“Are you sure, Herr Beck?” Giesner says, his voice mingling with my thoughts. “Have a good look at the man. Take your time.”
I nod. The man who abducted and probably killed my daughter. This quite normal, unremarkable man.
Without taking my eyes off the picture, I shake my head.
“I don’t recognize him, no.”
Giesner sighs, I look up.
“Have you shown this to Hannah?”
“Yes, this morning before you arrived. She looked at it and congratulated me on my drawing skills.” Giesner gives another sigh.
“You need to get that picture in the media! It should be in every paper and TV news bulletin!” My hands, which are holding the piece of paper, start shaking with agitation. “Surely someone knows the bastard.”
“Hmm,” Giesner says again, then, “We’ll consider it, Herr Beck. Only in our experience, when we publish something like that, it seems as if half the world claims to know the person. You get people ringing up saying, ‘That’s my neighbor, my children’s teacher, my dentist.’ We would have a flood of leads and it would take us ages to work through them all without any guarantee of a result.”
“You’re not seriously telling me that this is too much work for you, are you, Herr Giesner? That’s your job!”
Giesner doesn’t reply.
My heart starts racing again.
“So nothing’s going to happen? You’re just going to let the matter rest?”
“No, no, Herr Beck, on no account.”
He takes the piece of paper from my hand, folds it up again and slips it back into his jacket pocket.
“We’re going to start by asking people personally connected to the case.”
“But that includes me! And I tell you, I don’t know this man!”
“Herr Beck, I know you had a close relationship with your daughter, but…” He falters. I have an idea what he’s going to say next as he chews over his words so they don’t upset the poor, sick old man too much. Of course he’s read the old files. Of course Gerd has briefed him about the investigation into Lena’s disappearance. Of course he’s familiar with the newspaper articles. The lies he possibly thinks are the truth merely because they seem so weighty when printed in big, bold letters. Parents who didn’t really know their own child. I can recall every single article, every single word …
FRIEND OF MISSING MUNICH STUDENT (23): LENA HAD PROBLEMS
Munich (LR)—Jana W (her name has been changed) sits on the windowsill in her sitting room on the fourth floor and gazes out at the city. “Where are you?” is the question that this friend of student Lena Beck (23, as reported here), who disappeared almost a week ago, keeps asking herself. W was the last person Lena Beck was in contact with before she vanished. “She called me on her way home from the party,” W recalls, trying to retain her composure. “I should have realized that something was wrong, but I was annoyed that she’d woken me up with her call.” As to the details of this last telephone call, W says, “Lena told me she wanted to change her life, things couldn’t go on as they were.” But W didn’t hear this as a cry for help. “She sounded as if she’d had a lot to drink. Besides, Lena was often in the mood to want to change something. She’d already contemplated abandoning college, which would have been a sensible move. She was never really interested in her studies, and was more often to be seen at parties than in lectures. As a result she was probably going to flunk her exams this semester.” Like Beck, W is in her fourth semester of a teaching degree at Ludwig Maximilian University in Munich. “But I think she was worried about disappointing her parents. The Lena her parents know is a very different person.”
Could the 23-year-old possibly have been so desperate that she was contemplating suicide and jumped into the Isar on the night she disappeared? Jana W won’t rule this out. “But I can also imagine her absconding with some guy. She was always telling me about new male acquaintances. In the worst-case scenario, maybe this time she hooked up with the wrong one.” W says, however, that she hasn’t given up hope of seeing her friend again soon. With tears in her eyes, she begs, “Lena, if you’re out there somewhere, please come home. We miss you.” Just before midday, police divers resumed their search of the river. “So far we haven’t come up with anything that has any bearing on the case of the missing woman,” Chief Inspector Gerd Brühling said. He refused to comment on Lena Beck’s current psychological state. Nor would he go into any more detail about the statement given by a woman who claims to have seen the student in the company of a man at a motorway service station near the Austrian border. But he insisted, “Of course we’re taking every piece of information seriously and following up every lead.”
* * *
“Herr Beck?” Giesner says.
“Okay,” I say wearily. “Ask those people”—I do air quotes—“personally connected to the case. The friends who apparently knew Lena far better than I did. Ask them if this man might have been one of the allegedly vast number of male acquaintances my daughter had. Give them a good grilling.” I reach for the back of the bench as support and groan as I haul myself up. “Maybe unlike Herr Brühling, you’ll realize how many people back then spread lies about Lena just to make themselves feel important. Lifting the lid on that would be worthwhile in itself. Oh yes, and please don’t forget Frau Grass.”
Giesner, who has got up from the bench too, gives me a searching look.
“You have no cause to doubt yourself as a father, Herr Beck. Parents want to protect their children, that’s only natural. It’s just that sometimes they forget that their children are independent people—”
“Yes, yes, okay,” I growl and point at his jacket. “Could I take the reconstruction with me to Munich to show my wife? After all, she’s personally connected to the case too.”
“Inspector Brühling can do that. He’s right there.”
“Herr Giesner, I don’t want to upset my wife any more than is necessary.” I clutch my chest. “These interrogations are arduous for all of us.”
“I’m very sorry, Herr Beck, but I can’t give it away, I really can’t.”
The hand sitting flat on my chest clenches to a fist and I grimace.
“Maybe you could just look away for a second while I take a picture with my mobile,” I pant, short of breath. “Then I’ll show it to my wife and we’ll get in touch immediately if the man is familiar. I mean, we just decided we were going to do our best to work together, didn’t we?”
Giesner gives a subtle shake of his head. “Even if you don’t believe me, Herr Beck, I understand you. But this doesn’t mean I’m going to do you this favor. Let me do my job and you look after your granddaughter. That way we’re all best served, trust me.”
HANNAH
My grandfather went outside with the policeman but he promised me he wouldn’t be long. Which also means it won’t be long until I’m back home.
Frau Hamstedt suggested that we should do some more drawing in the meantime. I pointed out to her that it’s lying to say we should do drawing because in truth it’s only me who would draw. But I don’t want to draw anyway. I think I should use the time to say goodbye to Jonathan. You always have to say goodbye before you go. Not saying goodbye is impolite. Frau Hamstedt let me.
We go out of her office and down the corridor to the glass door. To the left is the elevator, to the right the stairs. I ask Frau Hamstedt if we can take the elevator. She looks at me like Mama sometimes does when we’re doing lessons and my answer’s not quite right. As if I hadn’t thought something through properly.
“It’s only a cable system,” I tell Frau Hamstedt, after by accident I briefly show my annoyance. I can’t tell Frau Hamstedt she’s an idiot or she definitely won’t let me go home. “And the doors have to be shut otherwise you could fall out of the compartment.”
Frau Hamstedt is silent to begin with. The elevator gives a ding when it arrives and we get in. The silver doors close behind us. Frau Hamstedt pushes the round button with the number two on it
. There are three round buttons in total, one above the other like a traffic light. This is how you tell the elevator which floor to go to.
“Why didn’t you ever take Jonathan with you when you went on your trips?”
The corners of my mouth twitch as there’s a tugging in my tummy. The tugging feeling in my tummy is what I like most about going in an elevator.
“Hannah?”
I make a cross face again.
“Because I’m her favorite child.”
I don’t know how often I need to say this until she understands. There always has to be a favorite child you can rely on.
* * *
It’s dark in Jonathan’s room because the blinds are down. The retina problem must be in our family. It smells bad in his room too, of stale farts, which isn’t surprising as nobody’s put a recirculation device in here. In my room too they only tilt open the window when I go to eat or to do drawing or go with Grandad to the appointments. I’ve asked why, but nobody’s given me an answer. I think it’s because the handles on the windows have a little lock on them and they have to be unlocked before you can tilt the windows open. There’s probably only one key and Frau Hamstedt’s helpers have to look for it each time. I told them to do it like we did at home. We never had to think where the key might be or spend ages looking for it because Papa looked after it. I told Frau Hamstedt’s helpers that they should choose someone to be in charge of the key. But of course they don’t listen to me. They probably think I’m just a child and so I’m not particularly clever. But I’m much cleverer than them.
Jonathan is sitting on the floor in the far corner of the room, his knees up to his chest. “Hello, Jonathan,” Frau Hamstedt says. She opened the door especially quietly so he wouldn’t get a fright, but I think Jonathan is taking so many of the blue pills that he doesn’t care if someone comes into his room. He doesn’t even lift his head from his knees.
“Would you like me to wait outside?” Frau Hamstedt asks me. I nod. Outside means, however, that she’ll wait in the open doorway, with her back to us. I approach Jonathan on tiptoe, although I don’t think he’s dangerous. He isn’t anything anymore. I sit very close to him so he can hear me properly when I whisper. Assuming he can hear at all.
“Why did you draw Sara?”
I think he flinches very slightly.
“Have you forgotten how dreadfully Mama screamed because of her? Have you really forgotten it all?”
I remember every detail. The dreadful screaming. The ugly face that Mama pulled. How she kicked and tossed and turned so much that her bracelet cut her wrist and blood ran down her forearm. Then there was more blood and much more screaming, which meant nobody could sleep. And the Fräulein Tinky business. If Mama hadn’t screamed so dreadfully because of Sara, Fräulein Tinky would never have knocked over the cup of hot chocolate in fright and Papa wouldn’t have put her outside as a punishment. She wasn’t allowed back in until the evening. She’d turned very cold and stiff, and it took ages to warm her coat up again beside the stove. All because of Sara.
She was a very funny color. She was purple and slimy, smeared with yellow and red. I wouldn’t touch her until Mama had cleaned her up. Everything was filthy: Sara, Mama, the entire bed. I pulled the sheet off the mattress. Papa said that Mama lost far more blood than when Jonathan and I were born. The stains were really big. Papa also said there was no point in washing the bedclothes. He brought a roll of big rubbish bags into the bedroom, then the three of them went into the bathroom. I was just unbuttoning the pillowcases when Mama came back with Sara. Mama was moving very strangely and slowly, as if she was worried her bones would break with every step. She sat on the bed. The baby looked better now, clean. Mama said it was perfect. She was perfect, Sara. The name means “princess.” Now there was nothing better than Sara. I was so tired. First Mama’s screaming, now Sara’s whining. I stuffed the bedclothes in two loads into the rubbish bags, like Papa had told me.
“When are we going to go away again, Mama?”
Mama didn’t hear me at first, so I had to ask her again.
“We can’t just at the moment, Hannah,” she said, without taking her eyes off Sara, who she held in her arms. That dreadful whining. I wouldn’t have even been able to tell if the recirculation device was working properly.
“She can come with us,” I said, even though I didn’t really want that to happen. “She can come with us,” I said again. Mama ought to look at me, I was talking to her. “Mama?” It was impolite not to look at me. “Mama!”
“For goodness’ sake, Hannah,” she hissed. Now she looked at me, but only briefly, because Sara immediately began whining again, this time even louder.
“Shh, shh,” Mama said, stroking her head. “She’s still so little, Hannah. You can’t go away with such a little baby. It would be far too exhausting.”
“But Mama…”
“Not now, Hannah,” she just said.
“What not now?” Papa said, standing in the doorway. I’d just taken a breath when Mama said, “Nothing.” As if our trips were worthless, as if from one moment to the next they’d never happened. Now that Sara was here.
“I think Mama loves Sara more than us,” I said to Jonathan. I’d told him to wait by the front door because of Fräulein Tinky, who was still having to sit outside. It would be good for her to hear a familiar voice, even if it was just through a closed door, so she didn’t get even more frightened and run away into the woods. Jonathan sat on the wooden floor, his back against the door. The crying was upsetting me so badly that it brought tears to my eyes.
“What do you mean, Hannah?”
“Mama hasn’t said it directly, but I don’t think they want us anymore. They’ve got Sara now and they say she’s perfect.”
“They don’t want us anymore?”
I shake my head.
* * *
Jonathan can’t have forgotten that. And I know he hasn’t because although he doesn’t give me an answer, he flinches. I think he might even be crying, but I’m not sure because I can’t see his face.
“You drew Sara so I would get into trouble, didn’t you? Because I said I couldn’t stand her.”
Now Jonathan makes a noise that sounds like a grunt.
“Everything okay?” Frau Hamstedt asks from the doorway. Her head is turned toward us.
“Yes,” I say, then go on whispering to Jonathan. “I kept saying I was sorry. Don’t you remember? When Papa cried so badly. I knew at once that it was my fault Mama had gone away with Sara. But you couldn’t stand Sara either. That’s how it was, Jonathan.”
He grunts again.
“It was pretty stupid of you to draw her. But even though you’re an idiot, you’re still my brother. That’s why I’m going to tell you something nice now. Our grandfather is really kind. He’s taking me home today. So it’s true. I told you, but you wouldn’t believe me. A promise is a promise and promises don’t get broken.”
Jonathan turns his head toward me, only slightly, and without lifting it from his knees. All I can see is a silly eye, but it’s huge with surprise.
“You have to try hard to be normal again. Do you understand, Jonathan? If you’re not normal we can’t come and fetch you. Then you’ll have to stay here, all on your own.”
He turns his head back, but he nods. That’s a definite nod.
JASMIN
The first time I awoke this morning it was ten to seven, as ever. The voice inside my head was urging me to get up and make breakfast for the children. It had to be on the table at half past seven on the dot. I turned to Kirsten, whose face lay in the muted light of the streetlamp that seeped into the bedroom through the narrow gap beneath the roller blind. Her eyes were closed and her mouth slightly open. I listened as she breathed calmly, in and out. The voice in my head got louder. The children must have breakfast, now. Half past seven: breakfast. What was so difficult to understand about that? The children needed a structured day. I began copying Kirsten’s breathing, in and out, setting it a
gainst the coercion and the voice inside my head. Just breathe, in the same rhythm, in and out. I must have actually nodded off again. It had worked, for the first time. I’d just lain there.
It’s Kirsten’s soft voice that wakes me now, her voice and an unusual brightness I’d long forgotten. I blink. Dust particles are dancing in the sunlight. I sit up. Kirsten has raised the roller blind. Early autumn floods the room. My heartbeats wildly. I smile. You smile from the walls, Lena. I let my gaze wander across the newspaper articles and wonder at how different that familiar picture suddenly looks in the light. It takes me a moment to focus my attention on Kirsten, who’s on the phone in another room, the kitchen probably. I hear her cancel her shift in the club today; she explains it’s a private matter. Her boss seems to be understanding because she thanks him heartily. It’s the same boss she had before she was attacked in the courtyard, the same club where she works behind the bar, the same working hours, the same clientele. After the rape it took Kirsten less than a week to go back and continue working, defiant and determined. At first she would take a taxi home after work, at that uncertain, gray, dangerous hour. But soon afterward she started walking back again, past the same courtyard. I still don’t know how it all pieces together. On the one hand, this strength, this defiance, this determination to carry on. And on the other, the end of our relationship. After the attack I’d asked her why she hadn’t put up a fight—that was stupid and not particularly sensitive, of course.
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