“Is it OK if I take a look at your backyard?” he asked Sara.
She regarded him with slight surprise. “Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”
16
“Sorry I’m so late.” Werner took off his coat and scarf. He gestured toward the garage with his chin. A heavy bassline was pounding through the wall. “Nice and busy in there, huh? The driveway looks like a bike park. I left my car on the other side of the street. Who does that old Polo belong to?”
“It’s Ralf’s.”
“Should I know him?”
She shook her head. “A friend of Sara’s.”
Werner poured out a glass of whiskey and held up the bottle. “Do you want one?”
“Better not. I’ve already had some wine, and I need to be at work early tomorrow.” She glanced at the clock. It was only ten thirty, but given the way she felt now, she could have sworn it was the middle of the night. “I told myself I’d stay up until everyone had gone home, but that’s not going to happen.”
“You go on up to bed. I’ll keep an eye on things down here.” He looked at her over the rim of his glass. “Hang in there. On Sunday, we’ll be in England. Have you packed yet?”
She smiled wearily. “When was I supposed to find time for that?”
“Well, you don’t need to take much with you. As long as you bring a nice dress and a decent pair of walking shoes.”
“Thanks for the fashion advice,” she laughed.
He lifted one corner of his mouth. “Plus a raincoat, a warm sweater, and a pair of high heels.”
“You’re making me very curious, Werner. What will we be doing?”
“Everything.” He gave her a teasing look.
The bassline from the garage continued undiminished. A low, throbbing whoom whoom whoom. Every now and then, the voices and music would grow louder and more distinct as the garage door was opened. Shouts, laughter.
Werner looked out through the kitchen window. “If I catch anybody peeing in the swimming pool, it’ll be the last time we throw a party in this house.”
“Werner?”
He turned his face toward her.
“I’m dreading tomorrow morning.”
“The last packages,” he said.
“Not just that. One of the admin staff has caught me in the waste room a couple of times. She suspects something.”
“Are you worried?”
“Yes and no. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but what if she’s started keeping track of who throws what away? It wouldn’t be much effort for her—the waste room is just across from her office. I’ve used seven containers over the last few days. Four just today. I have no idea what the normal daily amount would be, or if anybody monitors it.”
Werner gave her a serious look. “You think somebody might notice the extra containers?”
“Maybe we should get rid of the last packages somewhere else.” She looked up. “What if we took them to England?”
He shook his head resolutely. “Let’s stick to the plan. One more trip and we’ll be done.”
“Do you think so?”
“Of course.”
Helen looked at her husband. There wasn’t a trace of doubt on his face. Werner seemed completely certain of everything, and that inspired confidence somehow.
17
Ralf stood in the garage doorway, his fists clenched in the pockets of his pants. The people behind him were singing loudly and badly along with the music and trying out strange dance moves. The backyard was quiet and peaceful. A misty glow hovered over the swimming pool. Ralf breathed in the cold night air and wandered farther into the garden.
He hadn’t noticed anything on his first inspection earlier that evening, but that didn’t mean much. For almost the entire length of the yard—along the fence and at the back—the borders were covered with a thick layer of bark cuttings, the ideal material for concealing freshly disturbed soil. There could be ten bodies out there. Thirty, even.
Naomi had come with him. She had seemed to find it odd that he’d withdrawn from the rest of the group, but in the end, had taken his hand and begun chattering away to him happily. She had grown quieter by the swimming pool. That was when he had pulled her toward him and kissed her. Her lips were warm and soft, and her small, smooth hands had disappeared under his hoodie to caress his back. In any other situation, he would have taken her straight back to his car and driven to a quiet spot out in the country. He hadn’t done that, and now that the party was drawing to a close, he regretted it.
The garage was full of overgrown toddlers who thought they were something special, showing off to rap tracks by posers like Drake. It was unbearable. Of the few girls present, the only good-looking ones were Naomi, Sara, and Jackie—with a swarm of losers inevitably circling around them the whole evening.
Ralf tried to keep a level head. He had kept himself slightly apart, drinking only two vodka Red Bulls and grazing on half a bowl of chicken nuggets.
A little before eleven, Werner Möhring had stuck his head around the corner of the garage, brought Sara’s little sister indoors, and exchanged a few words with his son. That was nearly two hours ago now. Ralf would have liked to go inside to strike up a conversation with the man, but he would have been the only one to do so. The bathroom was accessible from the garage, and the fryer was outside under the canopy, as was the fridge full of snacks and drinks. Nobody needed to go inside the house.
18
“Why can’t I stay at the party?”
“Because it’s really late.”
“What about Thom?”
“Thom is turning sixteen.” Helen laid the duvet over Emma and tucked her in. “It’ll be your turn soon enough.” She yawned. It was one in the morning, and Emma had already gotten out of bed twice.
“I can’t sleep because of the music.”
“Don’t you like it?”
She shook her head. Her skin gleamed under the soft glow of the bedside lamp.
“Me neither, but there’s not much we can do about it. It’s really late, honey. I was asleep when you came in.”
“Where’s Dad?”
“Downstairs. He’s waiting until everyone goes home, and then he’ll come up. Just like Thom.”
“Is he going to sleep in the guest room again?”
Helen clenched her jaw. “What makes you say that?”
Emma looked past her at the ceiling. “Kim’s father sleeps on the sofa sometimes too. Whenever he argues with Kim’s mother.” She sought Helen’s eyes. “I never hear you two arguing.”
“That’s because we don’t argue.”
“Really?”
“No, darling. Your father and I love each other very much.”
Emma nodded almost imperceptibly. Helen slipped out of the bedroom. “Should I shut the door or leave it open a crack?”
“Open a crack,” answered Emma drowsily.
Helen went to her room and lay down in bed with the lights out. Loud music pounded insistently through the walls, accompanied by laughter and whooping.
It’ll all be over tomorrow, she thought. She would divide the last packages between two containers, push down the lids, and that would be the end of it. Then she and Werner could put this whole dreadful chapter behind them.
19
Werner Möhring walked into the garage. He spoke to his son, who was swaying back and forth, before leaning over the laptop and turning the music off.
Ralf felt a rush of adrenaline course through his veins: he had never seen Sara’s father up close before. He wasn’t exactly big or muscular, and he looked more prep than perp in his green Gant cardigan and checkered shirt. This was the man who shot Brian? And then got rid of his body?
Werner seemed to be used to delegating, Ralf noticed. A natural authority radiated from him, and his voice was deep for a man of his stature. He scarcely had to raise it to be heard.
“OK, guys, if all of you help out a little, then we’ll be done in no time.”
Was he serious? Ralf had never been t
o a party where the guests had to clean up after themselves. None of the nerds objected. Chattering drunkenly and unsteady on their feet, they deposited their bottles and glasses on the folding tables. Ralf began to stack a few glasses too, so as not to stand out. He followed Möhring’s movements closely from the corner of his eye.
No, he couldn’t see even the slightest trace of a murderer or criminal in the man. Werner looked like exactly what he was: a wealthy entrepreneur—albeit one who hid cash in his house. Five thousand euros. Or more. Enough to get rid of Mikey and prevent anything from happening to Naomi. Ralf felt a slight flutter in his stomach and grew a little light-headed. This wasn’t the first time he had toyed with the idea. It had occurred to him a few times already over the past week.
The next moment, he noticed Werner Möhring looking at him. He glanced down nervously and stacked a few empty snack bowls.
Werner walked up to him. “I haven’t seen you here before.”
“That’s right,” said Ralf, not meeting his eye.
“You look a good deal older than Thom.”
“I’m a friend of Naomi’s.” Ralf gestured with his chin toward Naomi, who had crouched down to sweep up pieces of a broken glass with a dustpan and brush. Sara was standing next to her, holding a garbage bag open.
“And your name is . . . ?”
There was no point in lying. “Ralf Venema.”
“Ralf. That your Polo outside?”
“Yeah, that’s my car.”
Werner nodded thoughtfully. He broke eye contact only after a few long seconds, turning away from Ralf and raising his voice. “All right, guys, that’ll do. Thank you for your help. We’ll take care of the rest tomorrow.” Then he walked out of the garage.
Sara and Naomi came up to Ralf. Floris placed a garbage bag against the wall and joined them.
“Awful, isn’t he?” Sara shot an angry look at the garage door, which Werner had just closed behind him.
Ralf shrugged. “He’s not so bad.”
She shot him a dismissive look. “Oh, come on. He’s never at home, always busy with his work . . .” She placed a derisive emphasis on the last two words. “And when he is here, he runs around issuing orders. I mean, take this, for example. Thom throws a party, and my dad treats his friends like employees. It’s not right!”
Nobody spoke for a moment.
Jackie broke the silence. “He gives you everything you want, though. Your clothes, that expensive scooter. Remember when your mother wouldn’t buy you that coat? He was the one who got it for you.”
“Yeah, sure, he can buy us things all right. That’s easy enough. But he never actually does anything for us, because he doesn’t actually care about us.”
“Of course he does.”
Sara’s face hardened. “He never asks us how we’re doing at school, or how we’re feeling. It doesn’t interest him. He cares more about those restaurants than about his own children. You know, sometimes—sometimes I really wish someone would teach him a lesson. Just give him a good smack in the mouth.”
Naomi looked at her in shock. “Jeez, get ahold of yourself! That’s your father you’re talking about.”
She shrugged. “You can have him.”
Saturday
1
“You’re up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” mumbled Werner. He was standing at the kitchen island in a pair of sweatpants and a V-neck T-shirt, buttering bread. “I put the bags in your car and cleaned the freezer.”
“Did you get any sleep at all?”
“Not really. I think I might go back to bed in a couple of minutes.”
Helen took some yogurt with muesli from the fridge and sat down at the table. On weekday mornings, the kitchen was noisy and chaotic. MTV or Comedy Central would be on, and there would be tablets and phones scattered among the breakfast plates, books, cups, and unzipped schoolbags.
Right now, it was quiet.
Helen took small spoonfuls of her yogurt. She had tried to approach the situation in as businesslike a way as possible over the last few days, suppressing the memories as far as she could—the gun in her hand, the smell of the gunpowder, the saw, the boy in the freezer, those sinister packages. Helen had known plenty of patients who displayed admirable resilience in the wake of an extreme event, whose behavior seemed relatively normal, levelheaded, and even cheerful. Seemed that way, at least, since it wasn’t unusual to hear about people like that experiencing a nervous breakdown somewhere down the line, at a quieter point in their lives. There was no room for that, she knew. Not now, and not later. She maintained the brittle shell that covered her emotions and allowed her to go about her day-to-day routine. That boy was gone; she could do nothing more for him. But her children were still alive, and they needed her.
“What are we doing this evening, anyway?” she asked.
Werner looked up in confusion. “This evening? What do you mean?”
“Sara is having her movie night.”
“Yes—and?”
“They don’t want us around.”
“Perfect,” he said through a mouthful of bread. “I’ll be back late tonight anyway.” He turned to face the coffee machine and placed his cup under it. Pushed a button. Nothing happened.
“How come?”
Werner leaned forward and studied the machine. “Just checking in at the restaurants. Showing my face.”
“That doesn’t have to take up the entire evening, does it?”
“I’m afraid it does. I need to train a few people.” He glanced at her. “Or you’ll have to put up with their calling me constantly while we’re in England.” He turned back to the machine, thumped the side with his palm, and then tried again. There was a quiet gurgling noise, followed by hissing. “And I need to head over to the bank to deposit the daily takings too.”
“What about me?”
He frowned at her. “What do you mean?”
“Weren’t you listening to what I just said? They don’t want us here.”
“Jesus, Helen, you don’t have to bend over backward for Sara and her friends.”
“Even Emma and Thom are spending the night elsewhere. The kids want privacy.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that what they call it nowadays? If it’s so important for them to be on their own, they can go to a movie theater. Our house, our rules. He who pays the piper calls the tune.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Why don’t you go over and see Arianne tonight? Or go out for a drink with your colleagues?”
“That might be slightly short notice on a Saturday.” She had a lot more to say, but she swallowed her angry words. This wasn’t Werner’s fault. She’d assumed that they would go out for dinner or catch a movie, but Werner probably didn’t see the need given that they were leaving for England early the next morning.
High expectations lead to disappointment.
Maybe she should get that tattooed on herself somewhere. On her forehead, for example. In mirror writing.
2
“Ralf . . . Ralf? Wake up.”
Ralf opened his eyes. His mother was leaning over his bed. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was breathing heavily.
He was instantly alert, sitting straight up in bed. He wanted to throw off the duvet and stand up, but then he remembered the dream from which he had been so rudely awakened. Naomi. Her tongue circling around his. Her naked body pressed against him, her legs around his hips as she . . . He gripped the duvet and held it down over himself.
“We have visitors,” said his mother hurriedly.
“Who?”
“Two police officers.”
“What? What do they want?”
“It’s about Brian. His mother reported him missing yesterday, and they think you were the last person who saw him.”
“Shit,” he muttered.
“Ralf?” she whispered, and gave him a searching look. “I’m here for you. Whatever is going on. But you have to be honest with me.”
He cle
nched his jaw. Great timing, Mom.
“Could you leave the room?”
“But the officers are downs—”
“I’ll be right there, OK? Just give me a minute.”
It didn’t escape his attention that she glanced at his window. Then sought his eyes again. “Don’t do anything silly,” she said softly. “I only have one child.”
“Come on. It’ll be fine. I don’t know anything about it.”
“And what about that dealer? The man who—”
He pointed at her. “Don’t say anything about that, Mom. Not a word! I’m taking care of it.” He looked straight at her, breathing rapidly, his mouth half-open. “Do you promise? Mom?”
Ralf saw all kinds of emotions pass over her face. Her voice was hoarse when she said, “I sometimes wonder who you are, Ralf Venema. Or should I say, who you’ve turned into?”
3
Every step seemed to take an eternity. The shopping bags felt heavier than on previous trips. As if she were dragging two millstones around with her. The last pieces—quite literally, as Werner had packed the two guns as well.
Helen was panting quietly. She was constantly aware that her colleagues could see her and that the security cameras were recording everything. Despite her efforts to act calm and look as normal as possible, it was inevitable that she would come across as nervous. From the corner of her eye, she looked up at the nearest camera and pictured the grainy black-and-white images: the enormous central hall, the planters, the plastic benches—and a small, slightly anxious figure walking through it all, struggling under the weight of two shopping bags.
Don’t think about it.
She had expected this to get easier—that she would get used to it, somehow. If you do something enough, it turns into a routine. Surgical assistants stopped fainting after their second operation, and experienced police officers calmly ate their sandwiches at a bloodstained crime scene. But that rule didn’t seem to apply to her. Her hands felt clammy, and her mouth was dry. Helen prayed that nobody would talk to her. She probably wouldn’t even be able to get her words out.
Mother Dear Page 17