Naomi saw it too. “Hey. There’s his phone.”
Ralf froze for a second. “Oh yeah. Maybe he has another one with him?”
Naomi busied herself with the device for a moment, but couldn’t get past the security screen and put it back down. “So everything looks the same as it did on Saturday? He hasn’t been here?”
Ralf nodded.
She picked up an empty bottle from the floor and placed it on top of a cabinet. “Where is he, then?”
Ralf evaded her questioning look—those gorgeous dark-blue eyes of hers, framed by thin, black lines. Cracks were starting to appear in the shell of lies that he had constructed around himself. But he couldn’t confide in Naomi. That would be incredibly stupid. She’d tell the whole story to a friend, who would tell it to somebody else in turn. That was just what girls did, and then it would only be a matter of time before the police came knocking on his door. It had already happened to plenty of guys he knew.
“No idea.” He shrugged.
She opened the curtains and looked outside. The window was dirty, with thin cobwebs in the corners. “Ralf . . . I don’t think I should be telling you this—I mean, you’re his best friend and all—but . . .” She blew a strand of hair out of her face. “I sometimes have my doubts about Brian. Whether I really want to go out with him.”
This was just about the last thing he had expected her to say.
“Take all this, for example.” She spread her arms. “We go to visit his mother, we call everybody he knows, we make ourselves sick with worry—and he’s probably just crashing with friends in Amsterdam or Rotterdam, or who knows where, and not for one second thinking about me. Or about you.”
Naomi continued talking, but Ralf was unable to follow exactly what she was saying. The expansive gestures she made with her arms served to push her breasts forward, and those small, round forms were scarcely covered by the blouse she was wearing. They were about the size of Ralf’s hands, maybe a little smaller. He had to restrain himself from reaching out to touch them.
Pulling that blouse over her head.
Undoing her bra.
Laying her faceup on the bed . . .
“What are the odds he’ll end up laughing in our faces any day now?” She let out a cry of frustration and kicked the cabinet. “Oh, I’m so over it!” Her breasts jogged up and down with the effort. Two perfectly round hemispheres that trembled as she repeated the action.
His body began to respond.
He turned around. “Come on,” he snarled. “We’re going.”
9
“La maison?”
“The house.”
“Le jardin?”
“The garden.”
Helen turned the page of the French textbook. “Great, Emma—I think you already know it all by heart!”
Emma looked different this evening. After dinner, she had retreated into the bathroom to clean her face, exfoliate it, and apply a mask. The hard, black lines and clumpy mascara had disappeared, and her freckles were no longer concealed under a layer of foundation. Her frizzy blonde mop was tied up in a rough ponytail on the back of her head, and stray, unruly hairs formed a transparent diadem. Sitting there, under the soft light at the kitchen table, she once again resembled the little girl who had skipped hand in hand beside Helen until so recently.
“It works well, doesn’t it? Writing down all the words next to each other a few times,” continued Helen. “That’s how I always used to memorize things too.”
Emma nodded obediently.
“OK, once more from the top . . . le toit?”
“The roof.”
“And how do you spell toit?”
A faint trilling noise sounded, muted by the soft leather of Helen’s bag. She always used to ignore her phone when she was busy with something—they’ll call back if it’s important—but that had come to an end once the kids had grown old enough to begin moving through the world independently of her and Werner. Sara wasn’t at home; she had gone to visit a friend after dinner.
Helen unzipped her bag and took out her phone. Lex showed on the screen. Surprised, she answered.
“Is this a good time?” he asked.
“Er—yes, sorry. Of course.” She stood up from the table and looked out through the kitchen window. The garage door was open, and the lights were on—Werner was busy fixing the light on Thom’s bike. She turned around, expecting to see Emma looking at her inquisitively, but she was using the unexpected break to answer text messages on her phone.
“Helen?”
“Er—just a second.” She waved to get Emma’s attention. “Sorry, I have to take this,” she mouthed, pointing to her phone, and then quickly walked into the hall. Closed the kitchen door behind her. “I was just helping my daughter with her studying.”
“Sara?”
“No, Emma. French vocabulary.” She was annoyed that her voice sounded higher than usual.
“Should I call back later?”
“There’s no need. I—” She stopped in the middle of the hall. Her eyes were drawn toward the basement door. Could she hear something rustling down there? Anxiously, she tried the handle. The door was still locked. Her relief immediately gave way to the horrible image of the robber lying in the freezer at the bottom of the stairs. She could remember exactly how they had left him there—dressed in his black sweatpants and hoodie, his head turned to one side, his arms folded over his chest, and his knees raised. They had put a plastic bag containing the two guns and his balaclava in the gap between his shoulder and his head.
“Helen?”
She stumbled into the living room and sat down on the sofa. Her legs were trembling. “OK,” she said with simulated cheerfulness. “What’s on your mind?”
“I was going to ask you the very same question. I spoke to Anouk this evening about that staff trip to Rome. She said you were acting very strangely today. More than one person on the team noticed it.”
“You and Anouk talk about me?”
“It just came up in conversation, Helen; come on.”
Helen pursed her lips. At times, the hospital felt like one big incestuous village. A walled stronghold whose inhabitants were constantly watching one another, and where nothing remained hidden for long. That had never been a problem before; in fact, she had always found it amusing—reassuring, even. But then, she had never had anything to hide before.
“That reminded me of our conversation yesterday, and I thought I’d just give you a call. I hardly recognize you.”
She searched for the right words, biting her lip.
“Is it something to do with Sara?” he continued. “Have you had more problems on that front?”
“No, no. Things are going great with Sara. Thank goodness.”
“Are you sure? She’s pulled the wool over your eyes before.”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I stopped checking up on her a few weeks ago. She hasn’t told any more lies, not about anything important, anyway. And it looks like she’s stopped hanging out with that boy as well.”
“That’s wonderful. Things like that can really eat away at you. I used to lie awake at night worrying about Sanne, and I can imagine the feeling is even worse when it’s your own child.”
“How are things with her?” asked Helen, attempting to steer the conversation in a different direction.
Sanne was Lex’s younger sister. His mother was forty-six when she was born; Lex had been twenty-four and his twin brothers four years younger. Nobody had been expecting any further additions to the family, and the surprise had been greatest of all for Lex’s parents. Lex had once brought his sister along on a staff outing: a sullen goth in pale makeup who was difficult to relate to and hardly resembled her older brother. She had already run away from home a few times.
Lex told her that Sanne had discovered an interest in Japanese art and music. In the hope of getting closer to their daughter and her world, his parents had booked a trip to Japan for the three of them next spring. “I
just hope for my parents’ sake that she’s still interested in it by then,” said Lex.
“I hope so too.”
There was a brief silence.
“Helen, I’ve known you for a while now, and—”
“There’s really nothing the matter.” She tried to give her voice a note of authority. “Please believe me. You guys are all worrying about nothing.”
“Er—‘you guys’? Just to be clear, I’m the one who’s worried.” His voice took on a mild, confidential tone. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
Helen swallowed. She had always confided in him, over all kinds of private matters. The only thing she didn’t discuss with him was her marriage with Werner. That was off-limits. Over time, she had come to value Lex’s opinions over those of her friends, and sometimes his judgment even carried more weight than Werner’s. Maybe that was because Lex truly listened to her and took a genuine interest. He loved people, whereas Werner tended to use people for his own ends. Werner was the ultimate manager, a leader who moved purposefully toward his goals. Even in love and parenting. It was a characteristic of his that she used to find exciting. Opposites attract.
“Mom?” Emma stood in the doorway. “Are you coming to help me again?”
“Of course, honey,” she said. “Uh—”
“I heard,” he said. “Sorry for bothering you.”
“You never bother me,” she answered impulsively. “Thanks, Lex.”
She hung up.
10
“Thanks for dinner. It was tasty.”
“I’ll pass on your compliments to Colonel Sanders.”
Naomi smiled. “You really never eat at home, do you?”
“Sure I do. I go there for seconds.”
She laughed out loud.
At her request, Ralf dropped her off at the corner of her block. “Otherwise, my brothers will give me another grilling.”
As they said goodbye, she unexpectedly put a hand on his leg. Ralf covered it with his own as nonchalantly as possible.
“Someone I know is having a movie night on Saturday,” she said. “I don’t know whether Brian will be back by then or not, but either way—do you want to come with me?”
Ralf didn’t respond right away.
This wasn’t a casual invitation. When a girl invited a boy to go to a movie night, that meant she liked him. Not all movie nights involved sex, but there was sure to be some kissing. Ralf knew very well that she was angry with Brian and felt he had let her down, but Brian was still his friend. On the other hand, Brian had never taken care of Naomi. If the robbery on Friday night had gone according to plan, they would have celebrated by hiring a couple of girls.
She gave him a deadly serious look. His silence had made her nervous.
Just as he was about to say that he would like to spend Saturday night with her, but preferably not with her friends, she added, “It’s at Sara Möhring’s place. Their house is an absolute mansion, and they have so much alcohol, her parents don’t even notice if a couple of bottles go missing. So we won’t need to bring anything with us.”
11
Helen opened the wine cabinet and looked inside. On the pale wooden shelves lay more than a hundred bottles of wine, just waiting to be drunk. Wines from France, Italy, Portugal, and Greece. Some of them were rare and expensive—gifts from suppliers to the Horn of Plenty. She hadn’t drunk a drop since the incident. Although she would give anything to feel that languid sense of satisfaction flow through her body once again—to feel her tense muscles relax—she was afraid that the alcohol would affect her in the wrong way, and that she would say or do things that couldn’t be undone. Inconsolable weeping, for instance. Shattering plates out of pure impotent rage, or arguing with Werner in front of the children. Or all three at once.
She closed the door and turned around. Werner was watching her from the kitchen island. She had the impression he’d been there awhile. “Better not,” he said.
“I know.”
“Later.”
She nodded. “Later” sounded good. It was a hopeful word. “Later” implied that one day all this would be over, and she would be able to go back to her normal life. Helen felt a need to embrace Werner, to get close to him, but his wild, almost vacant expression deterred her.
His jaw was clenched. “OK,” he said to nobody in particular, before walking past her and into the utility room. She heard the back door open and close, and saw that he was heading toward the garage.
12
Ralf was sitting up in bed, his computer buzzing on his lap. The name “Sara Möhring” didn’t produce many hits. Sara had made her social media accounts private, but her name regularly popped up on lists of tennis tournament results. He found her in some group photos on the tennis club website, but no other information was available.
Next, he typed in the address: “Kraaienveld 23.” One of the top results led to a website with a photo of the house. The accompanying text told him that it had been sold seven years ago for nearly seven hundred grand. Ralf whistled through his teeth. A company now appeared to be registered there: the Horn of Plenty Ltd. Ralf sat up straighter. The Horn of Plenty was a chain of four big, popular, all-you-can-eat restaurants. Whichever one you went to, they were always packed. Ralf had never eaten there, but he knew people who worked in the kitchen or as waiters.
Brian had also worked there for a while, in the kitchen. Ralf even had to pick him up there once, about four or five months ago, because Brian’s car wouldn’t start. He navigated to the Horn of Plenty’s website and clicked on the Who are we? tab. Next to a generic marketing spiel about an enthusiastic team who are always ready to provide you with a delicious lunch or dinner stood photos of smiling people in uniforms. One of them featured a red-haired man looking into the camera with a satisfied grin. Werner Möhring, said the caption.
That jackass had tried to rob his old boss!
13
Werner was wearing a set of blue hospital scrubs, plastic overshoes, and rubber gloves. A surgical mask covered the lower half of his face. It was spattered with blood.
“This is your fault, Helen,” he growled. “I should make you do it.”
His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as he wielded the saw, dragging it steadily back and forth. Rivulets of perspiration ran down his cheekbones. Strands of hair sticking out from under his operating cap were plastered against his forehead.
He worked like a man possessed, emitting rhythmic gasps as he applied extra force to the saw and pushed it away from himself. Soft, sticky tissue dripped from the blade.
Helen watched with revulsion as she sat against the concrete wall of the basement, which felt warm and damp under her back. She was unable to move.
“I’ll never forgive you for this,” she heard him whisper, panting from behind his surgical mask.
She wanted to tell him how dreadfully sorry she was—that she would turn back the clock if she could—but a lump in her throat stopped her from speaking. Feverishly, she gazed around at her surroundings.
The basement looked different. The white paint on the walls had faded to an indistinct gray covered in stains and patches of exposed concrete. A buzzing, flickering light bulb dangled from the ceiling.
Werner suddenly stopped sawing. He swung the soiled tool onto his shoulder and slowly turned to face her. “Your turn!”
Helen woke with a start. Drops of sweat were running down her neck. She tried to scrape her sopping hair off her face, but her right arm was numb. The sheet had come loose from the mattress and wrapped itself around her upper body and her neck. Panicking, she fought her way free. The thin cotton was damp with her sweat.
It was dark and silent in the bedroom. She switched on the bedside lamp and looked at the space alongside her. No Werner. She ran her hand over the mattress: his side was cool and dry.
Helen slipped out of bed, breathing rapidly. Her heart felt like it was beating high in her chest. She hurriedly pulled on her dressing gown and slippers and walked down the ha
ll.
Werner wasn’t in the bathroom. The doors of the kids’ bedrooms stood ajar. She stopped to listen at each doorway but heard only the calm, regular breathing of her children as they lay in deep sleep.
Nervously, she went down to the kitchen. The light under the exhaust fan was on, but nobody was there. With mounting unease, she walked on into the hall. It was dark, but not entirely: a faint glow emanated from the gap between the locked basement door and its frame. She heard muffled noises from below.
Trembling now, she placed her ear against the door. The noise grew clearer and sharper. It sounded like a file running over a hard surface—a nutmeg seed, perhaps. Helen stood and listened, breathing through her mouth. Back and forth. Back and forth.
She hadn’t been dreaming.
Werner was down in the basement.
Tuesday
1
“Look at this. Late-payment penalty.”
Ralf snatched the envelope from his mother’s hand and stuffed it into his back pocket. “Haven’t you ever heard of privacy?”
“I don’t understand you, Ralf. Why don’t you pay your fines right away? Now it’ll cost you even more.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he muttered.
“Take care of it? And how exactly are you planning to do that? You don’t have a penny in your bank account.”
She knew that too, then. “I said I’ll take care of it, didn’t I?”
He had sixty euros in his wallet. Not even enough for a tank of gas. A solution had to come along soon. A job, for example—and ideally one that paid more than minimum wage. It was just a pity that nobody was looking for an eighteen-year-old boy with no qualifications. They’d made that much clear to him at the temp agencies. The best-paid job they’d been able to find for him was in an industrial laundry. “Most of your colleagues will be Polish. You have to pull your weight and be physically strong, but by the looks of you, that won’t be a problem.” Ralf had decided to pass on that offer.
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