Strangers on a Bridge

by Louise Mangos

  ‘No… I came by bus.’

  ‘Then I can take you home. It’s no trouble for me. It’s on my way. I often drive through Aegeri. There’s always a chance I might see you.’

  He smiled and a chill went through me. It was still there, his desire.

  ‘Gerry, I…’

  ‘It’s all right. Come on… lighten up. I’ll drop you at home, okay?’

  My legs were tired, and I was grateful not to have to walk to the bus stop. Instead we made our way to a red Golf in the car park. Gerry opened the hatchback and changed his boots, placing them neatly in a sports bag. For a young man, I thought he had so much confidence, and hoped it wouldn’t be long before my own boys displayed this type of self-sufficiency. He pulled out a dry T-shirt, and I felt my own shirt, damp at the small of my back. He pulled his ski top off, and a tiny cloud of steam drifted from his torso. My gaze was transfixed by the sinewy muscles in his arms and shoulders, tapering to a slim waist. As he hauled the dry shirt over his head, my knees went weak.

  It was my undoing.

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  The distant, persistent quacking of a restless duck at the lakeside woke me, ever the light sleeper. An almost full moon shone through the open window, lighting Gerry’s chest. The window creaked slightly with the warm breeze that still blew across the lake.

  Lunacy and irrationality.

  My temples pounded and the cloying aroma of wine swam about my head.

  The cover had slipped off Gerry’s body, which was half-turned towards me. His arm reached unconsciously across the mattress, causing my heartbeat to quicken. Those hands, so soft on my body only hours before. His tongue, opening me like a delicate flower for the first time. Bringing me to pleasure for so long, tears flowed at the exquisiteness of it, before he filled me, claiming a deep part of me I was sure no one else had ever touched, not even Simon.

  The moon cast an ethereal glow on his skin, its colour-leaching pall accentuating the creamy smoothness of youth. I wanted to reach out and touch the taut, muscular stomach, but I was afraid to wake him. It was as though I was hallucinating. The smugness of some teenage reverie.

  But this was not a dream.

  He was like a young god, in the confidence of youth. I could not have known what he had experienced before me, but his passion made me blush, thinking about it. This fleeting time was an indulgence, to be studying him so unabashedly without him being aware. My fingers hovered above the strong deltoid muscle of his shoulder. With alcohol still swimming minnows through my brain, I refused to allow guilt to ruin this moment, this privilege.

  My hand stopped mid-air. This had been the test. The test of resistance. And I had failed miserably. I reluctantly pulled my thoughts back to Simon, and rolled onto my back. There were so many things Simon must never know.

  It was crazy to think that anything long term could endure with Gerry.

  When we had stopped outside my studio earlier, I’d automatically invited him in. My thirst still raged, but instead of the water my body needed, we drank wine, first one bottle of Chablis from my fridge, and then a Spanish Rioja he had rolling around in his car. On an empty stomach, and with the fundamental need for nurturing and attention, I sipped from his cup. Enough of it for me to lose any sense of judgement.

  The breeze caused the window to swing wide and then thud gently into its frame. Gerry stirred. He placed a hand on my thigh and I thought how adult the gesture seemed. Something Simon might have done. It was hard to believe this young man was only a dozen years older than Leon.

  ‘Hey, beautiful.’

  Gerry propped himself up on his elbow and drew circles with the tip of his finger on my abdomen, sending delicious shivers down my body.

  ‘Alice, what is that word you use to describe something said that you don’t mean, or something that happens that is not as it seems, and is the opposite of what you expect? In science we use the word paradox.’

  ‘We use that word too. Are you thinking of irony? What do you find ironic, Gerry?’

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear.

  ‘That my father wanted you all that time, but could never have you. And that he would never really have known you, never have had you so completely in this way. I have done this for him. It’s like a legacy. What I have done for him.’

  I swallowed and shivered as the breeze grazed my skin. He had done this for him? He must have meant he had done this instead of him. I remained silent and he continued.

  ‘This is so pure, this thing. We are standing on the precipice of truth, Alice. I have at last possessed what my father never could. And I know there is a part of his journey that you have also been on. I know you have been there. It is a journey I hope never to take, under your loving guidance. But you must believe me when I say, my love, I will not let you fall.’

  I wondered what journey he was talking about. To the bridge?

  How naive I had been to think that sleeping with this young man, securing a place in his heart, would quash the suspicions and uncertainty in his mind. I was terrified he meant his father’s final journey into the forest. I wasn’t sure whether he had doubts, or whether there was an alternative agenda.

  That we both stood on the precipice of truth was evident. I was now too close to the edge to shout out loud, for fear of losing my balance and falling. As long as I did what he wanted, I was sure Gerry would save me. By giving myself so completely to him, I was sure my family would be safe.

  But when I woke in the morning, the enormity of what I had done pounded on my conscience as painfully as my hangover. Hot tears pressed at my eyes, and scant relief came from their spilling onto the pillow as I held my head.

  I couldn’t stop crying, although I knew I must. I couldn’t let Gerry think I regretted this. I needed him on my side more than ever.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  APRIL

  They came to my studio, two of them in a car, and politely insisted that now would be a good time to go to the police station in Zug to discuss some issues. I was confused, but I still believed Gerry would save me. He knew now, more than anyone, even Simon, how his father had made my life a wretched hell. It was almost a year ago to the day that I had talked Manfred off the Tobel Bridge.

  I initially thought it was ridiculous that I was being arrested. Manfred’s death was a clear-cut case of suicide. He’d finally achieved what he set out to do that Sunday last spring. His son, Gerry, would be my character reference and my alibi. He would be my life support. I even believed he would lie for me.

  In the cantonal police administration block I was made to wait in a room that looked like another office. I couldn’t run away now. We were four floors up, but the windows were closed. The only way out was through the reception into the stairwell. The automatic glass door leading there required the swiping of a keycard to open it. It was a far cry from Müller’s office downstairs.

  When they asked me to put my hair in a ponytail, I complied with puzzlement. I thought they were going to perform some test on my eyes, or take a DNA swab. They asked me to step into the office next door, where a large-bellied man sat in an office chair, swivelling from side to side. He didn’t look like a lab assistant. He was dressed in green camouflage trousers and wore a multipocketed jacket. I was sure I’d never seen him before. But as he nodded first at me and then at another policeman near the desk, he said gruffly ‘S’isch ihr’ – It’s her – and I realised this had been a makeshift identity parade. If I’d put a colleague next to him with a thin, tatty cigar in his mouth, I’d have known immediately it was the fisherman who’d said hello to me by the lake on that last hike.

  I waited another hour before a tall, thin man carrying a bike helmet was led into the room and did the same thing. He walked behind me, looked at my distinctive wild curls clutched back into the ponytail, and said the same thing as the fisherman.

  Shortly afterwards they asked me to remove the band from my hair and a woman came in I didn’t recognise. Until the officer ushered her out and I
heard a faint ‘Danke, Frau Steinmann…’ in the corridor.

  This confirmed the first of my many lies to the police. That I hadn’t been where I said I was hiking on the afternoon of Manfred’s death. And they now knew I’d been in his apartment.

  The courtroom was a benign, pale-grey space. Nothing like the wooden-clad, opulently historic chambers of English films and television programmes. A judge asked for Gerry to be present. This was an unusual digression from the norm. The Swiss system was not the same as in the UK. Witness reports were usually already incorporated into the public prosecutor’s report, and it was up to the judges to discuss the case and come up with their verdict. In effect, they were much like a jury themselves.

  I turned to my court-appointed lawyer, Herr Blattmann, with silent curiosity. He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘They must need to reconfirm or discuss something they have seen in their report. It happens sometimes.’

  I had expected to see Gerry sitting in the courtroom anyway, but I didn’t want him to distract me. I was sure his contribution to the interviews as a witness had cleared me of any suspicion. He’d promised me he ‘would not let me fall’.

  Despite this alteration to the programme, their request for Gerry to take the ‘stand’ was delivered in a kind of bored monotone. He must have been somewhere in the vicinity of the courtroom, perhaps waiting in the hallway, and he sauntered in as though late to a lecture. He didn’t actually have to stand up. The stand was a plastic tube chair like the ones we were all sitting on, placed like an afterthought a short distance from where the judges were sitting. A jug of water and a glass were placed on the table within arm’s reach.

  Although my heart was now racing, there was an understated lack of drama surrounding this unusual case of Tötungsdelikt – homicide.

  Blattmann stretched his neck out of the collar of his shirt, as though he was unaccustomed to wearing a tie, and glanced sideways at me with a nervous smile. I thought he’d done a pretty good job so far, but how would I really have known? I’d only understood half of what was going on. And I mustn’t forget I had blatantly lied to him as well. Everyone had had a veritable dose of my deceit.

  Every now and then one of the five judges at the table asked me in broken English if I was able to follow the proceedings, as though this was not about me, but someone I had accompanied here. Blattmann instructed me to nod and say yes. It wouldn’t go down well if they had to constantly clarify everything to me.

  Gerry took his seat and leaned back, crossing one ankle over his other leg. He glanced around the room and realised the casualness of his pose, and planted his feet firmly back on the floor. As his gaze fixed on me, my heartbeat increased and I awarded him the slightest of smiles. A smile I hoped conveyed positive – yes, even loving – thoughts to him. I knew Simon was sitting at the back of the courtroom, but he could not see my face.

  My cheeks reddened, though, as I realised Simon would be able to see the intense stare Gerry now gave me. His look still flipped my stomach, and I blushed harder, ashamed of the sensation in the public courtroom.

  But I knew Simon didn’t realise it was Gerry who would save me. Having him witness the intensity of Gerry’s gaze was a small price to pay for the protection I’d afforded my husband and the boys.

  This was crunch time. I knew there would be something Gerry could do, because I thought he believed we would be together. Whatever happened, after this trial, things would never be the same.

  One of the judges asked Gerry a question, and he replied in a laconic voice. I reflected he might be a university professor one day, and pride inexplicably bloomed in my chest.

  I was a little confused that he didn’t speak High German for my benefit; he knew I would find it easier to follow. I was suddenly finding it difficult to understand him, and as he continued to recount his version of events and answer the judges’ questions, Blattmann began to fidget beside me. Gerry said something the lawyer was uncomfortable with, and I wasn’t sure what. Once or twice Blattmann raised his pencil, cleared his throat, and then looked at me with blatant disbelief, his lower jaw hanging, lip caught on his teeth.

  My head went cold, panic set in and I strained harder to understand what Gerry was saying. I saw everything happening from the end of a long tunnel, and my breath came in little pants. Two of the judges stared at me with frowns, while the three others stared at Gerry with raised eyebrows. It was then that I realised he was not following the script.

  He was no longer looking at me and began to speak faster, as though he should get it all out before he lost confidence. Although I thought it was unlikely he would lose confidence. At that moment he was the most self-assured young man I had ever seen.

  I suddenly realised I’d been getting all the messages wrong.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  I wanted to yell, ‘What the hell are you doing? What do you think you are saying?’

  Instead, a panicked ‘No, no, no…’ tumbled out of my mouth.

  Herr Blattmann put a hand on my arm. I wasn’t sure whether I would be held in contempt of court, whether contempt even existed in a court of law that looked more like a corporate conference room in the middle of the safest country in Europe.

  Before I knew it, Gerry was ushered out, with the instruction that he should stay in the building. He would most likely be required again to give evidence. To give evidence? What were they saying? To give evidence against me?

  The public prosecutor was instructing the judges to refer to their reports on certain pages. I saw clipped articles of evidence and coloured photos of bags, including my favourite coffee-coloured camisole top, which, somehow, had both Manfred’s and my DNA woven into it. I heard the word ‘Sperma’ and it made me sick to wonder what he had done with the article of clothing. It was then evident that Manfred hadn’t taken it from my washing line, but must have taken it from my dirty laundry basket with evidence of me all over it. And they had found it in Manfred’s apartment, along with one of my hair scrunchies and my fingerprints, which were all over his door handles and kitchen furniture.

  They did end up taking a DNA swab from me later that day in the police station, to support not only the match on the camisole, but also some hairs found on Manfred’s shirt. At the time I’d thought it was routine. As things began to unravel before me, I realised no one was interested in the fact that Manfred had been in my home, had sat in my car, had sought access to me for many months, and would have potentially touched many of my things with traces of my DNA.

  If only I’d known, I should have declared that camisole stolen many months ago as Schmid originally suggested. It might have protected me. Except for what came next.

  I kept thinking, thank God I hadn’t ended up agreeing to the sedatives my GP wanted to prescribe. I wasn’t that stupid. There was a pharmacy report. But it wasn’t from my doctor. It was from the medics’ organisation at the Lausanne marathon. A volunteer remembered giving me a box of Co-Dafalgan. I was the last person seen for medical intervention after the race. But what I hadn’t realised was that the ‘Co’ stood for Codeine, and that this was a medication not available over the counter in Switzerland. But it had been in my bathroom cabinet in my studio.

  It was one of those things anyone might keep in case of the occasional headache or menstrual cramps. And the only person who had been in there apart from me was Gerry. I swallowed. According to the evidence report, two of the blister packs were missing from the box. Doses and reports were compared. A pharmacist’s report revealed it was possibly the Codeine keeping Manfred asleep, rather than the mixture of lithium and alcohol, that had killed him. The cold probably claimed him in the end, after all.

  Back in November, I hadn’t counted on such a detailed autopsy. But then again I hadn’t thought I’d used anything requiring a prescription. Perhaps I’d concentrated too hard on other things, a result of too many old detective movies where fingerprints were the most damning evidence. Of course, a warrant to look through my studio would have quickly
revealed the medication. They had already seized a number of items from the farmhouse.

  But I also hadn’t counted on Gerry staying with me, hadn’t counted on him going through my bathroom cabinet.

  It felt strange to learn he was playing detective all along, in order to seek the truth about his father’s death. His suspicions had grown despite my attempts to allay his fears. I almost felt sorry for him. He must surely have been tormented. He could not have made love to me like that, looked at me like that, without some regret about his final decision. He must always have known, deep down, our relationship could never go anywhere. Or was it that, once he’d learned I’d been in his father’s apartment, he thought we might have slept together? It tied in with another witness report from a waitress at the Lido Café stating that Manfred and I had been seen drinking coffee together the year before. Was it jealousy that had triggered the madness?

  Although my heart ached with the betrayal, I could hardly ignore the irony.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  While my head was lowered, there was a commotion in the corridor, voices rising to an angry level. My eyes had been focused on my hands in my lap, twisting the wedding ring on my finger, and I lifted my head to see two journalists rushing to the door. I looked behind me to where Simon had been sitting and saw his empty chair. He must have taken a break to go to the bathroom or get some air. The thought that the strain for him had long since started to take effect made my chest ache.

  Gerry’s voice punctuated the open door, unseen in the hallway.

  ‘But she killed my father!’ he yelled, and I blanched, as though my guilt had only just been precisely identified, as though he was the presiding judge in my trial.

  ‘So you twist her mind, her heart – what for? To make her confess? If you knew it all along, why did you continue such a farce? Don’t you think she’s been through enough torture at the hands of your sick father? You’re a bigger liar than she is. Such deceitful tactics. You are despicable.’