The Method (2 page)

‘Well, folks,’ says Barker. ‘I’m afraid the next case isn’t quite so easy. You’re not going to like it, Sophie.’

‘Is there a child involved?’

Barker raises his index finger and the image changes again, this time to show a middle-aged man. Full body shots, naked. Front and back. Inside and out. X-rays, ultrasounds and an MRI of the brain.

‘You’re looking at the father,’ says Barker. ‘Multiple prior convictions for abuse of toxic substances, primarily nicotine and ethanol. This time he’s up for violating the laws on early detection of disease in infants and children.’

‘How old is the little one?’

‘Eighteen months. Female. Non-attendance at stages G2 plus G5 through to G7 of the compulsory medicals. More seriously, the father didn’t bring her for screening – cerebral condition unknown and no information on allergies.’

‘Very remiss. Couldn’t someone have acted earlier?’

‘The civic doctor did his best to remind the respondent
of
his legal obligations, but the situation couldn’t be resolved. In the end, a counsellor was appointed – not a moment too soon, I’m afraid. He found the child in a terrible state: undernourished with a serious case of diarrhoea and vomiting … She was lying in her own filth. Another few days, and it would have been too late.’

‘How awful. Surely he knows a baby can’t look after itself?’

‘There were problems at home,’ explains Rosentreter. ‘He’s a single parent—’

‘We’re aware of the circumstances, but to treat your own daughter with such …’

Rosentreter raises a weary hand to signal his agreement with Sophie. The gesture is barely over when the door behind him opens. The new arrival doesn’t knock or apologise for the disturbance: he moves with the confidence of a man accustomed to going where he pleases. His suit is perfectly tailored and worn with the carefully measured insouciance that true elegance requires. His hair is dark, his eyes are almost black, and his limbs are long but not lanky. He has the deceptive ease of a predator – a big cat with its eyes half closed, but ready to attack at any time. Only those who know Heinrich Kramer would notice the tremor in his fingers, which he disguises by keeping his hands in his trouser pockets. When outdoors, he wears a pair of white gloves, which he now removes.

‘Santé, one and all!’ He places his briefcase on a spare table and pulls up a chair.

‘Santé, Herr Kramer!’ says Barker. ‘Still on the hunt for a good story?’

‘The fourth estate never sleeps.’

Barker laughs for a second, stopping only when he realises that Kramer isn’t joking.

Kramer leans forward with a frown, staring intently at the private counsel as if to remember who he is. ‘Santé, Rosentreter,’ he says, inflecting every syllable.

Rosentreter looks up briefly and buries his head in his files. Kramer straightens the crease of his trousers, crosses his legs, tilts his head, and cultivates the look of a casual observer, a difficult role for a man like him.

‘Back to the case,’ says Sophie briskly. ‘Let’s hear the recommendations from the public advocate.’

‘Three years.’

‘Isn’t that overly harsh?’ objects Rosentreter.

‘Not in my opinion,’ says Barker. ‘The fellow needs to realise he endangered his daughter’s life.’

‘I suggest a compromise,’ intervenes Sophie. ‘Two years of correctional measures to be undertaken at home. In addition, appointment of a medical guardian for the little one and compulsory attendance at medical and hygiene classes for the father. That way the child will be safe and the family will get another chance. What do you think?’

‘Exactly what I was going to suggest,’ says Rosentreter.

‘Marvellous.’ Sophie smiles and turns to Barker. ‘Can you justify your original recommendation?’

‘The father’s failure to fulfil basic sanitary and medical requirements was detrimental to the child’s well-being,’ says Barker. ‘Parents have rights, but that doesn’t include the right to endanger their offspring. Legally, there’s no difference between deliberately exposing a child to danger
and
inflicting actual injury. In other circumstances we’d be talking grievous bodily harm.’

Sophie makes a note. ‘Agreed,’ she says, placing the file to the right. ‘Let’s hope the matter has been resolved in everyone’s best interest.’

Kramer uncrosses and recrosses his legs before settling back down.

‘Next case,’ says Barker, raising an index finger. ‘Mia Holl.’

The woman on the screen could be as young as twenty or as old as forty. Her date of birth puts her somewhere in the middle, a predictable place for the truth to be found. Her face glows with a special aura of cleanliness, which we also detect on the other faces in the room; it imparts a sense of innocence, of agelessness – an almost childlike air. It is the look of human beings who have never felt pain. Mia seeks our gaze trustingly. Her naked body is slight, but her physique is wiry and resilient. Kramer sits upright.

‘Another petty offence.’ Sophie glances at the topmost file and barely suppresses a yawn.

‘What was her name again?’ The question comes from Kramer. Although the words are spoken softly, everyone stops at the sound of his voice. Surprised, lawyers and judge look up from their files.

‘Mia Holl,’ says Sophie.

With a leisurely gesture, as if to bat away a fly, Kramer signals for the hearing to continue. With his other hand, he pulls a digital notebook from his trouser pocket and starts to take notes. Sophie and Rosentreter exchange glances.

‘What have we got?’ asks Sophie.

‘Violation of duty to provide medical data,’ says Barker. ‘Nutritional records and sleep patterns overdue for the current month. Sudden cessation of sporting activity. Failure to provide home blood pressure readings and urine samples.’

‘What of her general stats?’

At Barker’s command, long lists of numbers appear on the wall: blood values, energy expenditure, metabolic rate, plus graphs recording physical performance.

‘She looks well enough to me,’ says Sophie, giving Rosentreter his cue.

‘No prior offences. A successful biologist with an exemplary CV. No signs of physical impairment or social disability.’

‘Has she availed herself of the Central Partnership Agency?’

‘They haven’t received her application yet.’

‘It’s obviously an aberration, isn’t it, chaps?’ says Sophie. She laughs at the lawyers’ faces: Barker, disgruntled, and Rosentreter, shocked. ‘I’d rather not issue an official caution,’ she continues. ‘Mediation seems appropriate. We’ll invite her to see us.’

‘Whatever you think,’ says Barker with a shrug.

‘An aberration?’ Kramer smiles and taps his handheld display. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

‘Are you acquainted with the respondent?’ enquires Sophie in a friendly tone.

‘The judge’s discretion is admirable.’ Kramer’s eyes twinkle at her, full of charming scorn. ‘You’ve also met the respondent, Sophie, even though under different circumstances.’

Sophie thinks for a moment. If it weren’t for her naturally ruddy complexion, it would be obvious she is blushing. Kramer returns his digital notebook to his pocket and gets up to leave.

‘Finished already?’ asks Barker.

‘Far from it; I’m just getting started.’

With a brief wave, Kramer leaves the room, while Sophie closes the file and reaches for the stack to her left.

‘Next, please.’

‘I’M TELLING YOU
: it came from the nursery. Like this …’ Lizzie lets go of the stair rail, swoops forward dramatically and simulates a sneeze. ‘Achoo!’

‘Are you sure?’ Pollie glances around nervously as if a ghost were ascending the stairs. ‘You mean someone was actually …?’

‘Go on, say it!’

‘Someone was sneezing?’

‘Exactly! It came from the nursery; I was there in a flash!’

‘Sneezing? What nonsense!’ Completing the trio is Driss: tall, slender and without curves, like a sapling. Her flat face rests moonlike on the collar of her white tabard, her big eyes are mirrors, reflecting the others’ gaze. Even without her freckles she would look younger than her years.

‘Why is it nonsense?’ asks Pollie.

‘The common cold was eradicated in the twenties,’ says Driss.

‘Thank you, Fräulein Lightning.’ Lizzie rolls her eyes.

‘There was a warning just recently,’ murmurs Pollie.

‘Did you hear that, Driss? Pollie reads
The Healthy
Mind
. So here’s me, with my heart in my throat, standing in the doorway, and what do I see? Ute’s little lad crouching next to my poppet, who’s got her nose in a bag of pepper – sneezing for all she’s worth!’

Pollie starts to laugh. ‘Goodness,’ she says, ‘they were
playing
!’

‘She was pretending to be sick!’ says Driss, joining in.

‘Honestly, I could have done with a doctor myself, they gave me such a fright.’

The three women are standing in the hallway, as if to recreate the constellation of the previous day – and the day before that, and every other day. The eternal chain of recurrence reaches forward as well as back, offering the exact same picture for days and weeks to come: Lizzie, propped against the coiled hose of the disinfection machine, Pollie resting on the bacteriometer, and Driss with both arms on the stair rail. The main door opens, and the women stop talking at once. It’s him again: the man in the dark suit. The lower half of his face is obscured by a white cloth, but anyone can see from his eyes that he is dashingly handsome.

‘Santé! Good afternoon, ladies!’

‘I’ve seen better,’ says Lizzie, sticking out a hip and resting a hand on her waist. ‘A really good afternoon is when there’s nothing for us to do.’

Driss points to the man’s face. ‘You know you don’t have to …?’

‘She means you don’t need a hygiene mask,’ says Pollie quickly.

‘This is a monitored house,’ explains Lizzie. ‘You won’t catch anything here.’

‘Ah, the plaque by the door!’ Kramer loosens the band at the back of his head. ‘I should have realised.’

He stuffs the mask into his jacket pocket. Silence ensues.

Since no one is likely to speak for some time, we may as well go over some facts with regard to monitored housing. Certain households, selected for their reliability, have the privilege of carrying out prophylactic measures otherwise performed by the hygiene board. Duties include regular monitoring of air quality, testing of household waste and sewage, and disinfection of all areas accessible to the public. Monitored buildings are identified by a plaque outside the front door and residents are entitled to cut-price water and power. The initiative has exceeded expectations on all fronts: not only does the state save money on public health, but individuals learn the value of community spirit. In the dark and distant past, it was claimed that people were too stupid or lazy to pool their resources and contribute democratically to public life; this view has been discredited. The residents of monitored houses are living proof that humans are absolutely capable of working together for the common good; in fact, they enjoy it. It gives them a chance to meet up, talk and make decisions: to have something
to do
with each other for a change.

The man before us is positioned among the trio of white tabards with the pride of a stallion among goats. Heinrich Kramer was instrumental in introducing the monitored housing scheme, but he was famous beforehand. There isn’t a person in the country who doesn’t know who he is. This is the reason for the protracted silence and the explosion of chatter.

‘Holy dirt, if it isn’t …’

‘Well, I’ll be …’

‘Is it really
you
?’

‘For pity’s sake, Driss, stop staring!’

Kramer places a hand on his chest and bows. ‘The pleasure is mine, ladies. Perhaps you can direct me to Frau Mia Holl?’

‘Mia!’ squeals Driss, clapping her hands. If anyone had asked her which of her neighbours might receive a visit from Heinrich Kramer, she would have picked Mia Holl. Not for any reason – she just thinks Mia is special, that’s all. ‘She lives on the top floor: the apartment with the balcony to the rear.’

‘It’s a nice pad,’ adds Pollie. ‘I wouldn’t mind being a scientist myself.’

‘She does a difficult job,’ says Lizzie reprovingly.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ says Kramer. ‘Is she in?’

‘She’s always in,’ says Driss. ‘Well, at the moment, at least.’ She moves closer as if to impart a secret. ‘We hardly see her any more.’

‘What Driss means,’ Lizzie corrects her, ‘is that Frau Holl is taking a break from work.’

‘Ah, a holiday …’

‘Hardly,’ snorts Pollie. ‘Such a pretty girl and always up there by herself. The poor thing is trawling through possible matches.’

‘We think Frau Holl is looking for a partner,’ explains Lizzie knowingly.

Kramer nods. ‘Thank you, ladies. Now if you’ll excuse me.’

‘Mia’s a decent person.’

‘Herr Kramer never thought otherwise. Honestly, Driss!’

‘This is a monitored house, remember!’