The Trap (10 page)

I am prepared. I spent half an hour on the treadmill when I got up this morning—long enough to flood my brain with oxygen but not so long as to wear myself out. I had a shower. I dressed with care. I'm wearing black. Not blue, which conveys trust, or red, which emanates aggression and passion, or white, which stands for innocence, but black. Black means seriousness, gravity—and, yes, mourning.

I've had a good breakfast. There was salmon and spinach: pure brain food, according to a nutritional expert I once spoke to. After breakfast, I fed Bukowski and put him in one of the upstairs bedrooms with a bowl of water, something to eat for later and some of his favourite toys.

Now here I am on the sofa.

I think back to the telephone call I made some weeks ago to an expert from the regional criminal investigation department, and recall Professor Kerner's cheerful manner, which stood in such stark contrast to the topic of our conversation.

I had decided to ask him for his discretion, and then to lay all my cards on the table and tell him everything. I told him about my sister Anna. I told him about the unsolved murder case. And I wound up by asking him my most important question: whether the traces of DNA that were gathered at the scene of the crime all those years ago had been kept.

‘But of course!' he replied.

I am glad I talked to Kerner. Because, of course, if there's one thing I want more than anything else, it's for my sister's murderer to break down in front of me. I have to find out what happened on that goddamn night, and I have to hear it from his own mouth. The thought of Kerner and his DNA samples reassures me. He is my safety net. I'm going to get Lenzen. One way or another.

I glance at the clock. It's a little after eleven. I still have almost an hour to relax and go over everything in my head one last—

There's a ring at the door. I start up in alarm. Adrenalin fills my belly and rushes to my head like a surge of cold water. My composure has vanished. I steady myself on the arm of the sofa, take three deep breaths, and then head for the door. Maybe the postman. Or a travel-ling salesman—do such people still exist?

I open the door.

For years, the monster has pursued me even in my dreams. Now he's standing before me.

‘Good morning,' says Victor Lenzen with an apologetic smile, and holds out his hand to me. ‘I'm Victor Lenzen. We're a bit early. We left Munich in good time to make sure we weren't late, but the traffic was much better than we expected.'

I suppress the impulse to run away screaming. I feel caught out, but I don't show it.

‘No trouble at all,' I say. ‘I'm Linda Conrads.'

I shake his hand. I smile.
The way out of fear leads through fear.

‘Please come in.'

I do not hesitate. I do not tremble. I look him in the eye and my voice sounds strong and clear. It is only now that my tunnel vision opens out a little and I notice the photographer. He is young (mid-twenties, at most), and when I give him my hand he looks a bit nervous—nervous, but keen. He says something about being a fan of mine, but I have trouble focusing on him.

I let the two men into my house. They both wipe their feet politely. Lenzen is wearing a dark coat, which he takes off to reveal immaculate clothes: dark trousers, a white shirt, a black jacket, no tie. He is greying stylishly, and has just the right kind of wrinkles.

I take his coat and the photographer's parka and hang them on the hooks in the hall, casting stolen glances at the two men as I do so. Victor Lenzen is one of those people whose charisma cannot be reproduced on a photo, whose presence transforms the atmosphere of a room. Lenzen is surprisingly attractive, in an unusual and dangerous way.

I'm annoyed at my flitting thoughts, and try to concentrate.

The men seem apprehensive in the large, elegant hallway of the house of this egocentric novelist who never sets foot outside. They feel like intruders. That's good; uneasiness is good. I lead the way to the dining room, taking the moment to collect myself. Here goes. Their early arrival was, of course, intentional on Lenzen's part, calculated to put me off my stride and allow him to take the helm, to dictate the course of action, to show me right from the start that I was not in control of the situation. It did, it is true, throw me briefly, but I have recovered my composure. I am surprised at how little I actually feel, now that everything's under way. I'm in a kind of daze; I feel like an actor when the curtain goes up, an actor who's playing the part of Linda Conrads. All this is a kind of act, really—a show put on for the cameras and microphones in my house, to which Lenzen and I are performing.

My decision to conduct the interview in the dining room was not a strategic one; it was purely intuitive. The living room seemed wrong to me. We'd have had to sit on the sofa, close up to one another—the soft, comfy sofa; it wouldn't have been right. My study is up the stairs, along the corridor, at the end of the passage; it's too far away. The dining room, on the other hand, is ideal. It is close to the front door; it has a large table that creates a certain distance. And it has one further advantage: apart from the times I stand here looking out the window, contemplating the edge of the woods, I hardly ever use it. When I'm alone, I eat in the kitchen. I'm alone a lot. I'd rather sit face-to-face with Lenzen in a room that doesn't mean as much to me as, for instance, the kitchen, where I'm used to chatting to Norbert while we drink rosé and I stir the saucepans. Or the library upstairs, where I travel and dream and love. Where I live.

I try to appear relaxed and not to stare at Lenzen. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him taking in the room in a few sweeping glances. He walks across to the dining table. He puts his bag down on the first chair he comes to, opens it up and glances inside. He's making sure he has everything with him. He seems a tad awkward, almost nervous, but then so does the photographer. If I didn't know any better, I would presume they were simply intent on making a good job of the interview, and put their jumpiness down to that. As far as the photographer is concerned, this may well be the case.

I glance at the large, empty dining table where I've laid out the copies of my new novel. It was not, of course, necessary to display the book; I am sure that everybody here is acquainted with the contents. But from a psychological point of view, it can't be a bad idea to have the indictment to hand. The photographer will think the books are supposed to feature in the pictures. He's fiddling about with his equipment while the monster takes a look around the room.

I sit down, take a water bottle, open it, pour myself a glass. My hands do not tremble. My hands—I ask myself whether it's the first time I've shaken hands with a murderer. After all, you never know. I ask myself how many people I've shaken hands with altogether in my life and how long I've been alive. I do a quick sum in my head. Thirty-eight years: that's about 13,870 days. If I'd shaken hands with one person every day of my life, that would make almost fourteen thousand people. I wonder how many had committed murder, and arrive at the conclusion that this is probably not the first murderer I've shaken hands with—just the only one I know about.

Lenzen glances at me. I force my thoughts to settle down; they're flapping about like startled chickens, but eventually do as I tell them. I'm annoyed. And I'm annoyed that I'm annoyed. This is precisely the kind of carelessness that could prove fatal. I must concentrate from now on—that much I owe Anna.

I look at the monster. I look at Victor Lenzen. I hate his name. Not only because it's the monster's name, but also because I know that Victor means ‘conqueror' and I believe in the magic of names. But this time the story is going to end differently.

‘Beautiful house you have here,' says Lenzen, going over to the window. He looks across at the edge of the woods.

‘Thank you,' I say, getting up to join him.

When I opened the door to him, the sun had been shining through the clouds. Now there's a light drizzle falling.

‘April weather in March,' says Lenzen.

I don't reply.

‘How long have you been living here?' he asks.

‘More than ten years.'

I jump when I hear the landline ringing in the living room. No one ever rings me on the landline. Anyone who wants to get hold of me calls my mobile. I see Lenzen give me a sidelong glance. The telephone is still ringing.

‘Don't you want to answer it?' he asks. ‘I don't mind waiting.'

I shake my head, and the ringing stops.

‘I'm sure it wasn't important,' I say and hope I'm right.

I take my eyes off the edge of the woods and sit back at the table. It's the place that gives me the strongest sense of security—my back to the wall and the door within eyeshot.

If Lenzen wants to sit opposite me, he'll have to sit with his back to the door. That makes most people nervous and reduces their powers of concentration, but he accepts without protest. If he notices at all, he doesn't let it show.

‘Shall we?' I ask.

Lenzen nods and takes a seat opposite me.

He takes out notepad, pen and digital recorder from the bag that he has placed on the floor beside his chair. I wonder what else he has in there. He's focusing his mind. I sit up straight. I feel the urge to cross my legs and fold my arms, but I resist. No protective gestures. I place both feet firmly on the ground. I rest my lower arm on the table and lean forwards, taking up space, asserting myself—what Dr Christensen calls ‘power poses'. I watch Lenzen straighten his papers and square up the recorder with the corner of the table.

‘Well,' he begins. ‘First of all I'd like to thank you for your time. I know that you rarely give interviews and I feel honoured that you've invited me to your house.'

‘I'm a great admirer of your work,' I say, hoping to sound noncommittal.

‘Really?' He puts on a face, as if he were genuinely flattered. There is a pause and I realise that he's expecting me to elaborate.

‘Oh yes,' I say. ‘Your reports from Afghanistan, Iran, Syria—you do some important work.'

He lowers his eyes and smiles modestly, as if embarrassed by the praise that he has elicited from me.

What are you playing at, Herr Lenzen?

With my upright posture and my controlled, steady breathing, I am sending my body all the signals it needs to be focused yet relaxed, but still my nerves are tense, almost snapping. I can't wait to find out what questions Lenzen has prepared and how he intends to conduct the interview. He must be just as tense, wondering what I'm hoping to achieve, what kind of a hand I've dealt myself, what trumps I have up my sleeve. He clears his throat and glances at his notes. The photographer is busy with his camera; he takes a trial shot, then goes back to looking at his light meter.

‘All right,' says Lenzen. ‘My first question is the one all your readers must be asking. You're famous for your literary, almost poetic novels. Now, with
Blood Sisters
, you've written your first thriller. Why the switch in genre?'

That is the question I'd expected him to start with and I relax a little. I do not, however, get round to answering, because at that moment I hear noises coming from the hall—a key turning in the lock, then footsteps.

I catch my breath.

‘Excuse me,' I say, and get up.

I have to leave Lenzen alone for a minute. But the photographer is there with him, and the idea that
he
might be in cahoots with Lenzen doesn't make any sense at all.

I go out into the hall and my heart sinks.

‘Charlotte!' I cry, unable to conceal my dismay. ‘What are you doing here?'

She frowns at me, her coat dripping.

‘Isn't it the interview today?'

She hears the murmurs of the two men coming from the dining room and looks at her watch in bewilderment.

‘Oh God, I'm not late, am I? I thought the whole thing didn't start until twelve!'

‘I wasn't actually expecting you at all,' I whisper, because I don't want Lenzen to hear. ‘I left a message on your voicemail. Didn't you get it?'

‘Oh, I lost my mobile the other day,' Charlotte says casually. ‘But now that I'm here…'

She leaves me standing there, puts her bunch of keys down on the sideboard next to the door and hangs up her flimsy Little Red Riding Hood coat.

‘What can I do for you?'

I have to restrain myself from slapping her and pushing her back out with force. The murmuring in the dining room has stopped—the men must be eavesdropping.

I need to get a grip on myself. Charlotte is looking at me expectantly. In this brief moment of silence, the telephone starts to ring again. I do my best to ignore it.

‘I've finished getting everything ready,' I say. ‘But you could make some coffee—that would be great.'

I have already made coffee; it's in the thermal pot on the table. But no matter—I don't know whether I can avoid an encounter between Charlotte and Lenzen, though I'll try to at all costs.

‘Sure,' says Charlotte. She glances in the direction of the living room, where the insistent ringing continues, but she passes no comment.

‘I'll come and collect the pot in a minute,' I call after her. ‘I'd like to be left undisturbed until then.'

Charlotte frowns again, because I'm not normally like that, but presumably puts it down to the unusual situation: I never have strangers to the house and certainly never give interviews. The telephone goes quiet. I toy with the idea of looking to see who the persistent caller was, but think better of it. Nothing can be as important as this.

I return to the dining room.