The Trap (17 page)

I brush aside all doubt. Lenzen is going to leave this house a self-confessed murderer. There is no alternative.

I recall what I learnt from Dr Christensen: the Reid interrogation technique. Create stress. Wear down the suspect with endless questions. Punish any inconsistencies. Intersperse banal and undemanding questions with provoking and stress-inducing ones. Resort to false evidence, blackmail, force—anything goes.

Put the suspect under stress. Wear him down. Put him under stress. Wear him down. Eventually offer him confession as a way out. Put him under stress. Wear him down. And, finally, break him.

But first of all, I must find out whether
he
is armed.

‘Get up!' I say. ‘At once!'

He obeys.

‘Take off your jacket and lay it on the table. Slowly.'

He does so. I pick up his jacket, without taking my eyes off him, and frisk it for weapons. But there's nothing and I drop the jacket on the floor.

‘Empty your trouser pockets.'

He puts his lighter on the table and looks at me hesitantly.

‘Turn round!'

I can't bring myself to frisk him, but I can see that neither in his trousers nor in his belt does he have a gun.

‘Push your bag across to me,' I say. ‘Slowly.'

I pick the bag up and rifle through it. Nothing—just harmless stuff. Lenzen is unarmed. But that doesn't make a difference. For all I know, he might kill me with his bare hands. I grip the gun.

‘Sit down.'

He sits down.

‘I have some questions and I expect you to answer honestly,' I say.

Lenzen says nothing.

‘Do you understand?'

He nods.

‘Answer me!' I yell.

He swallows. ‘Yes,' he says huskily.

I study him—the size of his pupils, the skin on his face, the throbbing of his pulse in his carotid artery. He's had a scare, but he's not actually in shock. That's good.

‘How old are you?' I ask.

‘Fifty-three.'

‘Where did you grow up?'

‘In Munich.'

‘How old is your father?'

Lenzen looks at me in utter consternation.

‘We can skip all this,' I say. ‘Do you know why you're here?'

‘Er…for the interview,' says Lenzen, his voice trembling.

He really is pretending not to know what I'm talking about.

‘So you've no idea why I've asked you here?' I say. ‘You, rather than anyone else?'

Lenzen looks bewildered.

‘Answer me!' I snap.

Lenzen hesitates, as if he were scared I might fire the gun if he said anything wrong.

‘A little while ago you said you'd chosen me because you admire my work,' he replies with studied calm. ‘But it's beginning to dawn on me that that's not the real reason.'

I can't believe he's still playing the innocent. It makes me so furious that I have to make an effort to collect myself. Very well, I think. It's up to him.

‘All right then,' I say, ‘back to the beginning. How old are you?'

He doesn't immediately reply; I raise the gun a little.

‘Fifty-three,' he says.

‘Where did you grow up?'

‘In Munich.'

He tries to look at me rather than into the muzzle of my gun.

‘Do you have brothers and sisters?'

He fails.

‘I have an elder brother.'

‘Do you have a good relationship with your parents?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you have children?'

His hand strays to his temple.

‘Listen, you've already asked me all this!' he says, forcing himself to sound calm. ‘What is this? A joke?'

‘It's not a joke.'

Lenzen's eyes open a little wider.

‘Do you have children?' I ask.

‘A daughter.'

‘What's your daughter called?'

He hesitates—only momentarily, but I sense his reluctance.

‘Sara,' he says.

‘What's your favourite football team?'

I note his mental sigh of relief as I move off the subject of his daughter. Good.

‘1860 Munich.'

Time to hit below the belt.

‘Do you like inflicting pain on others?'

He makes a sound of contempt.

‘No.'

‘Have you ever tortured an animal?'

‘No.'

‘What's your mother's maiden name?'

‘Nitsche.'

‘How old is your father?'

‘Seventy-eight.'

‘Do you think of yourself as a good person?'

‘I do my best.'

‘Do you prefer dogs or cats?'

‘Cats.'

I can almost see the cogs whirring in his brain as he tries to work out where I'm going with all this and, more importantly, how he can disarm me. I'm holding the gun in my right hand, leaning on the table for support. I hold it correctly; I don't allow myself to become careless. I've been practising. The table is wide. Lenzen doesn't have a chance of getting at me or the gun. To do that, he'd have to come round the table. Not a chance. We both know that.

I ratchet up the pace.

‘What's your favourite film?'

‘
Casablanca
.'

‘How old is your daughter?'

‘Twelve.'

‘What colour is your daughter's hair?'

His jaw is grinding.

‘Blonde.'

The questions about his daughter are bothering him.

‘What colour are your daughter's eyes?'

‘Brown.'

‘How old is your father?'

‘Seventy-seven.'

‘A moment ago you said seventy-eight.'

Punish every mistake.

‘Seventy-eight. He's seventy-eight.'

‘Do you think this is a game?'

He doesn't reply. His eyes flash.

‘Do you think this is a game?' I repeat.

‘No. It was a slip of the tongue.'

‘You should get a grip on yourself,' I warn him.

Put him under stress, wear him down.

‘What's your mother's maiden name?'

‘Nitsche.'

‘How old is your father?'

Lenzen conceals a sigh.

‘Seventy-eight.'

‘What's your favourite band?'

‘U2. No, the Beatles.'

Interesting.

‘What's your favourite Beatles song?'

‘All You Need is Love.'

Touché. I try not to let anything show, but I fail. Lenzen looks at me; his gaze is shifty, inscrutable.

Time to tighten the screws.

‘You lied to me, Herr Lenzen,' I say. ‘But it doesn't matter. I know your daughter's name isn't Sara; it's Marie.'

I let this sink in.

‘You know,' I say, ‘I know a great deal about you. More than you think. I've had you watched for a long time. Your every move.'

That's a lie, but what the hell.

‘You're crazy,' says Lenzen.

I ignore this.

‘In fact I know the answer to every single question I've asked you and to all the questions I'm going to ask you.'

He snorts. ‘Then why ask?'

Now that's predictable.

‘Because I'd like to hear the answers from you.'

‘The answers to what? Why? I don't understand any of this!'

At least part of his desperation sounds genuine. I mustn't go easy on him now.

‘Have you ever been involved in a fight?'

‘No.'

‘Have you ever hit anyone in the face?'

‘No!'

‘Have you ever hit a woman?'

‘I thought “anyone” included women.'

He seems back in control, damn him. Talk of violence leaves him untroubled. Cold bastard.

‘Have you ever raped a woman?'

His face no longer betrays any emotion.

‘No.'

The only sore point I've been able to make out so far is his daughter. I decide to embed all potentially delicate and provoking questions in questions concerning her.

‘How old is your daughter?'

‘Twelve.'

His jaw muscles clench.

‘What year is your daughter in at school?'

‘Year seven.'

‘What's your daughter's favourite subject?'

I spot a vein I hadn't noticed before on Lenzen's temple. It's throbbing.

‘Maths.'

‘What's the name of your daughter's horse?'

And throbbing.

‘Lucy.'

‘Do you think you're a good father?'

His jaws are grinding.

‘Yes.'

‘Have you ever raped a woman?'

‘No.'

‘What's the name of your daughter's best friend?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Annika,' I say. ‘Annika Mehler.'

Lenzen swallows. I feel nothing at all.

‘What's your daughter's favourite colour?'

‘Orange.'

His hand strays towards his temple; he's sick of all these questions about his daughter. Good.

‘What's your daughter's favourite film?'

‘
The Little Mermaid
.'

‘Have you ever killed anyone?'

‘No.'

The answer comes swiftly, like the others. But he knows we're getting to the heart of the matter. What is he hoping for? How's he going to get out of this one?

‘Are you afraid of death?'

‘No.'

‘What's the most traumatic thing that's ever happened to you?'

He clears his throat. ‘This.'

‘Is there anything you'd kill for?'

‘No.'

‘Would you kill for your daughter?'

‘Yes.'

‘But you said…'

He loses his cool.

‘I know what I said!' he shouts. ‘Dear God! Of course I'd do anything to protect my child.'

He tries to calm down, but fails.

‘Can you tell me what the hell's going on here?'

He's yelling.

‘What the fuck is this? Is it a game? Are you thinking out a new crime novel? Am I your guinea pig? Is that it? Fuck!'

He slams his clenched fist down on the table. His fury is elemental. It scares me, despite the gun in my hand, but I contain my emotions. Outside, the sun is shining again; I can feel the warmth of its rays on my cheek.

‘Calm down, Herr Lenzen,' I say and raise the gun. ‘This is not a toy.'

‘I can see that!' Lenzen snarls. ‘Do you think I'm a choirboy? I know what a bloody gun looks like. I was almost kidnapped twice in Algeria; I've reported on goddamn warlords in Afghanistan: I am perfectly capable of telling a real gun from a water pistol, believe me.'

His face is bright red. He's losing control. I don't know whether that's a good thing or a bad thing.

‘You don't like the situation,' I say matter-of-factly.

‘You're damn right I don't! Can't you at least tell me…' he begins.

‘But you can put an end to the situation at any time,' I say, interrupting him.

I try to sound calm. I hadn't yet been as conscious of the microphones in the house as I am at this moment.

‘And how can I go about doing that?' Lenzen demands.

‘By giving me what I want.'

‘What do you want, for heaven's sake?'

‘The truth,' I say. ‘I want you to confess.'

Lenzen stares at me. My gun and I stare back. Then he blinks.

‘You want me to confess,' he echoes in disbelief.

Everything in me is quivering.

‘That's exactly what I want.'

Lenzen makes a deep, rumbling noise. It takes me a moment to realise that it's laughter—mirthless and hysterical.

‘Then maybe you'd like to tell me what the hell I'm supposed to confess to! What have I done to you? I didn't ask for this interview!'

‘You don't know what I'm talking about?'

‘I haven't the faintest idea,' says Lenzen.

‘I find that hard to…'

I get no further. With a swooping movement, Lenzen lunges at me across the table; he's over it in a split second, sweeping me off my chair. My head strikes the floor hard and Lenzen's on me. A shot goes off, my brain explodes, I see only mottled red, hear a whistling sound in my ears. I kick and thrash and try to heave Lenzen off me, but he's too heavy. I want to get away from him—get away—and, instinctively rather than deliberately, I bring the gun down on his skull. He screams and goes limp. I roll him off me, get to my feet, take a few steps backwards, and stumble, almost falling over my chair. I manage to stay on my feet and stand there, gasping for air. I point the gun at Lenzen. I'm perfectly calm now; there's no anger left in me—only cold hatred. I feel like pulling the trigger. Lenzen's crouching before me, motionless, staring into the muzzle of the gun. I see his wide-open eyes, the sweat glistening on his face, the rise and fall of his chest—I see everything as if in slow motion. My right hand, holding the gun, trembles. The moment passes. I regain self-control and lower the gun a little. I realise I've been holding my breath. Lenzen's gasping for air; we're both gasping for air. He's bleeding from a wound on his head. He gets onto his knees, looking out at me from behind metallic eyes—a wounded animal.

‘Get up,' I say.

Lenzen gets up. He puts his hand to his head and looks aghast when he feels the blood. I fight back my nausea.

‘Turn round and walk towards the front door.'

He looks at me uncomprehendingly.

‘Go on,' I say.

I follow him with raised gun, steering him on wobbly legs towards the guest bathroom which, as luck will have it, is right next to the dining room. I get him to take a towel, wet it, press it to the bleeding. It's soon clear that the wound is tiny; I didn't hit him properly at all. Neither of us says a word; only our heavy breathing is audible.

Then I steer Lenzen back to the dining-room table. Thick clouds cover the sun and dusk is falling; we're on the narrow ridge between daytime and evening. Far off, there's a rumble. The storm that Charlotte had prophesied is coming. It may be some time coming, but the air in the room is already electrically charged.