The Trap (16 page)

22

SOPHIE

Sophie's thoughts often returned to that night. She was still tormenting herself with the question of what had seemed so odd about Britta's flat. There had been something. She had seen it at the crime scene and she saw it in her nightmares, but it kept eluding her.

She was sure this detail held the key. Her brain was simply too full of other things for her to think straight. Yesterday alone so much had happened. First the police officer had come round and reprimanded her. Then her father had been taken to hospital with a suspected heart attack, and her mother, of course, was a nervous wreck, even though it had turned out to be a false alarm.

Sophie, on the other hand, was still keyed up. No question of sleep. And the night was so silent. No Paul beside her anymore, filling the bedroom with his steady breathing. Sophie was glad he had gone, really; she was too exhausted to be in a relationship, thinking of marriage and children as Paul would have liked. She was too angry—at herself, at the world. It's a sign of grieving, her therapist said. Perfectly normal. But Sophie didn't feel normal. At the moment she felt ill-disposed towards everybody. Except, perhaps, for that young police officer who had the disconcerting knack of always saying the right thing.

Sophie felt agitated. She had once heard that many people who have suffered a great loss either break down or freeze up, only dimly aware of the outside world. Over the past weeks she had witnessed both: her father's numbness, and her mother's breakdown—although her mother was now so sedated she no longer felt much either. Sophie, however, felt everything.

Since she wasn't going to get to sleep again tonight, she got up and went to her study. She sat down at her desk, which was strewn with printouts and newspaper clippings, and switched on the computer.

Over the past days and nights, she had drawn a precise map of her sister's life. She had talked to Britta's tearful friends and to her shocked ex-boyfriend, but her queries hadn't got her anywhere. None of them could begin to imagine anyone wanting to harm Britta. Maybe Britta had surprised a burglar. Or maybe some sicko had stalked her—something like that. A stranger. Cruel chance. It was the only possibility: that was the unanimous opinion.

But Britta hadn't complained about a stalker. She hadn't been worried in any way. Britta's friends were as clueless as Sophie. There was only one avenue left to explore.

Sophie went onto the website of the internet start-up that Britta had worked for as a graphic designer. Britta's job had been the only area in her life that didn't overlap with Sophie's. If Britta had known her murderer, it could really only be a colleague; Sophie knew all the other men in Britta's life. She'd only caught a glimpse of the shadow at the terrace door before he disappeared across the terrace, but she would never forget his face. That's why she found the young policewoman's questions about their family and Britta's private life so unnecessary. Sophie knew what she had seen: a stranger.

She glanced at the time. Almost 2am. She remembered that Britta had often stayed on in the office until late, sometimes even spending the night to meet deadlines. She wondered whether her colleagues had similar hours.

Sophie took the telephone, dialled the agency's number and let it ring. But no one picked up. Britta's colleagues were the last people she could check out; after that she'd be at a loss as to what to do next.

She had an idea. Sometimes on company homepages there were photos and brief biographies of the employees—especially with new, small companies like Britta's. She scanned the page again. Yes, there was a button labelled ‘Team'. Sophie clicked on it with trembling fingers.

The photo hit her like a blow to the stomach.

Britta was looking out at her with a broad smile on her face. Blonde hair, big blue eyes, freckled nose. Britta, who had always smelt so good; Britta, who had always caught the spiders that Sophie was so afraid of, trapping them in old jam jars, carrying them carefully outside and setting them free on the grass. Sweet-toothed Britta, who was always chewing gum.

With some trouble, Sophie tore her eyes from the photo and contemplated the pictures of the other employees. Three were of women and could be ruled out immediately. Another six were of men: the two managers, the art director and three computer scientists. None of them was the man Sophie had seen in Britta's flat.

She continued to scroll down and then stopped. There were two placeholders that had names and job titles beneath them, but contained no photos. Sophie's heart beat faster and she made a quick note of the names: Simon Platzeck, Social Media, and André Bialkowski, Programmer.

Once again, Sophie glanced at the time. What were the chances that anyone would be in the office in the middle of the night? Not very high. But what was the alternative? Go back to bed and stare at the ceiling? She got dressed, took her car key and pulled the door shut behind her.

Sophie's body felt strangely light as she left the multi-storey car park adjacent to the complex where Britta had worked. Seventy-two hours without sleep. She looked about her. Of the four office buildings within eyeshot, only one had a light showing. Otherwise, the area, which would be filled with people in a few hours, was deserted: black asphalt, a few solitary street lamps, and a few taxis speeding along the road. Sophie headed for the building where the light was showing, then stopped short. It was numbered 6-10, and Britta had worked in numbers 2-4—the dark, deserted glass block next door.

Disappointed, Sophie turned back. She took the lift and went into the underground section of the car park. The air down here felt poisonous; it reeked of exhaust fumes. Sophie rummaged in her bag for the key and had almost reached her car when the feeling hit her. She was not alone.

She stopped in her tracks: she hadn't recognised the murderer, so she had assumed that he hadn't known her either.

What if that weren't the case?

He would come after her. Try to kill her, the eyewitness. There was someone there, right behind her.

She turned round, her heart thumping. No one. Her footsteps and gasping breaths echoed through the deserted car park as she hurried towards her car—nearly there now, only a few more steps. Then she froze mid-movement again. There
was
something there—a shadow crouching on the back seat. Or was there? No. It was trick of the light. Or was it?

The shadow moved. Sophie's heart skipped a beat, then started galloping again. He's going to kill me too, she thought, numbly. She wouldn't make it. She couldn't even scream; she could only stand there and stare. Then the spell broke. Out, thought Sophie. I must get out of here. And: Too close, I'm far too close. Three more steps and he'll reach me. Three more steps and he'll kill me.

At last her brain did what it was supposed to do: it tore itself free from all other thoughts and sent terror coursing through her body. The fear of death came like a surge of icy cold water, drenching her body, her clothes, her hair, and momentarily taking her breath away. Then the paralysis ended and Sophie's body switched into survival mode.

She turned and ran, and the crouching shadow emerged from her car and began to run too. He was fast and he was coming closer. How fast can you run, Sophie, how fast? She ran towards the exit, her heart pounding, her breathing shallow, the man and the knife right behind her. She crashed into the lift doors and frantically pressed the button, rapid footsteps behind her. She didn't turn round; she thought of Orpheus in the Underworld—turn round and you're dead, turn round and you're dead—and the lift didn't come, didn't come, didn't come, didn't come, didn't come, didn't come. Sophie ran to the stairs, heaved open the creaking steel door, burst through, and headed up the stairs. She heard the door slam shut behind her with a loud crash. Had the man with the knife taken the lift? What if he had taken the lift? What if the man with the knife was waiting upstairs, if…?

With a brutal shriek, the staircase door opened below and footsteps began to sound up the stairs. Sophie ran on, the taste of metal in her mouth, stumbled, struggled to her feet, carried on, the man with the knife behind her, closer and closer. Don't turn round, don't turn round. Turn round and you're dead. What if he throws the knife—just throws it? At your back?

Sophie came to the exit of the underground car park, hurled herself at the door, but it was locked. How can it be? Oh, please—if he gets you, you're dead—please, pretty please, open. Locked—and right behind her, the man with the knife, right behind her, the footsteps coming closer. Again, Sophie hurled herself at the door, and this time it sprang open. It hadn't been locked, not even jammed; she hadn't pressed the handle down firmly enough. Too stupid to open a door… Run, Sophie, damn it, don't think, run!

Sophie plunged into the open and ran. Along the front of the deserted building, along the deserted street, the footsteps and the knife behind her—black blood, Britta's open eyes, the look of surprise on Britta's face, and the figure in the shadows, the figure in the shadows. Sophie ran and ran and ran and ran, until she no longer knew where she was, until she could no longer hear anything but her own footsteps and her own breathing. Only then did she stop.