The Lie (36 page)

She put her plate on her lap, leaned back, fixed her eyes on his back and went on whispering, the same thing, again and again. Eventually he noticed. “What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

He picked up the remote control, switched off the sound and turned to face her, a furious look on his face. “What's the point, Nadia?” Obviously he had understood her. “Be all right!” He shook his head in frustration. “You never change, as I've just seen. What do you want to talk to me openly about? All I get from you is excuses and lies.”

The he talked about his fear of a repeat of the catastrophe they'd been through two years previously. Ripped off the bank, that was the way
Wolfgang Blasting had put it. What Michael said made her a bit clearer about it. Nadia had arranged loans with a private bank in Düsseldorf for major clients until it was discovered that one of those clients didn't exist and the balance sheets presented had been created on Nadia's computer. She'd used the money to speculate on the stock market, and made a profit, which was used to pay back the bank. Of course, that didn't stop her being sacked on the spot when the matter came to light - because Röhrler had grassed on her. Her father's influence and the fact that the bank wanted to avoid a scandal had saved her from worse, that is, being taken to court and prosecuted.

Now Michael thought she was might be playing the same game again, only in reverse: talking clients, who came to Alfo looking for a profitable investment, into buying shares in non-existent companies. It was almost impossible for ordinary people to check out foreign firms. They were forced to take what they were told and the figures they were shown on trust.

He wasn't certain because he had no proof. But why had she been so nervous recently? Because things were slack at the stock exchange. Because she knew as well as he did that in the long run it was bound to go wrong. As it had two years ago. It only needed one investor to demand back the money she'd lost on her speculations.

He talked about the nights when he'd wandered round the house, worried stiff she might have caused an accident with her blood alcohol well over the limit. And about the scenes in the lab when she turned up there. So drunk she could hardly stand up. Seething with such rage she could hardly get a word out. She'd called him a rat because he'd cleared all the alcohol out of the house and taken away her car keys and credit cards; because he'd held her fast to stop her killing herself. Now he'd decided it was time for the rat to leave the sinking ship. There were priorities to consider and his own life had to come first, so he'd decided, despite all his love and gratitude, to make a clean break. He wanted to get off before he went down with her.

He still believed she was going to disappear. If one client was getting suspicious that could presumably be taken as a warning signal. But first of all he was sure she'd move heaven and earth to ruin him on the principle of: “What's mine, I can break, no one else is going to have it.” Even though he had no intention of taking up with Beatrice Palewi again.

How he'd ended up in Beatrice Palewi's bed… he wasn't trying to say he wasn't to blame at all, but he was only human. He'd been afraid, simply afraid, of going home because he felt he couldn't stand what was awaiting him there any longer. And then he was the one who was at fault, as if his reaction had been what had set everything off. She'd always been good at twisting things so they came out in her favour.

That would perhaps have been the moment for a full confession. Did you know that your wife wanted to divorce you and go back to Jacques two years ago? He'd just broken up with Alina and she thought that was a good opportunity. You know a lot about Nadia, but not everything, not by a long chalk. Don't look at me like that, I'm not Nadia, I'm just her stand-in. You wanted to know who Susanne Lasko was. Well, she's sitting right here, next to you.

But she was too exhausted. “Why didn't you let me drive away yesterday?” she asked. “Surely you don't care if I clear off?”

He shook his head and tapped his chest. “I'm the one who's going to clear off. I owe it to myself.” Then he switched the television sound back on.

She went to bed soon after and cried herself to sleep. It was just past three when she woke up again. The bed beside her was empty and at first she didn't know what had woken her. Then it came again. The phone ringing in the study. She leaped out of bed and staggered to the door, her head spinning. She got to the desk at the same moment as Michael emerged from one of the guest rooms, blinking irritatedly in the light. She ignored him, grabbed the phone and put it to her ear before the message on the answerphone had finished. “Nadia?” she gulped, but the reply was a laugh and a tipsy-sounding voice saying, “Hello, my dear.”

It was a woman, there was no doubt about that, but she couldn't tell whether it was Nadia from the short greeting in a foreign language. And the woman didn't manage to say anything else. A man's voice broke in, sounding just as tipsy, drowning her in a flood of English. All she could understand was, “…big surprise” and “…is Phil.”

“Philip?” she asked, confused.

By this time Michael was beside her. Seething with rage, he tore the receiver out of her hand and bellowed, “Are things OK, Hardenberg? They won't be for long, I'll make sure of that.” All at once his expression changed and he gave an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry Phil. That wasn't
for you. What a surprise - in the middle of the night. What's the time in Baltimore?” Then he asked in surprised tones, “You're where?”

For a while she stood beside him, listening to him happily chatting away and understanding just about half of what he was saying. When he told her, “It's Phil,” which meant nothing to her, she went back to bed, pulled the clothes right up to her neck and still shivered as she thought about the future.

A divorce! And fifteen hundred a month. It was a temptation, of course, but she couldn't do it, couldn't let him pay the bill Nadia had run up. Not even for the child, that wasn't his fault, not even an accident, since he'd firmly believed he was sleeping with his wife, who knew very well that he didn't want children and presumably took appropriate precautions.

So it was back to the grotty flat. At least Heller wouldn't be there to pester her any more. Back to the sweet shop and a private conversation with Frau Schädlich. She'd have to take all her free days for the next few weeks at once in order to go to a clinic and have the new life sucked out of her. It still wasn't too late for that. There was no other solution.

Sleep was out of the question. He'd taken the alarm clock into the guest room with him and she was afraid that, if she closed her eyes, it would be nine before she woke up again. Until she heard the shower in the guest bathroom, she lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling and wiping away the occasional tear. Then she got up and had a shower herself. He took advantage of that to get some clothes. He was pointedly avoiding her. Perhaps it was best that way.

Not bothering with make-up, she put on the clothes she'd worn on Thursday. They were crumpled, but who cared? They were the kind of clothes that went with her. He had long since left by the time she came down to the kitchen. The two newspapers were on the table. She spent a few minutes looking through the local section to see if there was a further report on Heller. There wasn't.

The violent death of an alcoholic with a criminal record had been displaced by a report of a new horror. On Sunday afternoon a fourteen-year-old boy had discovered a female corpse in the rubbish bin of a hostel for asylum seekers. At first sight it looked like a road accident in which the driver had made every attempt to get rid of all traces of the victim. Terrible, but she wasn't really affected by it; it was far outweighed by the child she was going to have to kill.

Shortly afterwards she left the house. There was heavy traffic on the autobahn. Her plan was to park the Alfa at the airport in the evening and come back by bus. Since she'd set off far too early, she had time to make a detour to her flat. Just to get the wallet with her own papers, leave her toothbrush in the bathroom and put on some clean clothes, that was all.

As usual there wasn't a parking space free in Kettlerstrasse. She parked the car by the phone box and walked back. It was half-past seven. Heller had never been leaning out of the window that early in the morning but she still missed him somehow. Jasmin's motorbike wasn't outside the building either. She got in unobserved and hurried up the stairs. On the second floor she saw the stickers on Heller's door that on Saturday she'd assumed were a prank played by some children. They were police seals.

She felt cold. She continued up the stairs slowly, the key ready in her hand. When she reached her door she was about to insert it when she saw the seal on the lock. There was also yellow-and-black striped tape across the door and the frame, half-concealing the marks, just a few notches in the wood, as if someone had tried to jemmy the door open.

She stared at the door and the seal. Her mind was a blank and she couldn't stop her fingers taking over and automatically scratching the tapes, which came away. One hand placed itself on the door and pushed. There was a snap as the twisted bolt came out of the plate. The door swung inwards, revealing terrible chaos. The doors to all the rooms were open, the contents of all the cupboards had been scattered over the floor: broken plates, cups and glasses amid masses of feathers. The bed had been completely taken apart, the mattress, pillows and sofa cushions cut up.

For a few second she was aware of nothing but her beating heart. Not daring to step over the threshold, she turned round, went back down the stairs and returned to the Alfa the way she'd come. There were a few people out in the street, but no one took any notice of her. Her ribs and her throat felt as if they'd been laced up tight. Later on she had no idea how long she'd sat in the Alfa, incapable of thought, incapable even of starting the car.

Eventually she set off, not knowing where to go, just hoping to meet someone she could ask something. And eventually she ended up in the underground car park of Gerler House. Philip Hardenberg's Mercedes was next to where she'd parked the Alfa. It was shortly before eleven. She
got out and walked to the lifts, as if in a trance. Staring at her from the mirror in the cabin was an ashen face with dark shadows under the eyes. She spent some time using the make-up in her handbag to powder over her pale cheeks and give some colour to her lips. As she put the lipstick back, she noticed the leather key case Helga had given her on Thursday. That would save her pressing the bell.

The lobby was empty, the door to Helga's office open. There was no one at the desk. The upholstered door to Hardenberg's office wasn't properly closed either. She couldn't see the man who was in the office, but she could hear him loud and clear. “I'll tell you what bothers me: Nadia Trenkler.”

It sounded polite and thoughtful - it sounded like a gun pressed against her head. It was Markus Zurkeulen's voice coming from behind the upholstered door and this voice was wondering, or asking someone, what Frau Lasko meant by claiming she wasn't Nadia Trenkler last Wednesday and then insisting vehemently that she was on Saturday evening. There must be something special about Nadia Trenkler.

“I don't know.” It was Hardenberg speaking. He didn't sound polite, just breathless. “I don't know anyone of that name. I told you that on Wednesday.”

For a few seconds all was quiet behind the door. Then Zurkeulen, as polite and thoughtful as ever, spoke again. “Yes, yes, you've already said that. We also met the lady on the way to Frau Lasko's flat. However, she had no keys on her and claimed you had taken possession of the keys to the front door and to the flat.”

“But that's nonsense,” Hardenberg protested. “Why should I—”

Zurkeulen cut him short. “That's what I wondered too. Naturally I felt it was important to clear the matter up. Things often look different when you're face to face. The lady gave us your address. Unfortunately no one came to the door.” The way he spoke, it sounded as if Nadia had been with them when he and his companion had turned up a Helga's door late on Saturday evening. Helga had said nothing about that.

“I was in Berlin.” Hardenberg sounded as if he was having to make an effort to stop himself retching. “Where is Frau Lasko now?”

“That is beyond my knowledge,” Zurkeulen declared. “Ramon spent quite some time talking to the lady. Ramon, do you remember where you set the lady down?”

It was silent behind the door. She was still standing in the middle of the lobby, incapable of moving. After a few seconds Zurkeulen asked, “What do we do now, Herr Hardenberg? I must confess I have certain concerns and am already wondering whether it might not make more sense to have Ramon continue this conversation instead of me. I'm sure he would enjoy it. Wouldn't you, Ramon?”

Someone laughed. It wasn't Zurkeulen and certainly not Hardenberg. “Please, Herr Zurkeulen. There are absolutely no grounds for your suspicions. At the moment the sum in your portfolio amounts to six million or thereabouts. Any loss has been recouped by now.”

“And it is at my disposal?”

“Of course, at any time, in the next few days, if you should wish,” Hardenberg hastened to assure him.

“Good,” said Zurkeulen. “I do wish. We'll see each other again on Friday, Herr Hardenberg. And I very much hope that, for your sake, there are no problems with payment. Otherwise I would have to turn to different methods.”

Steps could be heard and she just managed to slip into Helga's office and hide behind the open door. Peering through the gap between the door and the wall, she saw Zurkeulen and the stocky man cross the lobby, followed by Hardenberg. The stocky man was the first to vanish from her narrow field of vision, then Zurkeulen as well. He left without a further word.