogler organized. You couldn't just slip into a forty-year-old life like a blouse someone else had taken off. She heard a strange grinding noise and realized it was her teeth.

When she reached the car, Nadia opened the passenger door and, with a gesture, invited her to get in. When she hesitated, Nadia asked coolly, “Do you want to walk back? Or are you afraid? Don't worry, I'll return you to your dump safe and sound. And we'll forget the whole thing. If you're sensible, your mother can enjoy an untroubled old age.”

She got in. And Nadia drove her home, stopping two streets away from her flat. She got out and leaned in the car. “So what about Wednesday?”

“Fuck off,” Nadia snarled. “And close the door.”

She didn't close it, she simply walked away. Behind her she heard Nadia swear. The door slammed, the engine roared, the white sports car flashed past and disappeared. Heller was still - or once more - leaning out of the window, and shouted something when she approached the tenement. He vanished as she opened the door and she assumed he'd be waiting to catch her on the stairs. Fortunately for him he wasn't. Otherwise he might have become acquainted with her knee for the first time.

She spent the whole evening and half the night pacing round the flat, from the kitchen to the tiny living room, from there to the half-bedroom and on into the bathroom-cum-shower. Almost blinded by tears, she wailed her frustration at not having picked up a heavy stick in the woods. At one point the walls came in, threatening to smother her, then receded into the distance and the squalor was transformed into a snow-white villa where a sweet-tempered and affectionate husband was waiting for her longingly.

With the first trains passing outside, calm returned, at least inside her. Under the shower she washed away all the tears with lots of cold water. At half-past six she was having breakfast with Nadia's letters on the table. For the hundredth time she read, “Perhaps I can do something to change that.”

There was so much Nadia Trenkler could have done. That she could get rid of her just by snapping her fingers - the very expression took all the weight out of the threat. She didn't believe Nadia could be a danger to her. And she was absolutely determined not to let her get away with the way she'd treated her.

The first thing Susanne Lasko did on Tuesday 17 September was to go to the place where it had all begun, the entrance hall of Gerler House. It was shortly after nine and fairly cool. The sky looked as grey and dreary as her future. Only where the sun must have been could a faint blush of pink be seen among the clouds.

She was wearing light-grey trousers, a pullover and a dark-blue wool blazer, her elegant attire complemented by a discreet amount of make-up. She approached the four lifts hesitantly, trembling a little at the idea that one of the doors might open and leave her facing her double. A lift arrived. There were only two men in the cabin and they hurried out past her.

Taking a deep breath, she got into the empty cabin. She was about to press the button for the fifth floor when she saw it. Alfo Investment. A tiny brass plate beside the button for the seventh floor. She should have realized that sooner, even though she hadn't had another chance actually to see the plate. Nadia's appointment that had been shifted to Tuesday came to mind. That meant it was pretty likely Nadia would come to swap her Alfa for the Porsche. It was a reflex action to press the button for the underground garage.

Not long afterwards she was walking briskly along the rows of parked cars. There was still the odd free space. Eventually she found the white sports car behind one of the massive concrete pillars, next to a green Golf, beside which was a blue Mercedes. One space was free, then came the next pillar. And over the four spaces was written on the white wall: “Alfo Investment”.

She recognized the dark-blue Mercedes, she'd ridden in it once. It meant that the friendly fat man who'd driven her into town when she'd had the temperature must have been Philip Hardenberg. That Nadia's employer of all people should have happened to be driving past the telephone box and stopped to help out of pure kindness of heart, she found hard to believe. But she did recall Nadia saying something about an acquaintance. It wasn't important just at the moment.

Almost automatically a bloody scene unrolled inside her head. A woman going towards her car, her double appearing from behind the
pillar, a cudgel or, even better, an iron rod in her hand. A well-aimed blow and the woman by the car collapses, her head streaming with blood. The murderer prises the car keys out of her hand, opens the boot and heaves the dead body into it.

She could have spent hours standing by the pillar developing the scenario, but at least the thought did help her deal with her impotent fury. After what seemed like an eternity she returned to the lift, went up to the fifth floor and entered the offices of Behringer and Partners. Frau Luici's initial smile turned into a wondering frown as she enquired, “And what can I do for you, Frau?…”

“Lasko,” she said. “I'd like to speak to Herr Reincke.”

“Have you an appointment?”

“No.” She returned the smile in Nadia's manner and took the invitation she'd written herself out of her bag. “But I do have this.”

Frau Luici took the letter and glanced through it, muttering, “I don't understand.” She hadn't tried to forge Behringer's signature. Frau Luici noticed it was missing, looked up at her and said. “It's not signed.”

“Precisely,” she said. “I'd like to know whether it's just a mistake or someone's playing a joke on me. Can I speak to Herr Reincke?”

“Of course,” said Frau Luici. She stood up, trotted over to Herr Reincke's office, knocked briefly, opened the door, cleared her throat and said, “Have you a moment, Herr Reincke? I have a lady here. There appears to have been another mess-up.”

Two minutes later she was sitting across the desk from nice Herr Reincke. He looked somewhat unsure of himself. Whether the invitation to a further interview was the cause or the confrontation with someone he hadn't expected to see again, was hard to say. One thing was certain: he found her appearance in his office embarrassing. “Yes,” he said eventually. “Unfortunately, Herr Behringer isn't in the office today. He hasn't mentioned it to me. Perhaps it would be best if you were to make an appointment…”

God, she hadn't considered the possibility of Behringer being there! She quickly plucked the letter out of Herr Reincke's hand and explained, “That will not be necessary. I haven't come to discuss my salary expectations with Herr Behringer. I would have been delighted to do so, but in the meantime I have obtained a well-paid position with Alfo Investment - or Philip Hardenberg, if that means more to you.”

Reincke nodded. He ran his eyes over her clothes. She'd taken her blazer off and laid it across her lap, letting the lining show - and the label, which indicated it wasn't from some cheap high-street store. “I found the letter amusing,” she went on, “but that's not what brings me to you. You perhaps remember that my knowledge of foreign languages is deficient?”

Reincke nodded again and waited.

“My mother has suddenly fallen ill,” she said. “Among her things I found a letter, in French. I can hardly understand a word and I wondered if you would help me translate it.” As she spoke, she slipped the Behringer invitation back in her bag and took out her copy of
Jacques mon chéri
. Glancing through the first lines, Reincke informed her that there were gaps in the text.

“I know,” she said. “But I don't need a complete translation, I just need to know what it's about.”

She followed her words with a deliberately artificial looking smile as she told him her father had died years ago but now she had the impression her mother had managed to find some consolation.

Reincke nodded again and returned to the letter. He furrowed his brow in concentration as he began to read, now and then murmuring a few words, which she could make nothing of. After a while he read on in silence, apparently gripped by what he was reading. “Yes,” he said eventually, looking as embarrassed as he had at the beginning. “I don't think this letter was written after your father died. I think perhaps the best thing would be for you to discuss it with your mother.”

Assuming an expression of deep mourning, she whispered, “I'm afraid that's no longer possible, Herr Reincke.”

“Well, then,” he began hesitantly. “My French isn't perfect and the letter's rather fragmentary, but if I understand it correctly, your mother's asking for a reconciliation. She deeply regrets what she's done and reminds him of the wonderful times they had together when they were young. She knows he's split up with Alina and thinks that is an opportunity for them to get back together again. She's says she's very unhappy in her marriage, her husband has absolutely no understanding of her needs. She would leave him if he - I assume that's Jacques - could forgive her. Is that enough?”

“Yes. Thank you very much.” She took back the sheet of paper. “You've been very helpful.”

He blushed like a schoolboy on his first date. “You're welcome,” he said. “And you really don't want to talk to Herr Behringer? I could get you an—”

She broke in quickly. “No, it's really not necessary.”

“Then I'll do it for you. We can't just ignore this. The only explanation I can think of is that the new typist forgot—”

She broke in again. “Good Lord, no! I don't want to get the poor thing into trouble. It will just have been a slip. That kind of thing can easily happen in the first few weeks.”

“It should not happen,” Reincke declared firmly. “And Herr Behringer could hardly have expressed himself more clearly. I'm glad he's changed his…” He broke off and started again. “I wasn't happy with his decision. Before the interview we were in agreement regarding your appointment. Then suddenly Herr Behringer decided to give an opportunity to a young woman with excellent foreign languages who was looking for her first job. But when it comes down to it, I'm the one who has to sort things out after her.”

“Please,” she said, trying to stop him seeing Behringer about it, “it's not that serious. As I said, in the meantime I've—”

Reincke raised his hand and shook his head firmly. “Your desire to protect the young woman does you credit, Frau Lasko. But something has to be done. The letter to you is not the only blunder we've had in the last few weeks.”

“In that case,” she said, holding out her hand. She preferred not to think of Behringer's reaction. Much more important than the six-foot giant's possible telephone call to Philip Hardenberg - “Just imagine, that Lasko woman turned up here” - was Michael's reaction to his wife's letter to
Jacques, mon chéri
.

Reincke took her hand and shook it. She went to the door and before he knew what was happening she'd left his office, nodded to Frau Luici and shot out of reception. In her mind she ticked off item number one. Item number two was the telephone in Jasmin Toppler's flat, item number three a meeting with Michael. She was sure she could persuade him to agree to that.

She took her time going home. Now neither the drizzle nor the unpleasant cold wind bothered her. Reincke's translation had improved her chances. “I can convince him there's a faithful version of his wife.”
And Michael didn't have to go back to the lab until Wednesday. It was all falling out nicely. At the moment Nadia was probably on her way to the rearranged appointment. From what she remembered of the man's suggestion, Nadia was probably meeting him around midday.

Back in Kettlerstrasse she just went to her flat for long enough to get Jasmin Toppler's key. She made sure Heller wasn't around, then slipped across. “Good morning, Herr Trenkler. My name won't mean anything to you, but my face will. I know you have some free time today and I hope we can meet. Don't say no, it's very important. It concerns your wife.” Either that, or: “Hi, darling. He didn't turn up. I'm in the Opera Café, do you fancy coming over? I've a surprise for you.” She was only going to decide which version when she heard his voice. She was confident she would be able to tell what kind of a mood he was in from the sound of his voice.