The Trap (3 page)

Why? Why? Why?

‘You're obsessed with that question, Frau Conrads. It's no good. You have to let go, live your life.'

I try to shake off Anna's image and all thoughts of her. I don't want to think about her because I know where that leads me; back then I almost went mad, knowing that Anna was dead, and that her murderer was still somewhere out there.

Not being able to do anything was the worst. It was better to stop thinking about it altogether. Distract myself. Forget about Anna.

I try to do the same now, but it doesn't work this time. Why?

Then the news reporter's face flashes across my mind, and something in my head goes click. I realise that I've spent the past hours in shock.

And at last it's clear to me. The man on television I was so distressed by was real.

It wasn't a nightmare; it was reality.

I've seen my sister's murderer. It may be twelve years ago, but I remember every detail. It is compellingly clear to me what that means.

I drop the watering can. It lands with a clatter, and the water spills out over my bare feet. I turn around, leave the conservatory, stub my toe on the way into the house, ignore the pain, and hurry on.

Swiftly, I cross the ground floor, take the stairs to the first, skid along the hallway, and arrive in my bedroom out of breath. My laptop is lying on the bed, vaguely menacing. I hesitate, then sit down and pull it towards me, my fingers trembling. I'm almost afraid to open it, as if someone might be watching me through the screen.

I open Google and enter the name of the news channel where I saw the man. I'm nervous and keep hitting the wrong keys; it's not until the third try that I get it right. I bring up the homepage and click my way through to
Reporters
. I'm on the verge of thinking that the whole thing was just a figment of my imagination after all—that the man doesn't exist, that I dreamt him.

But then I find him; it only takes a few clicks. The monster. Instinctively, I hold my left hand in front of the screen to cover his photo. I can't look at him—not yet. The walls are starting to shake again, my heart is racing.

I concentrate on breathing, close my eyes. Nice and calm, that's the way. I open my eyes again and read his name, his profile. I see that he's won prizes—that he has a family and leads a successful, fulfilled life. Something inside me snaps. I feel something I haven't felt for years, and it's red hot. Slowly, I take down my hand from the screen.

I look at him.

I look into the face of the man who murdered my sister.

I am choked with fury, and I can think only one thing:
I'm going to get you.

I clap my laptop shut, put it away, get up. My thoughts are racing. My heart is pounding.

The incredible thing is, he lives very close by! For any normal person, it would be no trouble to track him down.

But I'm trapped in my house. And the police—the police didn't even believe me at the time. Not really.

If I want to speak to him—if I want to confront him, to call him to account in some way—then I have to get him to come to me. How can I lure him here?

The conversation with my therapist flashes through my mind again.

‘But why? Why did Anna have to die?'

‘You have to accept the possibility that you're never going to get an answer to that question, Linda.'

‘I can't accept that. Never.'

‘You'll learn.'

Never.

I think it over, feverishly. He's a journalist. And I am a famous author, notoriously withdrawn, who's had all the big magazines and TV channels clamouring for an interview for years now. Especially when a new book's out.

I remember what my therapist said: ‘You're only tormenting yourself, Linda.'

‘I can't stop thinking about it.'

‘If you need a reason, invent one. Or write a book. Flush it out of your system. And then you must let go. Live your life.'

Every hair on my neck is standing on end. My God, that's it!

Gooseflesh spreads over my body.

It's so obvious.

I'll write a new book. The events from back then in the form of a crime novel. Bait for the murderer and therapy for me.

All the heaviness has left my body. I leave my bedroom; my limbs are obeying me again. I go into the bathroom and have a shower. I dry and dress myself, go into my study, boot up my computer again and begin to write.

5

Things that don't exist in my world: conkers dropping from trees, children shuffling through autumn leaves, people in fancy dress on the tram, serendipitous meetings, short women being pulled along by enormous dogs as if they were on water skis. Shooting stars, ducklings learning to swim, sand castles, rear-end collisions, surprises, lolly-pop ladies, roller-coasters, sunburn.

My world makes do with a meagre palette.

Films are my way of passing the time; books are my passion, my true love. But music is my refuge. Whenever I'm in high spirits, which isn't often, I put on a record—Ella Fitzgerald, maybe, or Sarah Vaughan—and it almost makes me feel as if someone else were happy with me. If, on the other hand, I'm feeling sad or low, then Billie Holiday or Nina Simone suffer alongside me, and sometimes even console me.

I'm standing in the kitchen, listening to Nina as I pour a handful of coffee beans into my old-fashioned grinder. I love the smell of coffee, that dark, powerful, comforting aroma. I turn the handle, taking pleasure in the crunch and crack of the beans as I grind them. Afterwards I pull out the wooden drawer where the ground coffee collects and put it in a filter. When I'm alone in the house and only making coffee for myself, which is to say most of the time, I always make it by hand. Filling the grinder, grinding the beans, boiling the kettle, watching the brewing coffee drip into my cup—it's a ritual. When you lead as quiet a life as I do, it's a good idea to take pleasure in small things.

I empty the filter and contemplate the coffee in my cup. I sit down at the kitchen table with it. The smell that pervades the room calms me.

From the kitchen window, I can see the drive that leads to my house. It lies there, quiet and peaceful, but it's not long now until the monster from my dreams will make his way up it. He'll ring at my door and I'll let him in. The thought frightens me.

I take a sip of coffee and pull a face. I usually like it black, but today I've made it too strong. I open the fridge, take out the cream that I keep for Charlotte and other visitors, and pour a good swig in. Then I watch in fascination as the little clouds of cream swirl around in my cup, contracting and expanding, their movements as unpredictable as those of children at play, and it dawns on me that I am putting myself in a situation that is as incalculable and uncontrollable as these swirling clouds. I can lure the man to my house, yes.

But what next?

The clouds stop their dance and settle. I stir the coffee and drink it in small sips. My gaze rests on the drive again. It is lined with old chestnut trees and will soon be covered in yellow, red and brown leaves. For the first time ever, it seems threatening to me; I suddenly find it hard to breathe.

I can't do this.

I tear my eyes from the drive and pick up my smartphone. I tap around on it for a minute or two until I find the setting that enables me to withhold my number. I get up and turn the music down. Then I enter the number of the police station that investigated Anna's murder. I know it off by heart, even now.

My heart begins to beat faster when I hear the ringing tone. I try to breathe steadily. I tell myself I'm doing the right thing, putting my trust in the police in spite of everything—leaving murder to the experts. I tell myself I'm going to stash the half-written manuscript in the bottom drawer of my desk, or, better still, throw it away and never give it another thought.

The ringing sounds a second time—agonisingly drawn out.

I'm as nervous as if I were about to sit an exam. It occurs to me that the police aren't going to believe me, just as they didn't believe me back then, and I begin to waver. I'm toying with the idea of hanging up, when someone picks up the phone and a woman's voice answers. I recognise it at once.

Andrea Brandt was on the murder squad all those years ago. I didn't like her and she didn't like me. My determination immediately falters.

‘Hello?' Brandt drawls when I don't speak—impatient even before we've begun.

I pull myself together.

‘Hello, could I speak to Superintendent Julian Schumer?' I ask.

‘It's his day off today. Who's speaking, please?'

I swallow and don't know whether to confide in her (it had to be her, didn't it?) or whether I'm better off hanging up.

‘I'm calling about an old case,' I say eventually, as if I hadn't heard her question. I can't bring myself to reveal my identity—not yet. ‘About a murder that took place more than ten years ago,' I add.

‘Yes?'

I can sense the policewoman pricking up her antennae and I could slap myself for not preparing for this conversation. My old impulsiveness is flaring up again when I least need it.

‘What would you say,' I ask, ‘if new evidence came to light so long after the event? From a witness who thought he knew the murderer?'

Andrea Brandt hesitates only briefly. ‘Are you this witness?' she asks.

Damn it! Should I put my cards on the table? I struggle with my conscience.

‘If you want to make a statement, you can call in at any time,' Brandt says.

‘How often are these old cases solved?' I ask, ignoring her last remark.

I can almost hear her suppress a sigh, and I wonder how many of these calls she gets, yielding nothing tangible.

‘I can't give you an exact number, I'm afraid, Frau…'