Little Hands Clapping (22 page)

‘Horst?’ she said, on hearing his voice. ‘Horst, where are you? You promised to clean the rabbit hutch this morning. It’s your turn. It’s written on the calendar, right in front of me. Listen:
Horst to clean rabbit hutch in morning before work
. And now it’s the afternoon. Honestly, Horst, I don’t know what’s come over you – you’ve become rather unreliable in recent hours.’

Horst remembered his commitment to clean the hutch, and felt a small burst of pleasure. This was the friction between work and home that a committed cop was supposed to feel. Even so, his wife had sounded particularly frosty, and on balance he supposed it would be best if he was to return home. ‘Yes, dear,’ he said. ‘Sorry, dear. I shall be with you in eighteen minutes, but as soon as the hutch is clean I must return to work. Something quite important has come up.’

‘You may do whatever you wish,’ she snapped, ‘as soon as you have done your chore.’

Horst brushed the little black pellets into a shovel, emptied them into a plastic bag and reached for fresh straw. ‘What should I do now?’ he asked.

The rabbits said nothing; they just carried on looking annoyed by all the upheaval. As he refreshed the water in their bottle, Horst could see that this business had gone on long enough. He resolved to pay the doctor a visit that evening, to listen to what he was certain would be an upsetting but very reasonable explanation of an unfortunate incident, and then leave him alone and return to his everyday duties. There would be no captured fiend, and no glory.

On his way out he passed his son as he returned from school. Without thinking, he told him he was off to catch a major criminal. His son wished him luck, and as soon as he was out of the house Horst put his hand to his brow, wondering what had led him to say such a stupid thing.

Madalena was on her third visit to Room Five,
Popular Methods
. She looked again at the razor blades and the pots of pills, the miniature railway, the scale model of a suspension bridge, the sawn-off shotgun and the largest exhibit in the museum – a real car with a hose running from its exhaust pipe to the rear window, a dummy slumped in the driver’s seat. Beside each display was a card that listed some statistics and emphasised the possible consequences of failure. She couldn’t read them, but she already knew how important it was to be sure that the end really would be the end. She could walk to any pharmacy counter and get pills, but she could never be sure that they would work; they might come straight back up having done her no harm at all, or leave her with agonising organ damage, or even brain injuries that would stop her from ever being able to correct her mistake. She knew she had to make it quick and effective.

The noose lay on its table, and she touched it. It was rough against her fingers, and it would be rough against her throat. She had already found the place to do it – a room in another part of the museum with a pipe running the length of the ceiling, and a table to stand on as she sets up the rope, and from which she will be able to jump.

There were hours left until the museum closed. She would have to leave and return later on. As she went from room to room one last time she was reassured by all the photographs and the paraphernalia. So many people had done what she was about to do, and she was comforted by the idea that they would understand, that they wouldn’t judge her. On the train, as she had pretended to sleep, she had pictured herself spending her last moments cold and alone, falling from a bridge into a fast-flowing river, dumbbells tied to her wrists. Here in the museum it would feel as if she was spending these same moments among friends.

As she walked through the lobby her eyes caught those of the man behind the front desk, an old man with long, grey fingers. Hoping to compensate for her rudeness with the banana she attempted a smile but she couldn’t make her lips move. It would have been for nothing anyway. He was already looking away.

She ordered another coffee from the same place. She sat at the same table, and after one sip she pushed the mug away. She had not felt thirsty or hungry since her drink with Mauro and Luciana, and she knew why that was: thirst and hunger are the body’s way of saying that it needs to survive.

She took her pen and pad from her bag. Her mind was clearer than it had been on the train, and she could see she had been approaching the note from the wrong angle: it was not for her to express the complexity of her emotions, but to comfort the people she was leaving behind. The most important thing to do was reassure her mother and father that she had made the right decision, and that everybody will be better off when she has gone. She wanted them to know that it had been nobody’s fault, and especially not theirs. She only touched on the way she felt, keeping her wording as straightforward as she could. As she wrote these sentences she hoped they wouldn’t read them and think,
If it was only this darkness, if it was only this pain, if it was only this hatred of herself then we could have nursed her through it
. She told them she was beyond nursing, and beyond help, and she told them that she loved them, that she was sorry to have let them down this way, that she wished they could have had the daughter they deserved rather than the one they had ended up with. She told them they were not to feel sad for her, that they should be relieved to know that she is at last at peace.

She put the letter in the pocket of her jacket. She was sure that whoever was to find her would see that it got to them. She wondered if it would be the man with the long, grey fingers. She hoped it would be. He seemed like the kind of person who would understand.

The old man closed the front door and bolted it shut. Switching off lights as he went, he made his way upstairs and sat at the kitchen table. He cut himself a chunk of hardening cheese and a thin slice of bread. Looking straight ahead, he ate. The girl had returned, as he had known she would. He had come to recognise the signs. He could see from her eyes and from the way she held herself that there would be no drama, that he would be waking early in the morning and calling the doctor. There would be no need for him to interfere; all he had to do was let nature take its course.

When the food was gone he carried on sitting at the table, staring straight ahead. It was a quiet, still evening. Maybe if he listened hard enough he would be able to hear her heartbeat, or the soft shuffle of a spider’s claws as it waited nearby.

Madalena lay behind the car in Room Five. When she was sure the old man had gone away she stood up and picked up the noose, and took it with her to the place she had chosen: Room Eight. She felt calm. She wasn’t afraid of the dark, or of anything. Suddenly the room filled with light, and moments later the silence was shattered by a loud bang, like a gunshot. She went to the window. In the sky above the rooftops was a fading burst of colour. She had always enjoyed fireworks, but could no longer understand why.

She took the chair from the corner of the room and put it on the table. She knew she would need a long drop, but not so long that her feet would touch the floor. She climbed on to the table and on to the chair, and reached up to attach the rope with a single knot. Taking care not to make a noise she climbed down and checked she had got it right. She had. Her feet would hang a few inches from the floor. She climbed back up, reinforced the knot and tested it by pulling on it with all her weight. It held firm. When the time comes she will stand on the edge and step forward, and she will fall, and it will all be over. For the first time in a long while she had something to look forward to.

Wanting to keep the inconvenience she was causing to a minimum, she put the chair back in the corner of the room. There was another flash, and a bang and a crackle. Her head was clear now. She was ready.

The old man was annoyed to hear these explosions. These were the test flares, final checks for the annual firework display at the castle. Every year he forgot about it until he heard these warning sounds. Soon it would all begin. He wished he had remembered to buy earplugs on his last trip out of the museum.

He changed into his nightshirt and nightcap, and pulled a Breton–German dictionary from the shelf. He lay on his bed, and read.
Nobl
.
Nobla
.
Noblañs
. As a long, grey finger traced a line beneath
Noblet
, his eyelids began to feel heavy. Voices carried up from the street, as people started making their way towards the castle grounds. He hoped he would not be kept awake by the commotion. He would have to be up early in the morning, and he didn’t want his night’s sleep to be curtailed at both ends.

Horst pulled up outside the doctor’s house. His palms were damp. He knew he was out of his depth, but he couldn’t call his colleagues for help. On top of the humiliation of relinquishing the case there would be awkward questions about why he had kept such information to himself for so long. The only way was to carry on alone; if he was to turn up at the station with a scalp then these questions would not be asked. ‘They will call me
The Lone Wolf
,’ he mumbled.

There was a distant bang, and through the trees he saw a spray of light. He hadn’t been looking for a sign, but if there was ever going to be one, this was it. Reminding himself of the motto he had given the investigation, he put on his cap and got out of the car.

He opened the side gate and walked up the doctor’s driveway to his front door. A security light took him by surprise, and from somewhere came the bark of a dog. Making sure his cap was on straight, he rang the bell. Moments later the door opened. The doctor was already in his pyjamas.

‘Doctor Fröhlicher?’

‘Yes.’

‘Doctor Ernst Fröhlicher?’

‘Yes.’

‘Doctor Ernst Fröhlicher . . . of this address?’

‘Yes.’

‘I wonder if I could have a moment to talk to you about . . .’ Horst wished he had prepared more thoroughly. ‘. . . about a matter.’

‘A matter?’

‘Yes. A police matter.’ He pointed to his cap.

‘A police matter? Of course. Please go on.’

Horst stared directly at the doctor as he wondered where to begin. Again he made sure his cap was on straight.

The doctor looked concerned. ‘Is this a matter of urgency? Is a patient of mine in difficulty?’

Horst carried on staring. ‘No,’ he said. It was time to drop the bombshell. He took a deep breath. ‘I am here to ask a few routine questions about the unexpected appearance of human body parts in the park.’

‘Ah.’ The doctor swallowed. He had been sure Frau Klopstock would have kept this to herself. He was angry with her for having gone to the police after everything he had done for her over the years. His mind raced as he thought of all the evidence he would have to destroy because of her. It was more than just
evidence
too; it was a large part of what made up his life. It all seemed such a waste. ‘Of course, officer,’ he said. ‘I wonder if we could schedule an appointment for next week? Or perhaps the week after?’ He smiled. ‘Just like you, I am a very busy public servant.’

Horst’s first instinct was to say
Yes doctor, that will be fine
, and go home for an early night, but he reminded himself that he was a tough cop now, and he said, quietly, ‘No.’

The doctor visibly deflated, and Horst felt a surge of power, as if he was no longer playing a part. Without being invited, and in defiance of protocol, he entered the doctor’s house. The door to the large open-plan living and dining room was open, and he went through. The doctor followed.

Horst supposed he should try to build up a rapport by making a little small talk. ‘You have a very nice house, Doctor Fröhlicher,’ he said.

‘Please, call me Ernst,’ said the doctor. ‘Now, would you like a cup of coffee?’

Horst knew it would be a breach of police regulations to accept hospitality from a suspect, but even so he was tempted by the offer. He wondered whether this was yet another rule he should break. While he tried to resolve this inner conflict, he continued looking hard at the doctor, trying to connect the person he saw with the strangeness of the incident. He couldn’t; the doctor looked too much like a pleasant and normal man to have been involved in anything so unusual, and he wondered whether it was possible that Irmgard had been under a lot of strain and had only imagined the things she had supposedly seen in the park. After a long silence, Horst decided that
The Lone Wolf
must not be so easily swayed by appearances, and also that he must never accept a drink from a possible major criminal for fear of what it might contain. He said, quietly, ‘No.’

‘Very well,’ said the doctor. ‘Very well.’

Again, Horst was stuck for what to do next. It all seemed so implausible. He looked around at the room he was standing in. It was neat and orderly, but it seemed to lack something. He remembered what he had found out from Irmgard about the doctor’s story. What was missing was any sign of family life. There were no feminine touches, and no scattered toys or trailing wires of video games, or any other evidence of a child or grandchild. He thought of the clutter of his own home, and was glad of it. He felt sorry for the doctor, but he knew he had to put his pity aside. He walked over to the dining table. On a plate was a partly eaten dome of brown meat. Knowing he had to break the silence, he spoke. ‘This looks very tasty, doctor. What is it?’

The doctor slumped into an armchair. At first he hadn’t known what to make of his visitor’s unusual manner, but as their meeting progressed he had begun to feel the power of the policeman’s unsettlingly long silences, and the penetrating stares that took in his every movement as he analysed even the slightest nuance of his body language. And now, his mind razor sharp, he had made his way straight to the evidence. There would be no use trying to fight somebody like this. They had sent their best man. It was over.