The Shadow

by Melanie Raabe

  Norah was about to make a note of the date when a loud beep announced the arrival of a new text. Irritably, Norah put the letter down and reached for her phone. The text was from the unknown number and contained no answer—only an eleven-figure number. A mobile number.

  It rang once, twice, three times, four times, five times. Norah was about to hang up, half disappointed, half relieved, when somebody answered.

  ‘Reiter?’

  A woman’s voice. Norah’s age, or maybe a little younger. Slightly unsure of herself. Was this the person who had sent Norah all the messages?

  Norah cleared her throat.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, ‘this is Norah.’

  Silence.

  Norah felt her heart thumping in her chest and was briefly reminded of the time she’d sat in on an autopsy as a very young journalist. She’d never forgotten the astonishingly garish colours, the shocking smells—or the moment when she’d seen her first human heart, scarlet and shiny and beautiful.

  ‘Norah who?’ the voice asked suspiciously.

  Norah decided to put her cards on the table.

  ‘Norah Richter,’ she said. ‘I think we’ve exchanged texts.’

  ‘I’d know about that,’ the woman said, suddenly sure of herself.

  ‘Please don’t hang up,’ Norah said quickly, but it was too late.

  She sighed.

  Then she checked the text message to make sure she hadn’t entered the wrong number by mistake. She hadn’t. Norah put her head in her hands and tried to think. She’d evidently been wrong to assume that it was the anonymous texter’s number; the woman she’d spoken to hadn’t been expecting her call. And why would she have given Norah her number only to hang up on her? Norah realised she was being stupid, because of course she already had the texter’s number; this was a new number, belonging to somebody else. Norah studied the chain of messages she’d exchanged with the unknown contact.

  Get away from there!

  —

  He’s dangerous.

  —

  Why should I believe you?

  —

  I’ll prove it to you.

  Norah pressed her lips together and tried the new number again. She had to let it ring for a long time, but eventually the woman picked up.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you again, Ms Reiter,’ said Norah, trying to sound respectable and a little formal. ‘But I’m afraid it’s very important.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘Okay,’ the woman said. ‘What’s it about?’

  Norah thought of her friend Coco and how much she hated talking about what had happened to her.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about Arthur Grimm,’ she said.

  The woman made a strangled sound; Norah had hit the mark.

  ‘Where did you get my number?’ the woman asked.

  Norah decided to be as honest as possible.

  ‘Someone gave it to me,’ she said, adding with a flash of inspiration, ‘Ms Reiter, I’m on your side.’

  Her gaze fell on the tarot card which she still hadn’t got rid of. The grim reaper looked out at her; she turned the card over.

  ‘How do you know Arthur?’ the woman asked.

  Good question, Norah thought. Should she reveal all without even knowing who she was talking to? And where would she begin if she did?

  ‘He’s been threatening me,’ said Norah, following her gut instinct.

  ‘Are you his new woman? If you are, I can only warn you.’

  ‘No,’ Norah said quickly. ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Count yourself lucky. So what do you want from him?’

  How could she explain without sounding like a complete weirdo?

  ‘I’m afraid it’s rather complicated,’ she said, to buy time. ‘A friend of mine is seeing him. And I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I’ve had a bad feeling about the guy right from the start. I don’t usually do this kind of thing, you know, but I’m a journalist—curious by profession… So I asked around a bit. I just want to know who the man is—what my friend’s letting herself in for.’

  She stopped for a moment. Did it sound plausible?

  ‘Well, and then I met someone who gave me your number and said if I wanted to find out what kind of a man Arthur Grimm is, I should ask you.’

  Norah held her breath as she waited for an answer.

  ‘Who was this someone who gave you my number?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  The woman made a strange noise; it sounded to Norah like a little snorting laugh.

  ‘I think I have a pretty good idea.’

  Norah said nothing. The woman, too, was silent for a moment, giving Norah time to think. She’d been sent this number so that she could find out what kind of a man Arthur Grimm was—she was sure of that. What did this woman have to tell her? Norah resisted the temptation to light a cigarette; she didn’t move a millimetre, anxious not to disturb the woman in any way as she made up her mind. She could sense the woman poised between speaking and remaining silent and knew how it felt—knew, too, that she mustn’t push her now, mustn’t try to pressure her into anything. All she could do was wait.

  ‘Okay,’ the woman said. And began her story.

  41

  Even using a lighter was suddenly too much for Norah; it took her several tries to light up. Vienna lay quiet in the dark, as if night had sucked up the sounds as well as the colours. People moved almost noiselessly, as though anxious not to mar the beauty of the city at night. Norah wandered here and there, with no particular aim, trying to think things over as she walked. When she came to the Karlskirche, she stopped to admire the glorious baroque dome and columns; it never ceased to amaze her that humans were capable of creating such beautiful things. Especially, she said to herself, when you think of all the ugly things we get up to as a species. She crossed the square in front of her flat, sending a can clattering over the asphalt with her foot. After coming off the phone to Angelika Reiter, she’d given the kitchen wall a good kick, but that had brought back bad memories and she’d gone out for a walk instead, to cool down and work off her anger. Norah pumped as much cold evening air into her lungs as she could. The woman’s story had been awful.

  Realising, though, that walking and fresh air were no help and that she was getting hotter rather than cooling down, Norah headed back and stopped outside the bistro on the corner of her street. It looked cosy and inviting; warm light shone out into the darkness like a promise of warmth and company and happiness. Seconds later, Norah was sitting at a little table in the far corner. The three old ladies weren’t there at this hour—only a few lonely souls like her, staring into their drinks or out of the window. Norah ordered a glass of Veltliner.

  Blows, threats, physical and psychological abuse, blackmail. If what the young woman had told Norah about her two-year relationship with Arthur Grimm was true, the man was a monster. Clever, manipulative and cold as ice. Norah had no trouble believing it. But what now? She took out her phone and yet again she typed: Who are you?

  She toyed with the thought of adding another question or two, but decided against it and pressed Send. All at once she felt the same surge of cold anger she had felt sitting numbly in her flat after the phone call. This time, though, it was directed not only at Grimm but also at the person sending her these messages. Why all the fucking secrecy? Why the funny games? If this person really knew all about Grimm and wanted to call him to account, why had they involved Norah—and couldn’t they at least be open with her?

  Okay, she wrote. I’ve spoken to the woman. If she’s to be believed (and I think she is), AG is a bastard and I hope the woman goes to the police. But what the fuck has this got to do with me?

  When she looked up from her phone, her eyes met those of a greying blond man sitting at the bar, a smart coat draped over the stool beside him. He wore a suit and shirt without a tie and had a trendy mixed drink in front of him that made him look a little out of
place in the old-fashioned bistro. Norah quickly averted her eyes. She had to think. No distractions now. She got the bill and left.

  Back at home, she sat down at her desk, booted up her laptop and logged in to her email provider. One new message. From Werner. Had he already carried out the special assignment she’d set him? Norah clicked on the email, which had no subject heading—Werner seldom bothered.

  It was short.

  I’m afraid I haven’t managed to carry out your ‘special assignment’ yet. But I have something else for you. Didn’t want to ring so late. Give me a call in the morning. Werner

  In the morning? How was she to get through the night after an announcement like that? She was dying of curiosity. Norah was about to close the email when she noticed the time. Werner, always a night owl, had sent the email only ten minutes ago. Norah leapt up, grabbed her phone and dialled his number. He picked up almost immediately.

  ‘Still the old night owl,’ he said, without even saying hello.

  ‘Just what I was thinking about you,’ Norah said smiling.

  After they’d finished talking, she sat there for a long time. She stared out of the window and then at her hands, trying to process what she’d heard. But it was no good; her head was so full it felt ready to burst.

  It was 5 February and she had a motive to kill Arthur Grimm.

  42

  There was blood everywhere. It was still sticking to her when she sat up with a start, clutching her chest—and when she dropped her hands and caught her breath, the rust-coloured goo spread all over the cream covers of the sofa.

  What was the time? Norah looked about her for her watch and spotted it next to her phone on a cardboard box that served as an improvised coffee table. Half past two.

  Norah got up and went over to the window. The street below was deserted. She opened the window, trying to shake off her tiredness. She had stretched out on the sofa to think—and because her back had ached after sitting at her desk for so long. She must have fallen asleep straight away. Shivering, she closed the window.

  She went into the kitchen. In the fridge were apples, yoghurts, ready-made sandwiches, plastic containers of salad. Things that demanded no preparation or effort—things you could simply shovel into yourself. For a moment Norah stared at the food as if she’d forgotten what you did with it. Then she took out a yoghurt and a sandwich and began to eat mechanically.

  As she was eating, she heard the floorboards creak overhead—so Theresa was still up too. Norah jumped to her feet. She had to talk to someone. Now. She hurried into her clothes, reached for her keys, unlocked the door, stepped out onto the landing and dashed up the stairs—but stopped abruptly when she saw a young man coming out of Theresa’s flat. He locked the door behind him and turned to face Norah. It wasn’t the little idiot who’d shouted at Theresa—the one Norah had got rid of a few days before. This man was older than Theresa, closer to Norah in age, short and stocky, with reddish blond hair, watery blue eyes and a cleft chin. And he had a key.

  He was clearly startled to meet someone on the stairs in the middle of the night, but said nothing—only nodded at Norah and tried to squeeze past her in silence.

  ‘Hi,’ said Norah. ‘Are you a friend of Theresa’s?’

  The man stopped and stared at her, uncomprehending.

  ‘Theresa?’

  Norah could feel her eyes narrowing to slits.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Theresa. The young woman who lives here.’ Something in his face changed. Then he smiled briefly.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘Theresa. Sorry, it’s just that I never call her that. Anyway, I must be going. Three in the morning’s hardly the time for a chat on the stairs.’

  Again, he tried to push past Norah, smiling apologetically.

  ‘What do you call her then? Theresa, I mean.’

  The smile vanished.

  ‘Is that any of your business?’

  Touché, Norah thought. No, he was right, it wasn’t. Theresa, or whatever this guy called her, was old enough to do as she pleased—and give her key to whoever she liked.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Norah. ‘Is she in?’

  ‘No,’ said the man, finally managing to manoeuvre his way past Norah and setting off down the stairs at a leisurely pace. A moment later, she heard the front door slam shut.

  Norah rang Theresa’s bell, but, unsurprisingly, nobody came to the door and she had no choice but to return to her own flat where the rusty smell of blood still hung in the air.

  She sat down and went over what Werner had told her. He’d found out every detail of what Grimm had been doing at the time of Valerie’s death: what he’d been working on, what departments he’d been employed in, exactly where he’d lived. He’d been a lodger in an old lady’s house and this lady hadn’t forgotten the upstanding young man—a violinist like her youngest son, but also very handy about the house; a great help with repairs. Ever so quiet, apparently, and terribly hard-working and studious; he’d even found the time to give French and maths coaching on top of all his other work.

  The memory had hit like a bolt from the blue. A golden autumn day. Norah had got a B in her French vocab test, but Valerie had fared less well. Norah was going to the cinema to see the new Leonardo DiCaprio film.

  ‘Want to come?’ she asked.

  Valerie rolled her eyes.

  ‘I can’t. I’ve got French and maths coaching,’ she groaned. ‘Mum’s found me a new tutor.’ Was that the first time Norah had heard Grimm’s name? She wasn’t sure. But all the evidence suggested that Grimm had known Valerie—that he’d been her tutor. The thoughts went round and round in Norah’s head: Valerie and Grimm knew each other and Grimm is a violent bastard. She heard his voice, over and over. Don’t you mess with me. I’ll finish you off. I mean it.

  She saw Valerie before her as if it were yesterday. Still a child. Then she saw Grimm. His harsh eyes. His coldness, his measured movements, the soldierly precision.

  What had he done to her?

  Norah closed her eyes. She saw the images from her dream again—her bloody hands, the lifeless figure—and realised that she had known all along; Werner’s call had merely confirmed the vague suspicion that had been floating above her, just out of reach. The name of Arthur Grimm had unnerved her right from the start; she had always associated it with Valerie. Now, if this awful hunch proved right, everything would suddenly make sense.

  Arthur Grimm had killed Valerie and got away with it.

  Somebody knew that.

  And whoever that somebody was, they wanted Arthur Grimm to be punished.

  She didn’t know why they didn’t do it themselves. Whether they couldn’t or didn’t dare or simply didn’t think that it was up to them.

  She knew only that this somebody wanted her to do it. She had no idea why that somebody was going about persuading her in such a strange way, but their goal was clear.

  She was the one.

  She was to bring death to Arthur Grimm.

  And since last night she knew something else. Something that scared her more than any of the other goings-on of the last few weeks.

  Again the dream images enveloped her and she not only saw, but felt everything: Arthur Grimm, wounded and frightened before her on the ground, his face twisted with pain, his voice. Please don’t. And then the second shot. That sense of finality. And the mixture of shock and satisfaction that followed. Norah’s mouth was suddenly very dry.

  Somebody wanted her to kill Arthur Grimm.

  And deep down inside, she wanted it too.

  43

  Norah sat in the office, staring at Grimm. Arthur Grimm stared back. And although he was only a mass of pixels, there was something frightening about the way he looked at her.

  Being at work was like finding herself dropped down in a foreign country with unfamiliar customs. Now and then she overheard snatches of conversation. Her boss, saying that if the interview with the new Burg director fell through, he wouldn’t have a cover story for the next iss
ue. David, suggesting a topic. It all meant nothing to her and she was glad nobody asked her for an opinion, because she could think of only one thing: Valerie and Grimm.

  Norah stood at the window, smoking, thinking. It would soon be time to knock off, but she couldn’t stir herself to go back to the office she shared with Aylin. The things that Angelika Reiter had told on the phone were still ringing in her ears and she felt her jaws grind as she thought about it. A man who abused women and had always got away with it.

  Yet another.

  Now she knew what Grimm was capable of. He’d already proved how clever he was by getting to the police before she did. Eventually Norah could stand it no longer and wrote a text message.

  Did Grimm know Valerie?

  No reply. Norah made herself a cup of coffee and waited. Then a beep announced an incoming text.

  You know the answer.

  Norah’s eyes narrowed.

  Why didn’t you tell me?

  This time the reply came almost immediately.

  You had to find out for yourself.

  Why? Is he connected with Valerie’s death?

  Again, she didn’t have to wait long for a reply. It was almost as if whoever it was had nothing better to do all day than sit around waiting for her texts.

  You know the answer to that too. You just don’t like it.

  Too true, I don’t, Norah thought, and wrote:

  Answer my question!

  Yes! the somebody wrote.

  Norah stared at the screen, not knowing what to feel.

  How do you know?

  We’re going round in circles.

  Norah closed the chat and, on a whim, rang the number. She let it ring for a long time, but nobody picked up.

  Norah hung up and wrote:

  Why won’t you speak to me?

  Because it wouldn’t make a difference. Because none of the information I’d give you would make a difference. He did it. He’s guilty. You know that as well as I do. And not only do you know it; you feel it too. The only question now is what you’re going to do with that knowledge.