The Trap (28 page)

My parents look at me with alarm in their eyes. I must look very pale.

‘Are you all right?' my mother asks.

‘Victor Lenzen was here, in this house, and told you about my book?' I ask.

‘He said he was meeting you for an interview and wanted to find out a bit about your background first,' says my father. ‘We shouldn't have let him in.'

‘That's why you hung up when I called,' I gasp. ‘You were cross about the book.'

My mother nods. I'd like to fling my arms round her neck in relief, because she's there, because she's my mother, because she never for a second believed I could be a murderer—not for a second. The very idea is absurd. Now that I'm sitting face-to-face with her, that is quite clear to me. But alone in my big house, it seemed entirely logical. I've been living in a hall of mirrors that have distorted everything in my life.

Victor Lenzen came here to find out what I knew, what my parents knew. When he realised that Mum and Dad knew nothing and that we were barely in touch with one another, he brilliantly turned the situation to his advantage.

My anger takes my breath away. I need a moment's peace to gather my thoughts.

‘Excuse me for a second,' I say, getting up.

I leave the room, feeling my parents' eyes on my back. I lock myself in the guest bathroom, sit down on the cool tiled floor, bury my face in my hands, and try to calm down. The euphoria I had felt at finally managing to leave the house is slowly evaporating, giving way to the urgent question: What am I to do about Lenzen?

There is no evidence against him. He would have to confess. And he didn't do that even when he was looking into the muzzle of my gun.

But that, of course, was in my house, and he had to reckon on everything being recorded. What if I were to look him up now—now that he feels safe?

I hesitate for a moment, then I take my phone and enter Julian's number. It rings once, three times, five times, then the answering machine starts up. I leave a few words asking him to call me back and giving my mobile number, then I hang up. Might Julian still be at work? I ring the police station. A policeman I don't know takes the call.

‘This is Linda Michaelis,' I say. ‘Is Superintendent Schumer there?'

‘No, sorry,' the man replies. ‘Not till tomorrow.'

Damn! I'm tempted to go ahead anyway. But I don't want to screw things up again. I need help.

I flush the chain and run the tap, in case my parents are still sitting tensely in the living room and can hear me. Then I leave the bathroom and go back to them. Their faces brighten when I step through the door. I notice what trouble they're taking not to scrutinise me, not to scan my face for traces of the past years.

I sit down again. I take a sandwich, because I know it will please my mother. It's not until I start to eat that I realise how hungry I really am. I'm about to take another when my phone rings. I don't recognise the mobile number. Could it be Julian ringing me back? Hurriedly, I take the call.

‘Hello?'

‘Good evening. Is that Linda Conrads?' a male voice asks.

It's a voice I don't know. I'm on instant alert. I get up, casting an apologetic glance at my parents, and go into the hall, closing the door behind me.

‘Yes. Who's speaking?'

‘Hello, Frau Conrads, I'm glad I've got hold of you. My name is Maximilian Henkel. I have your number from my colleague, Victor Lenzen.'

I'm reeling.

‘Oh?' I say lamely.

I have to prop myself up against the hall wall so as not to lose my balance.

‘I hope you don't mind my disturbing you so late,' the man says, but he doesn't wait for a response. ‘It's about the interview. We were all thrilled, of course, when we received your offer of an exclusive interview. Such a shame it didn't work out first time round. Are you better now?'

What's going on here?

‘Yes,' I say, swallowing.

‘Great,' says Henkel. ‘Victor said you hadn't felt well and that the interview couldn't take place. But we'd still love to have you in one of our next issues. I wanted to ask you if it would be possible to repeat the interview at a more opportune time. The sooner the better.'

I catch my breath.

‘Repeat it?' I exclaim. ‘With Lenzen?'

‘Oh, yes, I should perhaps have mentioned that to begin with. I'm afraid Victor Lenzen won't be available. He's made a spur-of-the-moment decision to leave for Syria tonight on a lengthy research trip. But if you wouldn't mind making do with me or one of my other colleagues…'

‘Victor Lenzen's leaving the country tomorrow?' I gasp.

‘Yes, the crazy fellow,' Henkel says in an offhand manner. ‘It was probably only a matter of time before he got itchy feet again. I know he was your preferred interviewer, but perhaps we can…'

I hang up. My head is ringing.

Tonight is all I have left.

I'm so sunk in thought that I jump when the living-room door opens and my mother pops her head round the side.

‘Is everything all right, love?'

My heart leaps with joy. She hasn't called me that for years.

My father's face appears behind her. I smile, in spite of my panic.

‘Yes,' I say. ‘But you'll have to forgive me; I'm afraid I've got to be going again.'

‘What—now?' my mother asks.

‘Yes. I'm very sorry, but something's cropped up.'

My parents look at me in horror.

‘But we've only just got you back. You can't leave again straight away,' my mother says. ‘Please stay the night.'

‘I'll be back soon. Promise.'

‘Can't it wait till tomorrow?' my father asks. ‘It's late.'

I can see the concern on their faces. They don't care what I write or how I live; they only want me to be with them. Linda. Their elder daughter, their only remaining daughter. My parents look at me in silence and I almost cave in.

‘I'm sorry,' I say. ‘I'll come back, I promise.'

I hug my mother and feel like bursting into tears. Gently, I free myself from her embrace. She lets me go, reluctantly. I hug my father—remember him spinning me through the air when I was little, so big and strong; a laughing giant. Now he feels fragile. I ease myself away from him. He looks at me with a smile, takes my face in his trembling hand and strokes my cheek with his thumb, the way he used to.

‘See you tomorrow,' he says, letting me go.

‘See you tomorrow,' my mother says.

I nod, forcing a smile.

I take my bag, leave my parents' house, step onto the street and feel the night swallow me up.

31

I am sitting in a taxi outside his house. To my immense relief, there are lights on; he's at home. He's divorced now, but he still lives here. That much, at least, I know. Not that his marital status should be a matter of interest to me in the present situation.

I am breathing a mixture of smells: leather seats, sweat and pungent aftershave. I let my gaze rest on the front steps, and remember how we sat there in the darkness sharing a cigarette, an infinitely long time ago.

I haven't seen Julian for almost twelve years. At the beginning of those twelve years, I had been convinced that couldn't be all; that he would get in touch sooner or later—give me a ring, drop me a line, turn up on my doorstep, make some kind of sign. But there was nothing. Superintendent Julian Schumer. I remember the bond between us, as invisible and as real as electricity.

I have missed him. Now I'm sitting here in a taxi outside his house, a classical music station on the radio, the driver drumming the beat on the steering wheel, and time running through my fingers as I try to summon up the courage to get out of the car.

I pull myself together. I stride towards the front door, dazzled partway by the light triggered by the sensor. I climb the steps, ring the bell, brace myself to meet Julian. My feelings are irrelevant. What matters is that he believes me—that he helps me. I manage one deep breath, then the heavy wooden door opens.

A very tall, very beautiful woman stands before me and looks at me enquiringly.

‘Yes?' she says.

For a moment I am speechless. What an idiot I am. Why had this possibility never occurred to me? The world has carried on turning.

‘I'm sorry to bother you,' I say. ‘Is Julian Schumer in?'

‘No, he isn't.'

The woman folds her arms across her chest and leans back against the door jamb. Her auburn hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders. She glances at the waiting taxi, then turns her attention back to me.

‘Will he be home tonight?' I ask.

‘He should have been back ages ago,' she replies. ‘Are you a colleague of his?'

I shake my head. I can feel the woman's mistrust, but I have no choice but to ask her for a favour.

‘Listen, I urgently need help. Can you try to get hold of him on his mobile?'

‘He doesn't have his mobile with him.'

Oh, Linda. So much for your plans.

‘Okay. Then…could you give him a message when he gets back?'

‘Who are you anyway?'

‘I'm Linda Michaelis. Julian investigated my sister's murder many years ago. I urgently need his help.'

The woman frowns. She seems unsure whether or not to ask me in to hear what I have to say—and evidently decides against it.

‘Tell him I was here. Linda Michaelis. Tell him I've found him—the man from back then. His name's Victor Lenzen. Can you remember that? Victor Lenzen.'

The woman stares at me as if I've gone mad, but doesn't reply.

‘Tell him to come to this address as quickly as possible,' I say, rummaging in my bag for my notebook and tearing out the page where I'd jotted down Lenzen's address.

‘As quickly as possible, okay? It's really important!'

I look at her imploringly but only succeed in making her back away from me.

‘If it's as important as all that, why don't you ring the emergency number?' she asks. ‘Julian isn't the only policeman on the planet, you know.'

‘It's a long story. Please!'

I hold out the scrap of paper. She stares at it. Without stopping to think, I grab her arm and thrust the paper into her hand, ignoring her startled gasp.

Then I turn and leave.

In the light of the street lamp, the taxi is glowing orange like the setting sun. I make my way back to it on wobbly legs and get in. No more detours. I give the driver the address and brace myself. Lenzen's face appears before me and adrenalin surges through my belly and mingles with my anger. My body is so full of energy that I find it hard to sit still. I take some deep breaths.

‘Everything all right back there?' the driver asks.

‘Everything's fine,' I say.

‘Do you feel ill?'

I shake my head.

‘Can you tell me what we're listening to?' I ask, to distract myself.

‘It's a Beethoven violin concerto,' the driver replies. ‘But I couldn't tell you which. Do you like Beethoven?'

‘My father loves Beethoven. He used to play the Ninth at full blast whenever he got the chance.'

‘The most fascinating piece of music ever written, if you ask me.'

‘Really?'

‘Absolutely! Beethoven composed the Ninth Symphony when he was already stone deaf. That wonderful music, all the different parts, the instruments, the choir, the soloists—all those divinely beautiful sounds—came from the head of a deaf man.'

‘I didn't know that,' I lie.

The driver nods enthusiastically and his enthusiasm makes me happy.

‘When Beethoven conducted the Ninth for the first time and the final notes died away, the audience behind him went wild with excitement. But Beethoven couldn't hear them. He turned round to face the audience, unsure how his symphony had been received. It wasn't until he saw the ecstatic faces that he knew it was good.'

‘Wow,' I say.

‘Yes,' the driver replies.

Then the taxi gives a jolt and we stop.

‘Here we are,' the driver says.

He turns round and looks at me. I look back.

‘Good,' I say.

I leave the protective cocoon of the car and it immediately vanishes into the darkness. I'm on the edge of town, in a quiet, well-heeled residential area. Bigger houses than in my parents' street. Avenues of chestnut trees.

I recognise Lenzen's house. I know it from photographs taken in the early stages of my plans by a private detective I had charged with finding out as much as possible about Lenzen, his family and his social milieu.

For the third time on this strange evening, I'm walking up a gravel path. But this time my knees aren't trembling, my heart isn't racing. I am calm. The sensor goes off and lights up my way. I climb the two steps to the front door. Inside, a light is turned on, and even before I have time to ring the bell, Victor Lenzen opens the door to me.

Those pale, clear eyes.

‘I should have known you'd come,' he says, and lets me in.

32

I have reached the end of my journey. Victor Lenzen is standing before me, only an arm's length away.

He has closed the front door behind him, shutting out the world. We are alone.

Lenzen seems changed. He is wearing a black shirt and jeans. He looks like an aftershave ad. Those pale blue eyes that I knew I would never forget, when I saw them for the first time, all those years ago in Anna's flat—how could I ever have doubted myself?

‘What are you doing here, Linda?' asks Lenzen.

He seems to me a touch shorter than when we last met. Or do I feel taller?

‘I want the truth,' I say. ‘I deserve the truth.'

For a second or two, we stand there, looking at one another. The air between us seems to vibrate. The moment drags on painfully; I endure it. Then Victor Lenzen looks away.

‘Let's not talk here,' he says.

He sets off down the hall and I follow him. His house is large and empty. It looks as if he were about to move out—or as if he's never really moved in.