“I’ll ring Mark later,” Grandad said, then disappeared into the cellar.
Grandma is in the laundry room.
She told me that you always have to wash other people’s clothes before you wear them, and that she’s going to wash the donated things in the cardboard box right now so I might be able to put some of them on tomorrow. She wanted to take my dress too, but I held on to it tightly. When she made a funny face, I wanted to tell her that the dress didn’t belong to anybody else and so it didn’t need washing, but then she said, “Fine, you can try it on and we’ll wash it later.” Probably because she didn’t want any more trouble with Grandad. He now knows that Sister Ruth can be my grandma too, if necessary, so Grandma Karin has to pull her socks up and behave well. I think she realizes this because I only had to scream once when she was about to take Fräulein Tinky to the laundry room as well. “But that creature’s totally threadbare and filthy…” She didn’t get any further; my lion voice saved Fräulein Tinky. Although I think that Grandma’s not completely wrong, Fräulein Tinky’s far too weak for the washing machine. So I had to be there for Fräulein Tinky and save her from being washed. Just as Fräulein Tinky was there for me, so often taking the blame when something fell down or tipped over at home, or when something else stupid happened. She spent a whole night sitting outside our front door for me.
Grandad’s in the cellar, Grandma’s in the laundry room and I’m in Mama’s bedroom. The door is slightly open, as Grandad told me it should be.
I’ve already got changed and I look beautiful. I turn around in front of the mirror in the door of the wardrobe. Fräulein Tinky’s lying on Mama’s bed, behind me. “Look, Fräulein Tinky,” I say, spinning around again especially fast just for her, so the bottom of my skirt flies outward.
But Fräulein Tinky just rocks her head wearily from side to side. I sit down beside her and lift her on to my lap.
“This is how we always sat by the wood burner at home. Do you remember, Fräulein Tinky?” I ruffle her head. She’s still very cold and stiff, but that’s no surprise. Maybe she had to sit outside for hours in the box of donations before Grandma finally brought her in. “Have you seen the pretty stars up there?” I say, pointing to the ceiling. “Mama did those for us. She knew we’d come here.” I close one eye and with my finger draw the invisible lines for the Plow in the air.
I pull my legs on to the bed and curl up into a ball with Fräulein Tinky in my arms.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper to her. “It won’t be long now.”
JASMIN
It’s almost seven o’clock already. I don’t open the door until the knocking becomes persistent and I recognize Cham’s voice calling out, “Frau Grass? This is Chief Inspector Frank Giesner.”
He’s brought with him the policeman who took me home last week with my mother. I invite them in.
“Hello, Herr Giesner,” Kirsten says, stepping out of the bathroom and offering her hand to Cham and the other policeman.
Cham says hello to Kirsten and thanks me for having called him and being prepared to see him today. I apologize for not having made myself available yesterday, and I’m grateful when he doesn’t say in front of Kirsten that he tried to reach me on my mobile several times throughout the day. This is another reason why I’ve forced myself to see him today after all. If I continued to ignore him, I reckoned it would only be a matter of time before he turned up at my front door unannounced. Likewise it could only be a matter of time before Kirsten caught me fiddling with my mobile in an attempt to reject his calls. I doubt she would have understood how I could be so determined to lure Maja to my apartment and cut her down to size, but weasel out of assisting with the police investigation. Because the case is me, it’s both of us, Lena. I wish it could just be about you. I want to help you find peace. Help find you. I know you’re counting on me, and I’m trying to draw strength from this. I think of your smile, your photo, that carefree moment when you were happy and had no idea what the two of us would have to go through.
“Let’s sit down,” Kirsten says, making for the sitting room. When Cham follows her and walks past me, I notice the thin green cardboard folder under his left arm. That must be it, the piece of paper with the facial reconstruction.
“It’ll all be very quick, you’ll see,” Kirsten assured me earlier on, to give me the last bit of courage, the spark of effort I still needed to dial Cham’s number. “It’s purely a formality. You’ll look at the picture and identify the man. It’s quite simple: yes, that’s him. And finished. You don’t have to say any more. You put up with that face for four months, Jassy. And you made it. You’ll manage the few seconds Giesner needs for his files.” I really wanted to believe her, but I probably didn’t appear especially convinced, so she added, “Trust me, you’ll feel a good deal better afterward. This is the first step forward for us.” What I heard most clearly in that was for us.
“I’m sure this isn’t easy for you, Frau Grass,” Cham says as he sits beside Kirsten on the sofa and puts the cardboard folder on the coffee table in front of him. I try to ignore him sizing up my disheveled appearance, the same stained sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms baggy at the knees, which I wore for my meeting with Dr. Hamstedt and which at best seemed to confirm that I couldn’t be expected to make much of an effort at the moment. “But I hope you appreciate that we can’t spare you this, unfortunately.”
“It’s all right,” I say, stifling a cry of pain as I sit in my reading chair. “Let’s get it over with, then,” I say, looking at Kirsten who’s giving me nods of encouragement. Cham nods too, then takes the piece of paper from the folder and holds it out to me. I take a deep breath; I breathe to calm my increasing heart rate, my heart that pumps and pushes, expanding its power until I feel it in my whole body rather than just my chest. Then I’m holding the paper in my hands, studying the face, his features. I’m both amazed and terrified. My index finger traces the lines. His picture flashes in my mind, overlapping almost uncannily with the image of him on a sheet of A4 paper, and then everything blurs before my eyes, the image blends with the three-dimensional reality, scraps of memory flare inside my head like shots, tearing me away. It’s a vortex, sucking me in, taking me with it; I screw up my eyes and when I open them again I’m back in the woods.
The accident. Bright colors explode before my eyes. Pain. The ground where I’m lying is cold and hard. Someone is bent over me. His voice: “Shit, are you hurt? Can you hear me?”
I blink weakly, there’s blood in my eye. His face keeps blurring.
“Can you hear me? I’m going to call an ambulance, okay?”
I want to nod, but I can’t. My eyelids flicker.
“You’ve got to stay awake, okay? Hello? Can you hear me?”
“Frau Grass?” a distant voice from another reality asks. It’s Cham.
“Just give her a moment,” another voice urges: Kirsten.
The headlights, they’re blinding me, the pain makes me feel drunk. The man, the driver of the car, is leaning over me. I can vaguely see him put his hand in his coat pocket. “I’m calling for help, okay? The ambulance will be here soon.” I can relax for a moment. If I die now, I’ll be dying in freedom. And this man will have saved me. And I worship it, the face of my rescuer …
“Is that him, Frau Grass?”
Suddenly I notice something else too. A sound, like a swishing through the air. I know this type of sound. I heard it earlier, I made it myself when I took a backswing with the snow globe and sent it flailing through the air. And I know the sound that comes afterward too. Like dropping a watermelon on the floor—bam! That’s what it sounds like when you bash someone’s head in. I blink in horror. At first the driver is still kneeling over me, but when I blink again he collapses. Now his face is right beside mine, so close that I ought to be able to feel his breath on my skin. But I don’t feel anything; he’s not breathing. His eyes are wide open and frozen. I want to scream, but I can’t. Not here, not right now. Somewhere else, yes. The scream ech
oes around my sitting room, mangling the images. I curl up on my reading chair, twitching as if suffering an epileptic fit, everything in convulsion. Kirsten leaps up from the sofa, takes me in her arms. I’m kicking my legs, my face is hot and wet, my skin is burning.
“Jassy! Everything’s all right, you’re safe. You’re at home and I’m here with you. Can you hear me, Jassy?”
“Do you recognize him, Frau Grass?”
Yes, I do recognize him. And I scream—in fear. And I cry—for my rescuer. And I kick—against what this means. And Kirsten holds me tighter.
“Just leave it, Herr Giesner! Can’t you see the state she’s in?”
You’re not well. You need help.
Back. I run. Across the grassed plot of land that surrounds the house and into the neighboring woods. Branches scratch my skin, I can barely see anything in the darkness. There, suddenly, behind me. Was that a crack?
“Is that the man who abducted you, Frau Grass?”
I could have sworn I smelled stew.
I could have sworn I only hit him once.
His face, shreds, red, everything red.
A room without a door handle. For your own security, Frau Grass.
“Breathe, Jassy, nice and calm. I’m here, everything’s all right. Try to breathe.”
It’s purely a formality. You’ll look at the picture and identify the man. It’s quite simple: yes, that’s him. And finished. You don’t have to say any more.
“I’m here with you, Jassy. You don’t have to be afraid. It’s over.”
I blink. I feel Kirsten’s heartbeat, strong and reliable. Her arms holding me tightly. Her warmth. And then I hear my own voice, saying, “Yes, that’s him.”
MATTHIAS
Hannah’s lying on her bed, asleep. She looks like an angel, like my Lenchen. What a picture, spoiled only by the old cuddly toy in her arms, donated by some Tagblatt reader, and the faded dress she’s got on. We didn’t manage to go shopping today, but tomorrow I intend to go to town with Hannah, get her some new clothes and a new toy. Okay, maybe without Hannah, to avoid a scene in the shopping center. But I have to be confident that Karin will be on top of things if I leave the two of them alone at home for a couple of hours. I carefully spread the bed cover over Hannah’s delicate body and whisper, “Goodnight, my darling.”
I cast a final glance at the little sleeping angel, then leave the door just slightly ajar. Karin has gone to see a friend of hers from her yoga course in Gilching, just down the road, presumably to rant about me.
I’m just going down the stairs when I hear my mobile ring from the living room, reminding me that she may have good reason for her resentment. I’ve forgotten to call Mark. I hurry down the last few stairs so the insistent ringing doesn’t wake Hannah.
The screen reads: Gerd Brühling, office.
“Hello?” I say. But before I can get any more words out, Gerd lets rip. He talks of screws loose, lost marbles and me not being all there anymore. I’m a silly old ass, unhinged, useless and dangerous even. I understand the words he’s saying, but not what Gerd’s problem is.
“I assume we’re now over the part where you insult me?” I ask, using the first pause for breath he seems to have taken in his tirade. “So would you be so kind as to tell me what this is all about?”
“You’ve been sounding off to the newspaper about our work!” Gerd pants; his outburst has made him run out of steam. I see him before me, sitting behind his desk, his belly tight beneath his wrongly buttoned-up shirt and his fat face bright red. “The article in today’s Bayerisches Tagblatt!”
“And?”
“For God’s sake,” Gerd snarls, before quoting from today’s paper. “‘Given that the fruitless combined effort of two police authorities, open brackets, Cham and Munich, close brackets, continues to grope sedately in the dark, almost three weeks since the escape of Jasmin G, the woman who was abducted, we regard it as our responsibility as an informative and responsible newspaper to make the public aware that a photofit already exists, which could help identify the suspected perpetrator. The authorities are withholding this, however, for they seem to be shying away from the workload that would result if the public became involved in the process of identifying the hitherto unknown man. An unnamed witness recalls a comment to this effect made by one of the investigating officers: “We would have a flood of leads and it would take us ages to work through them all.” For this reason no attempt is being made to consult the public, even though this may delay the solving of a case, one of the most sensational of the past decades, for the victims and their families.
“‘The unknown man, who was beaten to death by Jasmin G during the course of her escape, is also said to be connected to the case of the Munich party girl, Lena Beck, open brackets, then 23, close brackets. We, the Bayerisches Tagblatt, strongly disapprove of the decision taken by the authorities to withhold important information from the public, which with your help could ultimately lead to the discovery of Lena Beck…’ Can you imagine what it’s like here? Our phones won’t stop ringing—not because some freaks claim to have recognized the guy, but because they want to complain! It’s been like this all day long! Do you think I’ve got nothing better to do? Shouldn’t I be looking for your daughter? Wasn’t that what you wanted me to do? Instead I’ve got to sort this shit out! Look at the time! Can you see how late it is? And I’m still sitting in my office, fielding pointless calls.”
“Somebody’s got to do something—” I growl, but Gerd doesn’t seem to be finished.
“We’re doing everything, Matthias! We’re doing everything we can to find Lena! But it won’t work if you hamper our investigation by turning that tabloid, and with it the whole of Bavaria, against us!”
“What do you want me to say now, Gerd? That I’m sorry you’ve got to do a few hours of overtime just for once? No, I’m not sorry! It’s high time someone gave you lot a kick up the arse! Now you’ve got to deliver, you see, to prevent the public from losing faith in you and the system as a whole!”
“Tell me, is this about your daughter still, or are you just trying to make some sodding point?”
“How dare you?” I bark down the phone. “Shouldn’t you have been round already and shown Karin the photofit, like Giesner said? Shouldn’t you have been outside our front door at eight this morning to”—I give a disdainful sniff—“question people personally connected to the case? Where were you then, eh? If you’re taking the case as seriously as you claim to be? What if Karin had recognized the man? We might know by now where to start looking for Lena!”
Gerd grunts.
“Just tell me one more thing, Matthias. So I can brace myself. Did you also let that fucking editorial team know that Mark Sutthoff came in for a DNA test?”
“He did … what?” I slump on to one of the sofas in our sitting room, by coincidence exactly where Mark sat on Wednesday evening and was given a cup of tea by my wife.
“Well, that’s good.” Gerd sighs with relief. He says goodbye.
“Gerd, no, wait, don’t hang up! I’m sorry I complained to Rogner about you. But you have to tell me why you gave Mark a DNA test.”
“Like hell I do!” Gerd laughs.
“No, Gerd, really! I swear on my granddaughter’s life, I won’t mention it to anyone!”
Gerd says nothing; all I hear for a moment is a slight crackling on the line.
“I’m already regretting having trusted that Rogner again. In gratitude he set a mob of reporters on me when I came home with Hannah from the trauma center.”
Gerd’s still saying nothing; more static on the line.
“Please,” I try again. “Mark paid us a surprise visit two days ago. Although he told us you’d requested his assistance, he didn’t say anything about having to give a DNA sample.”
“Hmm, requested is relative,” Gerd says. After another short pause, he adds, “Swear to me, Matthias. Not a word to anyone.”
“Yes! I mean, no. Not a word, I promise. Now, tell me.”
Gerd sighs once more and for a few seconds I honestly worry that this time he won’t give in, seeing as after that article was published, my trustworthiness must appear about as steadfast as newspaper ink you touch with damp fingers, sweaty with rage. Yes, it’s true. After my conversation with Giesner outside the trauma center, I really had nothing better to do than to call the editorial office of the Bayerisches Tagblatt and air my grievances to Rogner’s assistant about the police’s unsatisfactory efforts. But far too many things have gone wrong in the thirteen years during which the search for Lena ought to have been carried out thoroughly and consistently, especially now that all the pieces of the puzzle are on the table. No one seems to be prepared to make the effort to put them together, and I can’t accept that. How is it possible to have a perpetrator and a crime scene and yet fail to find the victim? How can it be that the most important witness, Frau Grass, has not been interrogated so she finally says what she knows? Why has the hit-and-run driver still not been found, and why have they dug only a yard and a half around the cabin—a pathetic radius—in the hunt for Lena’s body? They ought to have excavated the entire fucking wood! I am actually expecting Gerd to snub me this time. I bet he’s learned something from his obstinate colleague, Giesner, who wouldn’t let me take a picture of the photofit for my wife, not even when I dropped hints about my dicky heart. But it wouldn’t have made much difference in the end. One way or another, I’d have got in touch with the newspaper. The only difference is that I’d have sent them my picture of the photofit rather than whining down the phone. They’d have printed it in today’s edition and maybe the public would have come up with some useful leads.
Fortunately for me, however, Gerd isn’t the stubborn Giesner. Fortunately for me, Gerd is still Gerd, the man who used to be my best friend, my fishing chum, my daughter’s godfather. And so he stumbles again and says, “Okay, then. As you know, as part of our investigation we’re obliged to test for blood relationships, even if the case appears obvious. Just as we had to prove the relationship between Lena and the children. But, you see, there’s a discrepancy.”
Dear Child Page 25