Never Trust a Callboy
Birgit Kluger
Translated by Charlotte Forsdick
“Never Trust a Callboy”
Written By Birgit Kluger
Copyright © 2015 Birgit Kluger
All rights reserved
Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.
www.babelcube.com
Translated by Charlotte Forsdick
Cover Design © 2015 Claudia Toman
Covermotive: © polygraphus und R_lion_O shutterstock.com
“Babelcube Books” and “Babelcube” are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Never Trust a Callboy
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
Never Trust a Callboy
a crime novel by Birgit Kluger
1
It's raining. Again! I'm still not really awake as these thoughts wander through my head, a head that feels as if it were filled with fog. Damn sleeping pills.
"You should stop, Tamara," I mutter to myself. "It isn’t healthy in the long run." Wearily I close my eyes. Talking to myself is exhausting, even sleeping is exhausting. With a sigh I turn over; just five more minutes.
The rain is still drumming quietly on the windowpane when I awake again. I have to get up. I allow the thought to slowly dissolve into my semi-consciousness without much enthusiasm. It doesn’t help, but at some point I have to start the day.
With half-closed eyes I feel my way into the bathroom. Once inside I avoid looking in the mirror, because I can guess what I look like. Instead, I splash my face with plenty of cold water. That usually dispels the white fog that settles into my brain after taking sleeping tablets. For the last two weeks I’ve been unable to get any rest at night without the harmless looking little pills. If this continues, I’ll turn into a pharma junkie.
But it’s time it was over! Last night, when I could think more clearly, I decided to put an end to the constant bickering between my future husband Ron and my mother. It’s time that the two of them started behaving like adults. It is beyond me, as yet, how exactly I’m going to achieve this. As our wedding draws nearer, the mood between the two of them grows more and more tense. When I'm not busy appeasing their bad tempers, I spend my time getting annoyed about the fact that neither of them are the least bit interested in how I imagined the most beautiful day of my life would be. It’s threatening to turn into my worst nightmare! No wonder I can no longer sleep.
My thoughts are interrupted by someone ringing the doorbell, which I decide to ignore. I don’t care who it is. I’m not properly dressed, nor do I have my make up on. I don’t even want to think about the mess that prevails throughout the whole house. Ron has been on a business trip since yesterday, and his trips always lead to chaos with frightening speed. I don't know how it happens, but he’s barely out the door before all the rooms are transformed into battlegrounds littered with my belongings.
Once more the melodic jingle of the doorbell sounds, which is clearly too loud for this time of day, and cuts through my confusing thoughts. It can only be a madman! Eventually he will realize that no one is at home. Determined, I reach for my make up and start to transform my face into a flawless mask just as someone starts hammering at the door. This uninvited visitor is getting on my nerves. Before I have time to slam the bathroom door shut in order to finally get some peace, fateful words reach me: "Police. Open up!"
The police? My hand freezes mid movement. This can't be good. Hopefully nothing has happened to Ron, or my mother... or are they here because of me? The thought sinks in like a dark shadow on my soul. Maybe it would be best if I pretend I’m not at home. It's been a long time since I had problems with the police, but even now I get a queasy feeling in my stomach when I see a police officer, even from afar. "Open up!"
Damn. It sounds serious. Reluctantly, I start to move. One thing is certain: at this time of day, it can only be bad news.
"Just a second, I'm coming." I call out, to stop them from demolishing the front door in their enthusiasm. I curse inwardly as I hasten down the stairs. Couldn’t they have come a few minutes later? At least then I would have had long enough to put something halfway decent on, instead of a t-shirt filled with holes and old jogging pants.
Once downstairs, I start working on the many bolts and locks which hold our front door shut. At last the final lock opens.
Without thinking I wrench open the door.
Promptly, the shrill sound of the alarm system assaults my eardrums.
"Damn it!"
Hastily I enter the code, putting an end to the noise.
"I'm sorry, it happens to me all the time." With an apologetic smile I turn around to face the Police Officers. Just the sight of their uniforms is enough to make my heart race in my chest.
"Mrs. Krämer?" asks the older of the two officers. With his white bushy beard he looks a bit like Santa Claus. A Santa Claus who got lost and stumbled into the wrong season.
"Not yet," I want to say, but I don’t get the chance, because he has already continued talking.
"We received an emergency call."
"An emergency?"
"Yes, a call came in to the emergency dispatch center. An anonymous caller reported a burglary in your home."
“A burglary?” I sound like his echo. It takes a moment before the meaning of his words sinks in, and then I get really angry. Which idiot called the police? I am not up to jokes this early in the morning, especially not when I have to face two police officers without my make-up. To be without make up would actually be better than my current condition: if I remember correctly, I had just begun to cover one half of my face with foundation, while the other is still in its pale, sleep deprived state. I don’t even want to think about the mess my hair must be in.
"There’s no burglar here," I say. "Believe me. I would know if someone had tried to break in. This house is better protected than a maximum security prison, as you’ve seen." With a forced smile I gesture towards the number pad I just used.
"I think it would be better if we check everything is alright for ourselves."
Over my dead body.
"No, that's not necessary. It’s really not. My husband has equipped our house with the most up-to-date safety measures. Nobody enters without us noticing. Someone’s just playing a joke. Thank you for your diligence though. I really appreciate it."
"Well okay then. We’re sorry to have disturbed you." The policeman looks at me doubtfully, but I don’t budge. I’m only letting the two of them in if they have a search warrant. Evidently they can see the determination on my face, because after a few seconds the officer tips his cap and turns around.
They're gone! With a loud sigh I close the door and lean back against the wall. My heartbeat begins to slow down, gradually reaching a pace that could almost be considered normal.
A while ago I
had a few problems with the police. At the time I was quite the political activist and committed to campaigning for the environment, more equitable school policies and the third world. But it brought me nothing but trouble with law enforcement, and with my father. Suddenly the memory of my arrest and temporary detention flashes before my eyes, at the time it caused quite a fuss in the media.
On its own that wouldn’t have been so bad. What was really bad though, was the way my friends started treating me as an outsider after they found out, through media coverage, how wealthy my parents are. Suddenly, I was the spoiled little rich girl who was engaged with political activism out of boredom.
It was not the first time in my life that I was confronted with this attitude. In school my classmates rejected me just because of my family’s money. But I thought I’d learned over the years how to deal with such prejudice.
And then there’s my father, whose reaction to my arrest I was not prepared for. Although I should have known. Even now his behavior still feels like a betrayal. With a new sense of purpose, I push myself off the wall, and try to expel all thoughts of him from my mind.
Coffee! I desperately need caffeine to help me get over the unfortunate start to the day. With that in mind, I set off down the long hallway to the kitchen.
Unfortunately I can't follow through with my plans, because sitting at the breakfast bar which separates the kitchen from the living room, is a stranger.
I halt abruptly as I see him, letting out a startled cry. Who is that? And more importantly, what's he doing here?
The intruder ignores me, which isn’t surprising, because he appears to be asleep. His head is lying in a very strange position on the polished surface of the counter. But there's something else...
A dark, conspicuous stain is clearly visible on his bright jacket. I know that rusty color, but I keep trying to find a plausible explanation all the same. Maybe he was leaning on a dirty wall and didn’t notice that his jacket had gotten dirty. Maybe ... is he dead?
He looks like he’s dead. Very dead.
I take a hesitant step towards him.
"Are you okay?" My words come out in a cautious whisper; he definitely didn’t hear me. With a small cough I try again. "Hello? Are you awake?"
Dumb question. I've never seen anyone look less awake. Not to mention, lifeless. Then I notice his eyes. He’s staring rigidly straight ahead, at the ceiling, as if there was something fascinating to see there. So fascinating that he can’t tear his eyes away from it.
Beads of sweat start to form on my forehead. Cold sweat. My heart begins to race, and I notice I’m starting to hyperventilate, because one thing is clear: my first guess was right. The stranger, who has somehow managed to get into our home is not just dead. No, he met his death suddenly and unwillingly. Unless of course he cut a hole in the back of his jacket himself. A jacket, that’s full of blood.
I close my eyes in an attempt to calm myself down. I try some deep breaths. No chance. I’m just happy that I can manage to squeeze air into my lungs. I have to call the police. Right! I managed to avoid going to prison for assault, maybe now I’ll go to prison for murder instead.
Just the thought of an interrogation causes my legs to give way like dried leaves.
After a while I manage to reassure myself enough to get up and stagger to the phone, which is on a small table in the hallway. I’m about to type in the emergency number as the words that I said to the officers shoot through my head: "Nobody enters without us noticing. This house is better protected than a maximum security prison.”
My hand drops, still holding the receiver. If I call the police now they’ll think I did it.
2
Maybe I was wrong! It was probably a hallucination brought on by the sleeping pills. I just have to take a look at the never-ending list of side effects listed on the packet, which I still haven’t read. I’d bet that delusions are listed as one of the many horrible consequences of taking the stuff for a long time. Exactly. That’ll be it.
I never would have guessed I could be so delighted to be suffering from a mental disorder. With new found courage I hurry back along the corridor. I can't wait to clear up this misunderstanding and get it out of my life. I should have thought of it in the first place. I will never take another sleeping tablet. Never.
Damn! The stranger, who somehow managed to get himself killed and then find his way into my house, is still sitting on a bar stool in my kitchen.
"What on earth do I do now?" I yell at the dead man. But of course he doesn’t answer me.
I feel dizzy all of a sudden. With a groan I let myself sink down onto the kitchen floor. I don’t have the strength to stand up and do what needs to be done; namely, call the police and explain to them why exactly I told them everything was okay, when it clearly isn’t. I couldn’t have known that someone had in fact broken into my house. The alarm system was on! I know it was. In fact, I had to disable it before I opened the door.
So someone had to have entered the house and left again without setting it off, someone who knew the code. And there are only three people who know it, Ron, my mother, and me.
Ron .... or me! One of us committed murder, and I'm pretty sure I didn't do it. Which only leaves one possibility: Ron. Unless my mother opened her big mouth and told someone the code. No. Impossible. My mother may like to talk, a lot, but she would never do that.
I shake my head trying to dislodge these thoughts. Ron is as incapable of committing murder as I am, or my mother. There must be another explanation for all of this.
Do I know this man at all? So far I’ve only looked at the stranger from a couple of meters away. I assumed automatically that I didn't know him. But what if that's not true? He’s lying face down on the counter, so it’s not easy to tell.
I carefully put one foot in front of the other and creep up on him. A chill runs down my spine. I’ve never seen a dead body before.
As I get closer to him I move even more quietly.
Quieter still. I hold my breath. He’s dead, he can do nothing more to me. But despite that still I’m afraid.
I edge even closer.
Just a bit more and then ... I’m standing right in front of him. I can see that he has blue eyes. A beautiful, dark blue, which creates an unusual contrast with his black hair. His mouth is slightly open, as if he wants to say something.
I've never seen this man before in my life.
How can this have happened, without me noticing anything?
"What should I do?" I shake my head at a loss and take a few steps backwards, without averting my eyes from him, just in case he suddenly moves. In case he lunges at me, like you see in horror films. No! It’s not going to happen to me. I'm not so stupid as to turn my back on someone sitting supposedly dead on my bar stool.
Suddenly I have a thought that makes everything so much worse, causing a feeling of terror to hit me like a punch in the gut.
What if the killer is still in the house? What if he’s waiting to kill me too?
I close my eyes, trying to concentrate on my breathing. I have to stop myself shaking, and I don't want to throw up. Inhale, exhale. Inhale... It’s not so hard. After all, I have been doing it all my life. Inhale, exhale.
3
The door of the guest room hits the wall with a loud crash and bounces back again. "Ow!" My angry exclamation is accompanied by a loud bang. I stare at the gun I’ve just pulled out of Ron's bedside table in puzzlement. This thing is loaded! And the safety is off!
How can Ron be so irresponsible as to leave a weapon lying around that can go off at any time?
"Bloody idiot."
With a grimace, I rub my arm, which hurts from where the door just hit me. I can see a bruise forming. Then my eyes wander down to my feet, to the spot where the gun is now lying. Damn! If I'm not careful I’ll shoot my toes off. I have no idea how to secure the thing. Even so I’d better pick it up. I hold the gun pointing upwards, so that at the worst it will only do damage to the ceiling. Then I e
nter the room slowly.
My eyes search the room, pausing briefly to look at the hole I just shot in the wall. Perhaps it would be best to hang a picture there. Then I look under the bed and in the wardrobes, anywhere someone could hide. Nothing. Everything is exactly as it should be, except for the hole in the wall.
Half an hour later it is clear that there is nobody in the house except for me, and the dead man of course. Not even a Lilliputian would have escaped my thoroughness. After the little incident with the pistol, I was a lot more careful. I opened all the other doors, but dispensed with the Lara Croft impression. The basement was the worst. There are not only a lot of dark corners, but also a lot of spiders.
With a deep breath I lean against the wall in the hallway and close my eyes. At least now I know that the murderer is no longer in the house. But another question remains: who called the police, and more importantly, why?
The thought creeps through my head like a cold shiver. But that's not all. It is followed by another, much more terrible, idea. What if Ron's gun is the murder weapon?
The whole damn thing is now covered with my fingerprints.
I try once again to order my thoughts. Because I need to get this mess under control.
So... Why is it a good idea to call the police? Because that's what you do when you find a corpse. For a few minutes I rack my brain for further arguments.
Well then, what’s the counterargument? It is not a good idea to call the police because:
I had no idea that there was a stranger in our house as officers stood before my door and I told them, quite emphatically, that I was alone in the house.
I have no idea how this man got into our house.
And I don't know who is responsible for the death of my uninvited visitor.
Okay, maybe it's still too early to go to the police with this problem.
4
I walk through the wet grass towards the back corner of our property. It’s taken me a while to calm down, but I’ve just about pulled myself together instead of sitting on the floor, cowering against the wall throwing my guts up.
Never Trust a Callboy Page 1