The Sinner (49 page)

Four thousand three hundred and thirty-two ... And so on for
evermore, with that image before her eyes - bones mouldering in
the dirt - and Magdalena's voice in her ears: "I'd sooner go to
hell." But the body out there had not been cremated. It had rotted
away and turned black, infested by worms.

At eight thousand seven hundred and forty-three she heard the key
turn in the lock. She kept on counting, firmly convinced that they'd
come to take her to the professor a second time.

The morning's session had been very unproductive from his
point of view He'd wanted to know what she and the chief had
talked about at their last meeting. He already knew, the cunning
dog! She wasn't so dumb that she couldn't infer from his questions
how much he knew

He asked if she would care to talk to him again about the cellar
and said he knew what a burden Magdalena had been to her. And
then he wanted to talk about music with her. In particular, about the songs Magdalena had enjoyed listening to. Did she recall any
particular titles?

But he wouldn't tell her where the chief was, or whether he was
still alive, so she refused to answer him any more. And then he
played her some music. Drums, guitar and the high-pitched strains
of an organ: "Tiger's Song"!

The hypocritical swine had asked how she was feeling and what
the music made her think of Eighteen ... Nineteen ... Twenty
... Twenty-one ... She'd had to clench her teeth until her jaw
muscles creaked, but it worked. Twenty-two ... Twenty-three ...
Twenty-four ...

He became edgy. It didn't show, not outwardly, but she sensed it
and went on counting, counting.

Eight thousand seven hundred and forty-four . . . The door
opened, and a male nurse came in - the one who had looked in
on her twice during the night. On one occasion he'd brushed the
hair out of her eyes and asked: "How are you feeling, little lady?
Better?"

His name was Mario. A nice fellow, always friendly, always goodnatured, and as dark-haired as Father used to be. And strong,
immensely strong. He could clamp a grown man under his arm
and carry him off with ease, even though the man kicked and
struggled and thumped him on the back with both fists.

Having seen him do this once on the way back to her ward from
the professor's office, she'd reflected that Father might have been
the same at one time. As tall as Mario and as strong. As handsome
as Mario too, as a young man. And she had imagined how Mother
had fallen in love with Father and let him kiss her for the first time.
And how she had gone to bed with him for the first time. And
how she had enjoyed it. And how she had conceived her first child
with him and how happy her husband and her belated pregnancy
had made her. And she had pictured herself in Mother's place and
Mario in Father's.

Last night, when she was still so bemused by her medication that
she could scarcely think, only form a wish, she had also imagined
Mario lifting her out of her bed and bearing her off, far, far away. Back into the cellar. She pictured him putting her down on the
floor and standing in the middle of the room like Hercules, then
tucking its occupants under his arm, one by one, and carrying
them upstairs. And killing them there - all of them! And, when he
had killed them all, he would come back, pick her up off the floor
and say: "It's all over, little lady." And then he would let her sleep
for evermore.

It was a sin to wish for something like that. The whole of life
itself was sinful. Death too. She had killed her sister. And then,
when she saw Magdalena lying dead in front of her, she had run
out of the house in a panic. She had driven back to the Aladdin,
where Johnny was waiting for her. He had helped her to take the
body to the heath. They had left Magdalena where she wouldn't
be found in a hurry, at a spot near the prohibited area where no
one went, not even soldiers. There Magdalena could turn into a
stinking, disgusting lump of dirt.

That was how it must have been. She didn't know for sure, but
Grit saw it that way. Grit assumed that Magdalena was already
dead when she came home. That was her mistake, and now the
professor knew. If she stopped counting she would have to ask
herself some questions. Why didn't I cremate her? I'd promised to.
Didn't we have any petrol? Father always kept a full can in his car,
but his car was parked outside the Aladdin. It couldn't be used for
that trip, so someone must have helped me. I can't have been alone
with her. If I'd been alone, she'd have got her cremation. Whoever
was with me didn't want to drive Father's car. Someone who didn't
have a full can of petrol in his own car. Who was afraid the flames
would be spotted. Johnny? It was the only answer.

Mario gave her a conspiratorial wink. He was carrying a tray,
she saw On it were a small, white china coffee pot and two cups
and saucers. He deposited the tray on the table and put a finger to
his lips. `Just between the two of us," he said, "I made this coffee
myself. It's really good."

She bit her lip and blinked away a tear.

"Now, now," said Mario, "you don't want to water it down. One
cup for you and one for your visitor."

"Has the chief come? Is he still alive?"

"Of course he's still alive." Mario smiled broadly. "But he won't
show his face here again in a hurry; the professor read him the
riot act. No, it's your lawyer. Now come and have your coffee with
him." He turned to the door and called: "Come in, she's fine." He
gave her another wink and a thumbs-up. "I'll stay here, okay? I'll
make sure nothing happens." And he stationed himself beside the
door like a sentry, hands behind his back in the at-ease position.

When Brauning came in she slid off the bed like a child whose
legs are too short to reach the ground. She remembered speaking
to him for a considerable time on some occasion, but ... "I'm
sorry, I've forgotten your name."

"Don't worry," he said. "I have to make notes of everything
myself, otherwise I forget half of it. Brauning's the name."

He smiled at her as he spoke. Unlike Mario's smile, his made a
tense impression. He felt uneasy in her presence, she could tell.

`Are you scared of me?"

"No, Frau Bender," he said. "Why should I be scared of you?"

She didn't know, but it was a fact. "I won't hurt you," she assured
him. "I'll never hurt anyone again. If Frankie had told me he was
a human being I wouldn't have hurt him either. But he didn't - he
wanted me to do it. I forgot to tell you that the other day."

"It's all right, Frau Bender," he said. "We can talk about that
later."

"No," she said, "I'm not going to talk any more. All I do now is
count, then nothing bad can happen."

Brauning had brought his briefcase with him, as he had on his
first visit. He deposited it beside the table and sat down where he
could keep one eye on the door and the nurse, a tough-looking
character with biceps like a wrestler's. There was something
reassuring about the sight.

"There are one or two matters I need your help with, Frau
Bender," he said.

Helene had rehearsed him thoroughly. She had been impressed
by Rudolf Grovian's statements and, above all, by his readiness to
stand up for Cora Bender, at the risk of his job if necessary.

"He knows how to make a thing sound palatable," she'd said.
"Not, of course, that I approve of his suggestions, in fact I strongly
advise you not to act on them. Besides, it may not be necessary
to do so. Burthe really does enjoy an excellent reputation, Hardy.
It's just that he's overly fixated on Freudian theory, and in such a
complex case that isn't enough. Grovian may be absolutely correct
in his assessment. A layman's opinion shouldn't be underestimated,
and he's assembled a certain amount of evidence to support it.
The fact is, he knows how to handle her - he gets her to talk. You
managed to do that too, Hardy. It's a question of authority, that's
all. But the decision is yours, I don't want to interfere. You must
simply bear something in mind when you talk to her: treat her
naturally. Invite her help, appeal to her sense of responsibility." It
was easy for Helene to talk.

"May I pour you some coffee?" She didn't even ask what he
wanted her help with.

"That would be nice," he said.

"Do you mind if I remain standing? I've spent the whole day
sitting down. An hour with Professor Burthe and the rest of the
time on my bed."

Helene had said: "Don't let her sidetrack you, Hardy. If she
tries to, and she certainly will, bring her back to the point at once.
And don't let her provoke you - she will, if she's reasonably clearheaded. Imagine a child dependent on itself alone. If someone
suddenly turns up and says `I like you and want to help you', that
child is bound to put him to the test. Don't lose patience, draw a
line and stick to it. Be calm but firm, Hardy. You'll cope with the
child in her."

"I'd sooner you sat down," he told her. He was prepared for
anything, thanks to Helene's instructions and predictions: a grin, a
contradiction, an air of boredom or indifference.

Nothing of the kind. Obediently, she pulled a chair from under
the table and sat down with her feet close together, tweaked the
hem of her skirt over her knees and smiled at him. "I still don't
know if it was a mosquito on my leg or a nerve twitching," she said.
"I ought to have looked, it was silly not to. If it were a mosquito, it must still be around. That means it'll come back during the night.
I should have swatted it, beaten it to death."

Brauning couldn't tell how lucid she was. Was she bearing out
Grovian's theory and expressing a cryptic death wish or simply
talking nonsense? He decided to act on his mother's advice. "I'm
not here to talk about mosquitoes, Frau Bender. I've brought some
photos with me. I'd like you to look at them and

He got no further. "I don't want to look at any photos," she said
flatly.

Just a child, he told himself like someone repeating an incantation,
just an unloved child. "It's very important, Frau Bender. I want you
to look at these photos and tell me if you know any of the men in
them."

"No!" She underlined her refusal with a vigorous shake of the
head. "There's bound to be a photo of Frankie there, and I don't
want to look at it. I've no need to refresh my memory. I could draw
a picture of him, I can see him so vividly."

Her voice abruptly broke. She emitted a sound like a dry sob. "I
see him with and without blood. I see him behind the drums and
on the cross, and he's always in the middle. He was the Saviour.
No! No, please don't look at me like that. I'm not mad, I could
see it in his eyes. But I'm not Pilate either. No bowl of water
for me!"

There's no point, Brauning thought. If we really make it through
to a main hearing, one such outburst and that's that.

"He didn't want to die," she went on in a choking voice, putting
her hands over her face. "He begged his father to let the cup pass
from him. He had such a lovely wife. Why don't you let me die? I
don't want to think any more! I can't take it any more! Now I can
start again from the beginning. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twentyone ..."

Brauning drew several deep, regular breaths. Privately, he
consigned Helene and her newly reawakened love of her profession
to the devil - closely followed by Rudolf Grovian, who had put the
idea into her head.

The male nurse continued to stand motionless near the door, seemingly blind and deaf to what was going on. He wasn't there
as a bodyguard for Brauning or a watchdog for her. He was there
on the instructions of the district attorney, who would gladly have
eavesdropped on them himself. Professor Burthe had managed to
talk him out of it. He had also firmly declined to let a detective
anywhere near her, so the lot had fallen to her attorney. But they
needed an impartial witness, if possible one to whom she reacted
favourably. If not, said the professor, any attempt would be futile.
At present, no one could get a word out of Frau Bender.

There were twenty prints in his briefcase. He didn't know who
they depicted. Rudolf Grovian had brought them to his chambers
shortly after lunch. The police laboratory had worked overtime.
Twenty men, all of around the same age. Only their heads, and the
backgrounds were so indistinct, they offered no clue to the men's
whereabouts.

He took a sip of coffee and put the cup down. She had got to
forty-five when he finally brought himself to interrupt her. "Stop
that, Fran Bender. You're now going to look at these photos. I
don't know if they include one of Frankie. If you see one, tell me
and I'll take it away. You don't have to look at it, just at the others.
Tell me if you recognize anyone. And tell me his name, if you
know it."

She actually stopped counting. Not having expected this, he
construed it as a personal triumph. When he bent down to open
his briefcase the nurse came over to the table and took up his
position beside it.