‘Oh, come on, you can work later.’
‘No, really, I can’t, I’m afraid. Another time, but not today.’
‘Party pooper,’ Theresa said.
Norah took a deep breath, trying not to show how tense she was. That would only lead to a whole spate of questions.
‘If I finish early I’ll come and find you,’ she said. ‘Promise. But I really must get back to my desk now.’
Theresa snorted.
‘You don’t even know where we’re going.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Starcode Red.’
‘I know where that is. I’ll come and join you, okay?’
‘Promise?’
‘Cross my heart. Give me half an hour.’
‘All right. See you.’
Norah stood in the doorway for a moment, watching Theresa bounce down the stairs. Then she closed the door and locked it behind her.
Back to square one. She sat down, went through the phone call in her head again and took a deep breath.
This time he picked up immediately.
‘Grimm.’
‘Good evening, Dr Grimm. This is Norah Richter speaking. I—’
That was as far as she got. Grimm had hung up. Norah tried again. She let it ring for a long time, but there was no answer. She tried a third time, but got no further. She reactivated caller ID and redialled. It rang once, twice, three times—then he picked up.
‘Grimm.’
‘Dr Grimm, please don’t hang up. I only want to—’
The engaged tone, then nothing. Norah shook her head in annoyance.
She tried yet again. Let it ring for a long time. Hung up. Dialled again.
‘Where did you find my number?’
Norah drew breath, but didn’t get a chance to reply.
‘Leave me in peace,’ he said.
‘Dr Grimm, I don’t understand why you’re being so aggressive. Can’t we talk to each other like adults?’
There was a moment’s silence at the other end of the line.
‘Don’t you mess with me,’ he said. ‘I’ll finish you off. I mean it.’
A click, the engaged tone, then silence. Norah stood there with her mouth open and slowly lowered her phone. The fear that until now had been curled up like an animal in its nest, hidden in the shadows of the flat, suddenly pulled itself up to its full height, tall and scraggy and dark.
Although she had almost no idea what was going on, one thing was clear: it had been a terrible mistake to get in touch with Grimm.
Norah’s nagging headache was worse, the light suddenly too bright for her eyes. She switched off the lamp and sat down on the sofa for a moment, Grimm’s voice in her ear, his words going round and round in her head. It had been no empty threat; the man meant what he said. Norah made up her mind to go to the police first thing the next day. She didn’t like the idea at all; she was used to sorting out her affairs herself. But she didn’t have much choice. Immediately she felt calmer. Around her, too, all was quiet; the house was asleep and Theresa was getting drunk in some bar. Norah could have done with a drink herself, but she was too upset to go out.
She lit the last cigarette of the day and night took hold of her, creeping into all her crevices. She looked at the dark shapes of the furniture looming before her in the blues and blacks of the darkness. Norah put out her cigarette and was about to get undressed and go to bed when she heard something at the door. A scratching. A scraping. She froze when she recognised the sound: it was a key being fumbled into a lock. Wasn’t it? Then all was silent again, only the rush of blood in her ears and the thump of her heart. Had she imagined it? She’d changed the lock and locked the door. No one could get in. But someone was trying. Weren’t they? Norah tiptoed down the passage to the front door and peered through the spyhole. It was dark on the stairs. There was only one way of being sure. Unlock the door. Open it. Have a look. Norah was debating the matter with herself when she heard sounds on the stairs again. This time, they were easier to place. Somebody had opened the door to the building and let it fall shut. Probably the mute neighbour from downstairs, because soon afterwards Norah heard another door being opened. Had he turned on the light on the stairs? Again Norah went to the door and peered through the spyhole, grimacing when the floorboards creaked underfoot.
Someone was there. But she only glimpsed a pair of dark eyes and a pale face before whoever it was vanished out of sight and down the stairs. Norah heard footsteps.
He—or she—was running away. That triggered something in Norah. She turned the key frantically in the lock and opened the door. The footsteps were downstairs now and Norah flew after them. She heard the front door being flung open, reached the ground floor before it fell shut again, flung it wide again and was out on the street. A truck roared past, drowning out any sounds. Norah looked left. Nothing. She looked right. Nothing. Left again. This time she saw something. Almost at the other end of the square. A narrow figure. But it wasn’t running; it was walking away at a comfortable, leisurely pace. Norah could see it only from behind. Was it the figure from the stairs? Or just a passer-by? Norah looked about her again. A young couple were coming along on the right and a cyclist was emerging from the street opposite—but apart from them and the retreating figure, there was no one in sight.
When she looked again, the figure had vanished.
30
Norah woke to a beautiful, clear day, bright and vivid.
She’d felt better since deciding to report things. Whatever else happened, she’d head for the nearest police station as soon as she got off work.
On the stairs she met her mute neighbour on his way to the dustbins with a bunch of wilted flowers. He glared disparagingly when she said good morning and, as usual, didn’t return her greeting. Who’d buy flowers for that old boot face?
Norah lit a cigarette and set off. Old ladies walking their fluffy little dogs, locals drinking their first espresso of the day at the coffee stall by the church, schoolchildren, students, ordinary life, unconcern, routine.
She left the church behind her and as she took a right, her eye was caught by a fluorescent pink poster, not much bigger than A4, pasted onto the wall of a house. Thick, black letters.
A PREOCCUPATION WITH DEATH IS THE ROOT OF CULTURE
Death was everywhere in this fucking city, Norah thought—this beautiful, strangely unbearable city. She wondered whether the posters would turn out to be guerrilla advertising for a play or a film or some product or other; they were all over Vienna.
As she turned into the pedestrian precinct with a takeaway cappuccino in her hand, she thought for a moment of Dorotea Lechner.
That afternoon, when she left the office, the weather had turned. The crisp frost had given way to a chill damp. Norah walked briskly towards a police station she had found on Google, not far from her flat.
Hurrying along the street with other cold-looking people, she went over the conversation she’d had that afternoon with the property management office. The woman who’d taken Norah’s call had told her that the landlord was away with his family in Florida. No, of course he didn’t go in the flats without the tenants’ permission. No, nobody else had keys to the flats. And no, she couldn’t tell Norah where he kept his keys—what a question; no one had ever complained before. And why did she want to know all this? If something had gone missing, that was a matter for the police. Nothing missing? Well, then. It would be best if she rang again when the landlord was back from his holiday. Goodbye.
Norah saw the sign from a distance as soon as she rounded the corner: POLICE.
After a long wait, she was called into the office of a middle-aged female police officer who introduced herself as Kern. There was a hint of cold cigarette smoke in the small, sparsely furnished room. Norah sat down in the chair that was offered to her, wondering how much of her story she should tell.
The policewoman looked at her. She had a nice frank face.
‘Would you like a glass of water? Cup of
coffee?’
Norah shook her head.
‘So, what can I do for you, Ms…Richter, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Norah Richter,’ Norah said, her voice firm. ‘I’d like to report something.’
She gave Constable Kern the bare bones of what had happened: the woman in the pedestrian precinct and her subsequent death, her suspicion that someone had been in the flat, her encounter with Arthur Grimm and his threats to her. She also mentioned the figure she had seen at her door the previous evening. The longer Norah spoke, the less coherent the whole thing sounded, and when she came to the end, there was a long silence. Constable Kern looked at her pensively.
‘Were there signs of a break-in?’ she asked eventually.
‘No,’ said Norah, ‘there weren’t. I think whoever was in my flat must have had a key.’
Kern made a note.
‘Can you give me a list of the things that have gone missing from your flat? Slowly, so I can write it down.’
Norah suppressed a sigh; she knew it would sound funny.
‘A toothbrush and a pen.’
‘Any items of value?’
Norah shook her head.
‘No.’
‘How long have you been living on Rilkeplatz?’
‘Three weeks. I’ve just moved here from Berlin.’
The woman looked at her and jotted something down.
‘Do you know your landlord?’
‘Not personally. I found the flat through an agent.’
‘Do you have your landlord’s name?’
Norah gave it to her and told her about the phone call with his office. The woman made another note. Then there was silence.
‘And the man you say threatened you. What was his name?’
‘Arthur Grimm.’
‘How do you know this Arthur Grimm?’
Norah frowned.
‘As I said, I don’t know him. I’d never heard the name until this strange woman mentioned him.’
‘So why did you go looking for him?’
Norah reflected.
‘Curiosity, I guess.’
Kern laid her head on one side.
‘Interesting,’ she said, drawing out the word.
‘You make it sound as if you don’t believe me.’
Kern gave Norah a narrow-lipped smile.
‘I just find it interesting that you claim not to know Arthur Grimm.’
‘I don’t,’ said Norah coldly.
‘But you told me that you were recently in the building where he works and yesterday went to his home.’
‘Yes, and I told you why. Listen, why don’t you just take down my report?’
‘Right,’ Kern said, pulling a form out of a drawer. ‘By the way, we’d have been in touch with you in the next few days anyway, Ms Richter.’
‘Really?’ Norah said in surprise. ‘Why?’
Kern looked up from the form and fixed her intently.
‘An Arthur Grimm was here yesterday to report you for harassment.’
31
She stared at her plate. The veal schnitzel was in the shape of North America; the vivid green broccoli florets looked like little trees. Even the boiled potatoes were artistically arranged, as if for an Instagram picture. Norah would have liked to make a cutting remark, but as there was no one to make it to, she swallowed it with her first mouthful of schnitzel. As usual, since the move to Vienna, she was eating alone, and it was beginning to get to her.
Mechanically spearing a broccoli floret and putting it in her mouth, she looked about her. She had asked for a table by the window so that she could see everything that was going on outside. At the table next to hers, two men of about sixty were drinking beer. One of them had his back to her; the other, a convivial-looking bloke with a bushy moustache, looked like a Herbert or an Erwin. Beneath his open leather jacket, a black T-shirt strained over a formidable belly. After a glance at Norah he said something she couldn’t hear to the other man.
Was it sad to be eating out alone? Did people find her sad? Norah sniffed scornfully and went back to cutting her schnitzel into little pieces.
Since when have you cared what other people think about you?
Coming out of the police station in a fury, she had put her differences aside and immediately rung Sandra who, apart from being her friend, was also her lawyer. But Sandra hadn’t answered the phone, so Norah had left a short message on her voicemail. No, she wasn’t taking drugs again. Yes, she had forgiven her the outrageous insinuation. And she needed her help. Could she ring her back when she had a moment?
Later that day, Sandra had finally got in touch, but the call was unsatisfactory. Sandra was in a hurry—one of the kids was ill—so Norah had to be brief. Sandra advised her to keep calm and on no account have anything else to do with the man who had reported her. It would sort itself out. She promised to ring again soon when she had more time.
Norah sighed. She stared at the day’s specials that were chalked up on a blackboard, wondering whether to order pudding. She was already full, but it would be nice to stay a bit longer in the coffeehouse. The earlier she got the bill and left, the sooner she’d have to return to the flat, and right now—even with the new lock—there was almost nowhere Norah felt less at ease. Glancing at her phone, she saw that she had a missed call from Coco and felt a pang of guilt, but when she tried to call her back, Coco didn’t pick up. Maybe she’d gone to the cinema. No bad thing, Norah thought. She wasn’t in the mood for a painful conversation just now. Especially as Coco was always harping on about her ex—a topic Norah was anxious to put behind her.
As she left the cafe through the small revolving door, cold wind lashed out at her. She turned up the collar of her coat and wrapped her arms around her body. Norah knew all about cold weather from Berlin but that didn’t stop it from getting her down every year. She thought about taking a taxi, but it wasn’t far to her flat and she could do with some fresh air and exercise. A tram passed her—one of the old, pretty ones. Then, just as she was overtaking a group of tourists on their way to the theatre or opera, she saw a dark-haired man of about her age coming towards her. She was about to step out onto a zebra crossing when the lights began to flash—the signal that they would soon turn red. In flat shoes, she’d have run, but it wasn’t a good idea in high-heeled boots. She plunged her hands into her pockets and waited. The first cars were starting up.
‘My God,’ someone said beside her. ‘Valerie?’
Norah’s head spun round and she saw the dark-haired man staring at her out of green eyes. She blinked in confusion, then realised that he was talking to her.
‘What did you call me?’
The man raised his eyebrows in surprise; his smile vanished.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought you were someone else.’
He was gone before Norah had time to react. The lights turned green. People surged past her across the road—the tourists, a cyclist, a bald old man with a walking stick, a girl on an electric skateboard which glowed eerily as it vanished into the darkness. By the time Norah had recovered, the lights had changed again.
32
With its red velvet seats and white-and-gold stucco ceiling, the auditorium was like that of a nice old cinema, only much larger and with a big stage where the screen would have been. Dust danced in the beam from the spotlight. The man at the front of the stage looked exactly the way you’d imagine a magician. He wore a tailcoat and a top hat that almost covered his dark hair, and he had unnaturally pale skin and big dramatic eyes under deep-black eyebrows. The overall effect was something like a silent movie star in one of the films her mother was fond of watching. Especially the eyes. His voice was loud and booming, almost frighteningly so. Norah swallowed. She was ten years old, her favourite colour was blue, and she liked things that were almost frightening.
The other children were excited too. They were, of course, familiar with rabbits being conjured out of hats and gold coins being produced from behind ears; they’d seen magic shows on th
e telly. But to see it all up close—and in a proper grown-up theatre—was different. Norah’s fingers were sticky with candyfloss, even after she’d wiped them on her trousers. Edible clouds, Valerie had said. Beautifully sweet and sticky.
Norah loved conjuring shows and had been pleased to get an invitation when they were handed round in the lunchbreak on Monday. Valerie’s birthday parties were always special. Fair booths in the garden, bouncy castles, go-karts.
‘For my next trick,’ the magician said in a booming voice, ‘I need a volunteer.’
Norah was still dithering when Valerie’s arm shot up beside her.
The magician called Valerie onto the stage and she set off confidently. A warm feeling flooded Norah as she watched her best friend walk up the shallow steps—the same feeling she had when she got an A at school. She was as proud of Valerie’s courage as if it were her own.
‘What’s your name?’ the magician asked her with the hint of a bow.
The girls in the audience giggled.
‘Norah,’ said Valerie.
The children laughed. Valerie was so cheeky she even dared lie to a grown-up.
‘Hello, Norah,’ the magician said and turned to face the audience again.
The real Norah bit her lip.
‘Is there anyone in the audience who would miss this young lady if she went away?’ the magician asked.
Arms strained in the air. Valerie grinned.
‘All right then,’ said the magician. ‘I am going to make Norah disappear.’
He looked at his volunteer and she returned his gaze.
‘But to all those who put up their hands just now—there’s no need to worry; I will bring the young lady back safe and sound from the realm of shadows.’
He raised his arms with a flourish and a cage appeared. Norah hadn’t been quick enough to see where it came from—then she realised there was some kind of hoist under the stage.
‘My dear,’ the magician said, turning to Valerie, ‘this is for you.’
He had conjured a torch from somewhere and pressed it into her hand.
‘This will guide you into the realm of shadows.’
The Shadow Page 12