“I don’t know.”
8
Marjan and a nurse Helen vaguely knew—skinny, with short, spiky brown hair that stuck out in all directions—looked at her in shock.
Helen smiled, but her lips were trembling so violently that it was impossible not to notice. She did her utmost to think of a witty remark—something that would dispel the tension—but her head felt like it was filled with molasses.
Marjan broke the silence. “I thought you weren’t a surgical assistant anymore.”
Helen understood: one of the tasks of a surgical assistant was to dispose of waste, but recovery nurses had no business here. “Not for a while now, no.” She coughed a few times, as if she had something stuck in her throat. “Well, I have to—”
“What is it you do nowadays?”
There was no point in lying. “I’m in the recovery room.”
Marjan exchanged a knowing look with the woman next to her.
“Sorry, but I have to go. My pea soup is waiting for me.” She smiled faintly as she pushed past the women and headed down the corridor.
9
Ralf’s mother already had one foot out of the car. “Maybe I’ll go back to the police station on my own once I get out of work.”
“Don’t, Mom.”
“It can’t hurt to talk to them, can it?”
“You’ll only get me into even more trouble.” He gave her a pleading look. “It’s best if I solve this on my own. I mean it.”
She hesitated, then reached out and placed her hand on the side of his face. “I love you so much, Ralf. I don’t know what I would—”
“I love you too, Mom,” he said softly. “You should go; you’re already late. It’ll be OK.”
She stepped out of the car reluctantly. Shut the door and walked toward the mall. At the entrance, she looked back over her shoulder. He smiled at her, gave her a thumbs-up. Then she went inside.
Ralf made no attempt to drive off. He remained sitting behind the wheel, glumly watching the shoppers go by. Bikes and scooters trundled past. There was a group of boys sitting by the fast-food stand. He knew some of them from back when he used to spend all day hanging out here, back when he had no idea what else to do with his life. It turned out he hadn’t made much progress since then.
Maybe it’d be better to go away for a while, take Naomi with him. Some of his father’s relatives owned a mobile home near Barcelona that was unused in winter. It wasn’t exactly luxurious, but it was big enough to live in. Ralf could wait tables, or work as a tour guide for Dutch travelers. He permitted himself to daydream about it for a few moments. Then he took the key out of the ignition, grabbed his backpack from the trunk, and walked out of the parking lot.
A little down the road, he caught a bus to the other end of town. He knew the address by heart. There was nobody home, but with a bit of luck, there would be a red Vespa ripe for the taking.
On Sunday, he would go and talk to Mikey.
He could only hope that he would be happy with a down payment.
10
Thom and his friends had emptied the garage and mopped the floor. In the spot formerly occupied by Werner’s riding lawn mower, there was now a row of bar tables. Two more folding tables stood against the wall, covered with glasses borrowed from the storeroom of the Horn of Plenty, as well as bags of potato chips and M&Ms. The boys were gathered around a laptop. Hip-hop and rap played from the speakers, along with the occasional dance track.
Helen was attaching a string of lights to the ceiling. Arianne held the stepladder still and passed the fasteners up to her. “My kids never got any big presents like this.”
“We don’t make a habit of it either,” said Helen. “We’re paying for the motorbike license, but Thom will have to put his own money toward the scooter, just like his big sister did.”
“I imagine you could get something good for seven hundred euros.”
“Not the model he wants.” Helen got down from the stepladder and pushed the plug into the socket. The lights began to flicker in blue, yellow, and red.
“Whooo!” she heard Thom call in jest.
“All the same, things have gotten a lot easier for you since the old days,” said Arianne.
Helen understood what she was referring to. Not very tactful—it bothered her a little. “I’d rather still have my mother with me.”
“Yes, of course. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She looked at her phone. “Seven o’clock. I’m just about ready for a drink. How about you?”
“I was ready at ten o’clock this morning.”
11
The Vespa had belonged to a girl. Leather seat, windshield, red paint. It was well looked after. She must have realized by now that her scooter was no longer under the carport. The image of an unhappy teenage girl impressed itself on his mind’s eye—staring sadly, her helmet in her hand. If somebody pulled a stunt like that on him, he would completely lose it. But in the final analysis, he thought, he wasn’t really stealing from these people. Scooters like this one were always insured, so he was indirectly taking money from the insurance companies—and according to his father, they were the real gangsters in this world. Just like the banks and the multinationals. It was OK to steal from them. But still.
A message appeared on his phone.
Can you pick me up? We’re eating at the Drop-In. X
The Drop-In was a fast-food joint on the edge of a small shopping mall, run by a Chinese family. A lot of people Ralf knew went there for something to eat before a night out. He would rather have eaten at home this evening. It felt like the right thing to do after everything that had happened at the police station. Eating at home was also free, and you didn’t have to pay for anybody else. He needed every euro he could get.
Ralf picked up a wad of bills from the bed and counted them for the third time. Tens, twenties, fifties. His gas tank was full, and he had a couple of ten-euro notes in his wallet. That left five hundred forty euros for Mikey. It wasn’t three thousand, but it was a start. He stuffed the cash inside a magazine, rolled it up, and tucked it between various other items inside a drawer in his desk.
He grabbed his phone and tapped out with his thumbs:
I need to take a shower first. See you in half an hour.
12
“Would you like a Cuarenta y Tres?”
“No, thanks.”
Helen grinned. “Straight to the Grand Marnier, then?”
“Sorry, but it’ll have to be a glass of wine for me. I’m heading over to the gym after this.” Arianne threw her coat over one of the dining room chairs and sat down.
As Helen poured them both a drink, Arianne told her about her elder daughter’s sweet sixteen. Helen was barely listening. Only now did it sink in that tonight was her regular gym night, and that the robbery had therefore taken place exactly one week ago. It felt a lot longer than a week—more like a year. An eternity. She also suspected that she was still experiencing some form of shock—as if somebody else had taken control of her body. Her actions, the things she said, even her thoughts sounded like they were whispered by another person—a woman who looked like her from the outside, but whom she had met for the very first time this week. The only thing that felt real was her constant sense of remorse.
Everything had changed since the robbery. That was true of herself—the newly minted murderess who formerly wouldn’t have been able to flush a sick goldfish down the toilet because she found it too pitiful and morally objectionable—but the same could undoubtedly be said for Werner too. Down there in the basement, she knew he had forced himself to do things that must have shaken him to the depths of his being. Those sights, sounds, and smells would surely remain with him forever. What has been seen cannot be unseen. And they would never be able to discuss it with anybody else, only each other. That might have been romantic if their secret weren’t so horrifying—if their deeds weren’t so reprehensible.
“Mom? Where did you put the chicken nuggets?” Thom w
andered into the kitchen with one of his friends in tow. He continued straight on into the hall. “In the basement freezer, I guess?”
“No!” The wineglasses fell from her hands and shattered on the hard kitchen floor.
Thom froze. Arianne looked up in surprise. For a moment, nobody spoke.
Helen looked at the mess on the floor. “Oh, sorry. I think I’ve been feeling a little stressed lately.”
“I’ll say,” remarked Thom. “You completely flipped out.”
She answered, as calmly as possible, “The chicken nuggets are up here, in the small freezer.”
Thom made a quarter turn and went to open the drawer under the refrigerator.
“But, Thom . . .”
He looked at her questioningly.
“Don’t go turning on the deep-fat fryer now—that’s for tonight, at the party.”
“Mom, it’s my birthday.”
“You heard me.”
“Ridiculous!” Thom left the kitchen, protesting loudly, closely followed by his friend. Helen heard the back door slam.
“What was all that about?” asked Arianne.
“Teenagers and their mood swings.”
“I was talking about you.”
Helen evaded her curious gaze and pulled a few sheets of paper towel from the roll. “Stress.”
“What’s stressing you out so much?”
She shook her head. “Don’t worry about it.”
13
The closer they got to the Möhrings’ house, the more uneasy he felt. Ralf squinted nervously into the rearview mirror. Still no Mikey. He obviously felt he’d made his point and assumed he would get his money on Sunday without any problems. Thankfully, Naomi hadn’t even begun to realize how much danger she was in.
She was sitting next to him. Her sleek hair was pinned up, and she was freshening her lipstick in the visor mirror. In the back seat sat Sara; her best friend, Jackie; and Floris—some rich kid who was not only paying serious attention to Sara but also eyeing Naomi far too much for Ralf’s liking. He would have gladly let this guy walk all the way to the Möhrings’ place, but the girls had been too quick for him and had already dragged Floris into the car.
“Left here, and then another left right away,” said Sara.
He obediently followed her instructions, pretending to be unfamiliar with the neighborhood.
“You know what I completely forgot to tell you guys?” Naomi looked over her shoulder at the back seat. “Brian’s mother reported him missing today.”
“Jeez, that’s heavy,” said Sara.
“I know, right?”
“What will the police do?” asked Ralf. His voice was pinched.
“No idea.”
“They’ll probably put out an Amber Alert,” said Floris.
“No, that’s for kids. Brian is twenty-one.”
Floris looked genuinely surprised. “And you all hang out with him? A guy in his twenties?”
“Why not?” growled Sara. “Four years isn’t a big difference, you know.”
Floris didn’t answer, but he clearly disagreed. He stared morosely out the window.
Ralf enjoyed that, somehow.
“Here we are—the house at the end,” said Sara. “Just park across the street.”
Ralf pulled up next to the bushes and the electrical substation. He got out and looked at the house. A shudder passed through him. He had wanted to get inside this place from the moment he’d heard the shots—but now that he was on the verge of doing it, he had to fight the impulse to run away.
The group walked up the driveway ahead of him. He followed, picking his way through the haphazardly parked bikes, and closed the tall gate behind him. From the garage, he heard voices, laughter, and music that blared for a minute before being turned down. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket and surveyed the garden. Right at the back, behind the swimming pool and the lawn, stood the wall he had hidden behind for several hours last Saturday. A good deal closer, between the pool and the deck, was a row of shrubs. That was where he and Brian had spied on Werner Möhring.
“Ralf?” Naomi stood in the doorway. “Hurry up, man. Everyone’s already inside.”
14
“Mom, I want to introduce you to a few friends.”
Helen pushed the cushion to one side and stood up. She had no idea how, but she had fallen asleep on the sofa shortly after Arianne had left. She smoothed her hair a little and blinked at the company gathered before her. When Sara said “friends,” she apparently meant “boys,” and there were two of them standing on the cowhide rug by the fireplace. One was remarkably well dressed, while the other wore a blue cap with a shiny sticker on the brim and looked a little nervous.
“This is Floris.”
The well-dressed boy shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
“Floris is studying economics at college,” said Sara.
Now she knew for certain that she would be seeing more of Floris: Sara would never share that kind of information if he were just a friend. Helen took another good look at the boy. He was handsome—maybe a little too slick—with well-groomed hair.
“And this is Ralf,” Sara continued.
“Ralf,” Helen repeated.
The boy with the cap gave her his hand, which felt reassuringly solid. Ralf was a very different sort of person from Floris. Almost the opposite. She looked at his hands—you could often tell more about a person from their hands than from their clothing or demeanor—and saw that he had cuts on his fingers; short, chipped nails; and grazes on the back of his hand. His smile looked forced. Ralf lacked his friend’s charm and clearly felt less at ease, but he had a more potent presence. More masculine.
It piqued her curiosity. “How do you all know one another?”
“Through Naomi,” said Sara.
A girl with pinned-up, golden-brown hair stepped forward shyly. “Ralf is with me.” She had a friendly, open expression.
“Naomi and I met at tennis camp,” said Sara.
“Oh really?” Helen wasn’t sure if she had already met this girl, but shook her hand to be on the safe side.
15
Sara’s mother didn’t look like the wife of a murderer, or even like somebody who would share her life with one. She had a mild expression and seemed very affectionate, warm, and attentive. An elementary school teacher, or a sales assistant at a florist’s, like his mother. He liked her instinctively. And yet she might very well have helped her husband shoot Brian. She had been at home when it happened, so she must at least know about it.
“And what do you study?” she asked.
“I started working right after school, ma’am.”
“Call me Helen. ‘Ma’am’ sounds so old.” She glanced down for a moment, smiled apologetically. “So, what is it you do for a living?”
“Um, I’m actually looking for work at the moment.”
“I understand. It’s not so easy to find a job these days.”
“But keeping one is even harder,” cut in Floris, before launching into a story about a friend who worked in a restaurant. Floris was making a rather ostentatious attempt to get in well with Sara’s mother, and if Ralf wasn’t mistaken, his anecdote also contained a job application. It seemed Floris was looking for part-time work waiting tables at the Horn of Plenty.
Ralf lost interest in the conversation. Now that Helen Möhring was talking to Floris, he could study her at leisure. He watched her expressions closely, examined her demeanor and mannerisms. He observed how she spoke and gestured, noted the way she constantly pushed up the sleeves of her top with her elegant hands. His breathing had quickened without his noticing. That’s her, then, he thought, the woman who knows what went down. She was standing just over an arm’s length away from him. All he had to do was step forward, grab her by the throat, and yell at her—loudly, deafeningly. Threaten to do terrible things to her so she would panic and tell him everything. In less than a minute, he could find out what had happened to Brian.
<
br /> “Well, guys, shall we go and get a drink?” Sara led the group away and disappeared into the hall.
Ralf hesitated. He looked at Helen, who nodded back at him with a polite smile. Then he joined the rest of the group.
He studied his surroundings carefully. The house was ridiculously big, and everything inside it looked expensive. There were huge modern paintings on the walls, with spotlights shining on them. The whole place was flooded with light. His parents thought that sort of thing was wasteful. Of course, Sara’s father had four successful restaurants—he must earn plenty of money. There was a good chance he had other sources of income besides that too. Cash transactions, for example. There was a reason why Brian had targeted him.
Or had he just been tipped off?
Ralf looked at Sara, with her expensive clothing, her manners, her perfect makeup. She had “rich, cute, and stylish” printed on every inch of her flawless skin. If what Naomi had said was true—that she was into men—then what did she see in Floris, with his baby face and scrawny shoulders?
He sat down in one of the leather dining room chairs and placed his forearms rather awkwardly on the tabletop.
“Coke?” said Naomi, handing him a glass.
He took it from her but didn’t take his eyes off Sara.
She was leaning against the kitchen island. Floris whispered something in her ear, and she laughed, baring her teeth. Sara Möhring, he decided, was a girl with two sides: the unapproachable model, and the slut who had let a boy like Brian take her virginity in the kitchen of her father’s restaurant. Was that really her first time? he wondered. Maybe that was just what she told Brian. Sara and Brian seemed to be cut from the same coarse cloth. Had those two agreed to share the loot from the robbery, or had Brian promised her a reward in exchange for her tip-off—just like Ralf was supposed to get a cut for his services as a driver?
One thing was certain: this family was pretty fucked up.
He poured the Coke down his throat and got up from the table. Walked over to the window and peered out. So much space. So many possibilities. He wondered if there was any disturbed soil out there somewhere.
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