The Lie (12 page)

In her mind's eye she saw the insurance policy. Inside her head Michael Trenkler's voice was whispering something about a Mr Moneybags and not needing money to burn. She'd seen enough crime films to wonder what Nadia was really looking for: a stand-in sulky wife or a suitable corpse? Was that why it didn't matter at all that her voice sounded different?

It was some minutes before she remembered the metallic clicking noise. Now she thought she knew what the mistake was she'd made. The alarm system mustn't have been on. She must have switched it on instead of off. She tried keying in the combination again, but Nadia had only given her the one and nothing moved.

Now panic really was threatening to take over. She had to force herself to stay calm. There must be a way of getting out of the place. She went back into the garage and examined the box on the wall beside the door. It was perfectly smooth, apart from a few countersunk screws. She hadn't come across a workroom where she could expect to find a screwdriver, but in an emergency a kitchen knife should do the job.

The screws were pretty tight, but eventually gave way. She took off the cover and found herself confronted with a tangle of circuit boards and wires, which all ended up in the thick cable going to the motor. Ignoring the danger of an electric shock, she fetched a knife with a sharp point from the kitchen and set about taking out the tiny screws holding the cable connectors.

Twice the knife slipped and cut her finger, smearing blood over the box, the wires and the handle of the knife. After ten minutes the thick cable was disconnected. She went to the side and grasped the bottom of the door, smearing blood over that too — and saw the keyhole just above the floor with a recessed grip on either side.

It was the red key that fitted. Feeling both immeasurably relieved and horribly ashamed of her stupidity, she turned it and heard something click in the floor. The door swung up a little. The front door could probably have been opened in the same way. As she pulled the door up, she peered though the widening gap at the neighbouring garden. The bicycle was still there, but not Wolfgang Blasting.

Seconds later the door was fully open and she was sitting in the Jaguar convincing herself she could manage the automatic drive. Another person would have found the sheer number of switches on the console between the two seats daunting. She didn't find how to adjust the driver's seat, but she could just reach the pedals with the tips of her toes. In her haste, she forgot to adjust the rear-view mirror.

As soon as she touched the accelerator, the Jaguar shot forward. She stamped on the brakes, let the car roll slowly out of the garage, then stopped, got out, pulled the heavy door down and locked it. As she was about to get back into the car, Wolfgang Blasting appeared from his house and asked, “What about the switch?”

“No time,” she said curtly and got back into the car.

Ilona Blasting appeared in the open doorway, adding her strident voice to her husband's: “Oh, come on. It's not a catastrophe if you miss a few minutes of the first act. I don't want to spend the whole evening sitting in the dark.”

Susanne deduced from this that it was a light switch they needed. Remembering what Nadia had told her about Frau Blasting's political affiliations, she suggested, “Light a candle. It's romantic and environmentally friendly.”

Taking advantage of Ilona Blasting's flabbergasted silence, she released the handbrake, fastened the safety belt and drove off. Her fingers were still bleeding, both cuts were deep, leaving blood on the steering wheel, the handbrake and the door handle. There were smears on the sand-coloured dress too. She stopped on the country lane with the young trees to look for the first-aid box, which she found under the driver's
seat. After wrapping some gauze round her fingers, she drove on, slowly and carefully, well aware that the Jaguar was jam-packed with as much technology as the bloody house.

The traffic on the autobahn was heavy. She stuck to the inside lane, trying to work out how to tell Nadia about the mess she'd made of things. It was all over before it had really begun, that was for sure. She needn't worry about the insurance policy, after such a debacle Nadia couldn't afford to install her in her home for any length of time. She'd end up demolishing the place. She'd failed, it was as much of a disaster as her miscalculation regarding the pistol during the second bank robbery. It was more than just embarrassing - suddenly the engine cut out.

It was a reflex action to pull the car over to the right and she managed to get the Jaguar onto the hard shoulder. After that it didn't respond at all, neither when she turned the steering wheel, nor when she trod on the brake.

 

As the car rolled onto the hard shoulder, she burst into tears. For the first time since her father had died. It was all too much for her: the shame, the tension, the loss of the prospect of five hundred or even a thousand euros a month, her whole miserable situation. The traffic roared past, no one bothered with her. She sat there for more than fifteen minutes, leaning on the steering wheel, her face buried in the crook of her arm. With her bloodstained dress she looked like something out of a horror film. Eventually someone tapped on the window of the passenger door. She looked up to see a bearded face. “Do you need help?”

She nodded and furiously set about wiping her eyes and cheeks, smearing the cheap mascara all over her face. The bearded man glanced round the interior and, seeing the traces of blood, said, “You're injured.”

She waved his concern away. “It's just a cut on my finger. The problem's the car, it won't go.”

The man's smile was reassuring and at the same time severe. “It's not the end of the world. But you should have switched the hazard warning lights on. Do it now.”

She looked at the multiplicity of switches on the console. “Which one's the hazard lights?”

At the his look of surprise, she quickly added, “It's my husband's car. I don't normally drive it, I've no idea which switch is which.”

“Aha,” said the bearded man drawing out the word a little. “You'd better show me your papers.”

He opened the passenger door, as far as the crash barrier allowed, felt in his shirt pocket and showed her his warrant card. The police! That was all she needed. She looked round. Behind the Jaguar was an ordinary white car. It didn't look like a police car.

“Papers, please,” he asked again.

She held out Nadia's handbag, but he didn't take it. “Driving licence and registration document are all I need to see.”

“I've only got my driving licence,” she said. “And my identity card, of course.” As she pulled both out of the case, two credit cards and Nadia's passport fell out as well. Among them was the registration document for the Alfa. Placing it on the outstretched male hand, together with the driving licence and Nadia's ID, she explained, “That's my car. My husband simply took it and locked me in because I wanted to go and see a friend and he can't stand her.”

He didn't respond, but studied the driving licence and registration document. Then he went round the to front of the car, looked at something, came back, stuck his head in the car again and demanded. “The registration number.”

She had no idea what he was talking about.

“The registration number of this car, Frau Trenkler,” he said, emphasizing each word. “If it's your husband's car, you ought to know it.”

It was all over. Ridiculous, really, when she had such a good memory for figures. But she'd not even glanced at it in the garage, nor out in the driveway. She shook her head. “I'm sorry, I'm not…” Not Nadia Trenkler, she was going to say and explain everything. Then he would be welcome to come to Kettlerstrasse with her and see with his own eyes that she'd only been doing Nadia a favour. But it didn't come to a full confession.

He interrupted her explanation in the same tone as Wolfgang Blasting had ordered her to look for the switch. “Get out of the car.” She started to open the driver's door. “No.” He waved her towards him. “This side.”

Silently cursing, she slid across and followed him to his car. Without taking his eyes off her, he pulled a mobile phone out of a holder on his belt, thumbed in a number and said, “Dettmer here, will you check a car owner for me?” Then he gave the Jaguar's registration. After a while, which seemed like an eternity to Susanne, he got a reply and smiled at her. “If you can just tell me your husband's date of birth, I'll be convinced.”

That was no problem, she'd seen it in the contract with the pharmaceuticals firm. Dettmer returned her papers and went back to the Jaguar. “Memory loss under stress. It can happen. Did the car do anything before it gave up the ghost?”

“No.”

He tried to start the Jaguar. The starter motor turned, a few lights appeared, but that was all. Dettmer gave her a reproachful look. “It must be completely empty. Check the fuel gauge before you set off next time. Running out on the autobahn can be an expensive pastime.”

She felt she wanted the ground to swallow her up. The helpful policeman looked in the boot, but there wasn't a spare can, so he got out his phone again and called the recovery service. Then he went, though not before telling her to wait on the other side of the crash barrier for her own safety.

The recovery vehicle appeared not long after. The Jaguar was attached to a hook and lifted up. She sat in the front, with the driver. It was ten miles to the nearest petrol station. She used Nadia's money to pay for the recovery and the petrol, did basic repairs to her make-up and drove to her flat.

Surprisingly she found a space right outside the flat. It wasn't a particularly large one but, bearing Johannes Herzog's instructions in mind, she managed to manoeuvre the Jaguar into it. She got out and hurried into the old, ugly tenement. Just for once Heller wasn't leaning out of the window. As usual, though, the door wasn't locked. She ran up the three flights of stairs.

It was a strange sensation, having to knock at her own door. Nadia opened at once and had a quick look up and down the stairs, to make sure there was no one else around, trying with difficulty to conceal the strain she was under. But when, after a few seconds, she saw the state of Susanne's face and dress, her eyes widened. “Just look at you! Have you been in a crash?”

She shook her head and mumbled something about a sharp kitchen knife. Nadia gave a sigh of relief. “Thank God. I thought something had happened.”

Then she went back into the kitchen and lighted a cigarette, the last in the packet. On the table was a saucer overflowing with ash and cigarette ends. Beside it was an open laptop, the screen swarming with letters and numbers. It looked confusing and to gain time Susanne pretended to be interested. “Can you really do proper work with a little thing like that?”

“Little?” Nadia's snort sounded more than mildly amused. “That's a P4 with three gigahertz.”

“Aha,” she murmured, watching as Nadia's fingers flew across the keys and the jumble of figures vanished from the screen in next to no time.

After another drag on her cigarette, Nadia pointed to the rough-and-ready bandage on her hand. “What were you doing with a kitchen knife?”

“Michael was still there when I arrived.”

Nadia looked up in surprise and laughed uncertainly. “I hope you didn't slaughter him.”

She just shook her head. Nadia was insistent. “And? How was it? You look as if you've had an encounter with the Devil. Were there problems? Did he notice something or did he fall for it?”

She wasn't convinced he'd seen her for long enough to say that, but she nodded.

“What then?” Nadia demanded. “A problem with Michael?”

“No,” she said, “I got on OK with him. I don't think he noticed anything.”

Nadia breathed a sigh of relief. “So it works. It'll work for several days, you'll see.”

“I don't think so,” she said and started her report. When she came to her need for a sip of vodka to calm her down, Nadia's face turned grey. Her voice sounded as if she had sandpaper in her throat. “You did what?”

She hastened to add that she hadn't actually touched a drop and that she was convinced she'd managed to calm Michael down. She repeated word for word what she'd said and what he'd replied. “I'm sorry,” she said, “but I didn't know…”

Irritatedly Nadia waved her apology aside. “OK, OK. My mistake. I hadn't thought you'd have a drink if you were going to drive, otherwise I'd have told you. But I can sort that out, no problem,” Nadia said, without seeming entirely convinced. She stubbed out her cigarette, jabbing it viciously on the saucer, and, though it obviously cost her an effort, gave an explanation. “I went through a terrible time when I found out he was being unfaithful. It took a while before I could get it under control. Since then he really loses his cool if it even looks as if I…” Nadia shrugged her shoulders and went on, “But if you didn't touch a drop then I'm sure I can sort it out with him.”

She swore she hadn't taken even a little sip. Nadia relaxed a little. “And then? Was there anything else?”

She nodded. Now the words came easily. She told the rest of her story in reverse, starting with a friendly man who'd helped her on the autobahn - keeping quiet about the fact that he was a policeman - then the Jaguar running out of petrol and back to taking the box apart in the garage. Along the way she mentioned the telephone not working.

Several times Nadia breathed in sharply, as if about to vent her fury, but she bit her tongue and even managed a “Nothing too serious then” at the end. “I'm sure Jo can mend the door.” From what she said, she'd tried to simplify matters and had reprogrammed the alarm to stop herself being locked out if Susanne should happen to make a mistake. The telephone in the study was her business line, which was always switched off at the weekend; the private phone was in the bedroom.