The Trap (22 page)
Authors: Melanie Raabe,Imogen Taylor
I put down the phone and stare at the wall. Then I sink back into bed.
My name is Linda Conrads. I am thirty-eight years old. I am an author and a murderer. Twelve years ago I killed my younger sister Anna. No one can explain why. I probably can't explain it myself. I'm probably quite simply mad. I am a liar and a murderer. That is my life. That is the truth. At least, it is for my parents.
A black thought that has been swirling around in my subconscious drifts to the surface, big and heavy, stirring up a maelstrom of other thoughts in its wake. Lenzen's voice.
â
The Disney princess up on her high horse. If I were a womanâif I were Sophie
â
I would detest Britta.
'
And I think: I did too.
The pain of that realisation. The memories. Yes, I did detest her; yes, I hated her; yes, I was jealous; yes, I thought it was wrong that my parents always favoured herâthe younger one, the prettier one, the one who knew how to manipulate them, who looked so sweet and innocent with her blonde hair and her round child's eyes that she had everyone wrapped round her little finger. Everyone except me, because I knew what she was really like; I knew how hurtful she could be, how inconsiderate, how cruel, how incredibly mean.
Mum and Dad will believe me, want to bet?
Do you like that bloke? I can make him come home with me, want to bet?
No wonder Theo reached the point where he couldn't stand her any more; after all those years of their relationship, he'd had a glimpse behind the scenes; he knew her almost as well as I did.
Oh no, Anna wouldn't do a thing like that, Anna wouldn't say a thing like that, you must have got it wrongâshe's only little. You're trying to tell me Anna did that? There must have been some misunderstanding; that doesn't sound like her at all. Honestly, Linda, why do you always come up with such lies?
Anna, AnnaâAnna, who could always wear white without spilling on itâAnna, who had mix tapes made for her by the boysâAnna, who inherited our grandmother's ringâAnna, whose name you could read backwards as well as forwards, whereas my name backwards is a joke.
If you read your name backwards, you get Adnil. Sounds like Adolf or Arsehole. Now don't go and get angry again, Adnil, I was only joking. Adnilâhahahahaha.
Saint Anna.
Yes, I detested my sister. That is the truth. That is my life. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to think about the police, who aren't here although they ought to be by now, or about my parents, or Victor Lenzen or my own black thoughts.
I reach out for the bedside table, pull open the drawer, take out a packet of pills (a bumper pack from the USAâI love the internet), shake a few into my hand, wash them down with stale water, retch and then notice I'm hungry. My stomach rebelsâmy stomach full of pills. I curl up in a foetal position and wait for the cramps to stop. I want to sleep. Tomorrow is another day. Or, with a bit of luck, not. My stomach feels like a fist. Liquid collects in my mouth and I can't help thinking of the pool of shock and poison and gall that Victor Lenzen left on my dining-room floor. Everything is spinning around me.
Pressing my hand to my mouth, I slip off the bed and totter towards the door. Bukowski glances up, sees that I'm beyond help and leaves me to my own devices. I stagger to the upstairs bathroom and just make it to the basin before throwing up. I turn on the taps, wait a moment and retch again, suddenly sweatingâsuddenly cold.
I stand in front of the mirror and contemplate my reflection. The woman looking back at me is a stranger. I frown, and examine the wrinkle that divides my forehead down the middle like a crack, and I realise that it's not my face but a mask. I raise my eyebrows and more cracks appear, branching out, further and further. I press my hands to my head in an attempt to stop the pieces from falling and shattering, but it's too late; I've started a process that I couldn't stop even if I wanted to.
I let go. My face falls to the floor with a clatter, and behind it is emptiness.
Am I mad?
No, I'm not mad.
How can you tell you're not mad?
You just can.
How can you tell if you are mad?
You just can.
But if you really are madâhow can you know? How can you know anything with absolute certainty?
I listen to the voices arguing in my head, and I no longer know which of them is the rational one.
I'm back in bed. I'm lying quite still, but my thoughts are racing. I'm scared. I'm still cold.
Then a peculiar noise penetrates my consciousness: a buzz. No, a drone. It swells, subsides, starts up again. It's throbbing, alive and menacing, and it's getting louder. I hold my ears and almost fall out of bed. When I take my hands away, I realise that what I'm hearing is silence. That is all that remains, after this day that should have decided everything. Silence.
I sit up and listen until it dies away. Now there's nothingâonly the cool of the night. Everything is muted. My heart is beating dully, as if it no longer believes that this Sisyphean work is worth it. My breathing is quite shallow, my blood is flowing wearily, and my thoughts have almost come to a standstill. I think of nothing except a beautiful pair of different-coloured eyes.
All of a sudden I'm sitting up with the phone in my hand, although I can't remember having made a decision, and I'm dialling a number.
My heart is now beating like mad and my breathing is galloping and my blood has started flowing again and my thoughts are coming thick and fast, because I'm finally making the call I've put off for eleven years. I know the number by heart; I've dialled it often enough only to cut off the connection immediately, every time.
The first ringing tone is nearly more than I can bear; I almost hang up again from pure reflexâbut I push on. The second ring sounds, the third, the fourth, and with a kind of relief I'm beginning to think he's not there. Then he picks up.
25
JONAS
Jonas Weber's mobile was vibrating for the third time in half an hour. He took it out of his trouser pocket, looked at the display, saw that it was Sophie and cursed himself for having given her his number. After a brief internal struggle, he answered.
âJonas Weber.'
âIt's Sophie Peters. I have to talk to you.'
âListen, Sophie, this isn't a good time,' he said, sensing Antonia Bug and Volker Zimmer turn to look at him as he spoke her name. âCan I ring you back?'
âIt won't take a second and it's really, really important,' said Sophie.
Something in her voice alarmed Jonas. She sounded oddâmanic.
âOkay. Hang on.'
With an apologetic glance at his colleagues, he left the scene of the crime they'd been called to, extremely glad, in fact, to step outside for a bit.
âOkay, I've got away for a moment,' he said.
âAre you in a meeting or something?'
âSomething.'
âI'm sorry. It's just that I was in the museum a moment ago. I was looking at van Gogh's sunflowers. Andâ¦you know that I told you it must have been a stranger? That no one who knew Britta would have hurt her in any way? You said I made her sound like an angel? That's what she was, you see. A kind of angel.'
âSophie,' said Jonas, âslow down a bit. I can't keep up!'
He could hear her nervous breathing at the other end of the line.
âI knew straight away that I'd seen something in Britta's flat that didn't belong there. I told you, do you remember? That the culprit had left something behind, like a serial killer in a film. Something was out of placeâI just didn't know what. But now I do!'
âKeep calm, Sophie,' said Jonas as patiently as he could. âTake a deep breath. That's the way. Now, carry on.'
âOkay, so I said it must be a serial killerâa lunaticâand you said that there aren't serial killers in real life; that most crimes are committed by the victim's partner. All that stuff.'
âSophie, I remember very well. Where are you going with this?'
âYou said it couldn't be a serial killer because, for one thing, there wasn't a series because there's no comparable case. But what if Britta's the beginning? The first in a series? What if he keeps going?'
Jonas was silent.
âAre you still there? Jonas?'
âI'm still here.'
Her story was a muddle, but he realised that he was going to have to let her talk.
âGood. Well, in any case⦠I told you I was in the museum, in front of van Gogh's sunflowers. Do you remember how I told you that something wasn't right in Britta's flat? Now I know what it was. No idea why I didn't think of it beforeâit's as if my brain had been blocked. Probably because it was far too obvious and somehow, for whatever reason, I was looking for something subtle, something obscure. But I knew it, damn it, I knew it!'
âIt was the flowers,' said Jonas.
There was a moment of shocked silence.
âYou knew?' Sophie asked.
âNot until just now,' said Jonas, trying to sound calm. âBut listen, Sophie, I really should be getting back.'
âDo you know what that means, Jonas?' Sophie asked in excitement, ignoring his last words. âThe murderer left flowers in Britta's flat! What normal murderer, acting in the heat of the moment or out of base motives, would leave flowers next to his victim?'
âLet's talk this over in peace some time, Sophie,' said Jonas.
âButâ¦'
âI'll ring you as soon as the meeting's over, I promise.'
âThe murderer left them there, do you see? They weren't Britta's flowers! Britta didn't like cut flowers! Everyone knew that! The flowers are probably a kind of trademark of his! If that's the case, he'll do it again! That's the direction your investigations must take. Maybe it's not too late to stop him!'
âSophie, we'll talk later, I promise.'
âBut there's something else I must teâ'
âLater.'
He hung up, put his mobile back in his pocket and returned to the airless flat.
The scene of the crime, which his colleagues were going over with a fine-tooth comb, was similar to the scene in Britta Peters' flat. On the living-room floor lay a blonde woman. She was wearing a white dress that was now almost saturated with her blood. As far as appearances went, she could have been a sister of Britta Peters. Like her, she too lived alone; like her, she had a ground-floor flat. When the police officers had arrived, the door had still been open.
Sophie's words went through Jonas's head: âThe flowers are probably a kind of trademark of his.'
Jonas looked about the flat as he went back to join his colleagues. There was one big difference between the crime scenes: here the flowers he'd brought with him weren't strewn about.
Again, Jonas heard Sophie's voice: âHe'll do it again! But maybe it's not too late to stop him!'
He looked at the corpse of the blonde woman. She was holding a small, neat bunch of white roses, which stood in lurid contrast to the dark dried blood in which she was lying.
It was too late.
23
I am sitting at the window looking out onto the lake. Sometimes I spot an animal at the edge of the woods, a fox or a rabbitâeven a deer, if I'm very lucky. But there's nothing there now.
I've been watching the sun rise. I haven't slept. How could I have slept the night my world collapsed all over again? After the phone call?
I could hear him sit up in bed when I said my name. First there was a rustling down the line, and then his fraught voice.
âFrau Michaelis!' he said. âMy goodness!'
I had to swallow.
âIt's six in the morning,' he said, alarmed. âHas something happened? Do you need help?'
âNo,' I said. âNot really. I'm sorry to disturb youâ¦'
There was a brief silence.
âThat's all right. I'm just surprised to hear from you.'
I could hardly believe he'd called me âFrau Michaelis'. And then his professionalismâthe practised composure that immediately took over, crowding out his surprise and hisâ¦hisâ¦
âHow can I help you?'
Hey, Julian, I've written a book in which you're one of the main characters. How are you?
I force myself to be as formal with him as he is with me. Has he really forgotten me? It's probably for the best.
âI don't know how much you rememberâyou investigated the murder of my sister some years ago,' I say.
âOf course I remember you,' he replies after a moment. He sounds neutral. I swallow my disappointment.
What did you expect, Linda?
I try to recall my original intention.
This isn't about you, Linda.
âI have to ask you something,' I say.
âPlease do.'
Entirely neutral. There'sâ¦nothing there.
âWell, it's about my sister's case. I don't know whether you remember, but I found my sister, andâ¦'
âI remember,' he says. âI promised you I'd find the murderer and I wasn't able to keep my word.'
That, too, he says neutrally. But he does remember
that.
Go on, Linda, ask him.
âThere's something on my mind.'
âYes?'
Ask him!
âWell, first of all, I'm sorry if I woke you; it's a stupid time to ring anyone, I know⦠It's⦠Well, back thenâ¦' I swallow. âIt wasn't clear to me for a long time that I was the main suspect.'
I pause, waiting for him to contradict me, which he doesn't.
âAnd, well, I have to know whether youâ¦' I can hear him breathing. âDid you think I was the murderer back then?'
Nothing.
â
Do
you think I'm the murderer?'
Still nothing. Is he thinking about it? Is he waiting for me to carry on talking?