The Lie

by Petra Hammesfahr

  “Nadia?” Michael shouted.

  “Tell your husband to restrain himself,” Zurkeulen said. “Otherwise I won’t be able to guarantee that he’ll survive the next few minutes. Nor the lady outside.” As he said that, he also drew a gun out of his jacket and pointed to the door onto the landing with it.

  Lilo, she thought, as she called out, “It’s OK, love.” Then she stammered, “What do you want. I haven’t got six million, for goodness’ sake.”

  “I know,” said Zurkeulen. “But perhaps you can get hold of that amount if you’re prepared to come with me. Ramon will keep your husband company until we’re back. And if you’re both sensible, no one will get hurt.”

  He was going to go with her to 83 Antoniterweg, he explained, keeping his eyes fixed on her face as he said the address. He appeared to be looking for some specific reaction. But whatever he was waiting for, she couldn’t provide it. Eighty-three Antoniterweg, it meant nothing to her. She’d deleted the file card too quickly in September.

  “And the name Philip Hardenberg?” Zurkeulen asked.

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “That’s a pity,” said Zurkeulen. “Herr Hardenberg also claimed he didn’t know anyone with your name.”

  By this time she was calmer, though not free from fear, quite the contrary. Inside her chest, everything seemed to have gone numb, just her brain was working, but that with a strange clarity. “Why’s it a pity?” she asked. “I don’t know the man.”

  Zurkeulen’s smile broadened. “Herr Hardenberg or, rather, his partner had second thoughts.” He finally took his hand off her breast. The pain remained. “Unfortunately I’m in no position to assess the accuracy of her change of mind. For that reason I suggest you get dressed and we’ll go and pay her a visit together.”

  She hated the very thought of getting out of bed with his eyes on her and going to the dressing room, where Ramon was waiting. At the same time that was the one place she wanted to go. Ramon was standing close behind the door, his gun aimed at Michael. Michael was leaning with his back against one of the mirrors, wearing a bathrobe with large patch pockets. His cheek and lips showed the marks of Zurkeulen’s hand. He’d wiped the blood off. He didn’t take his eyes off her. He said nothing, just followed every one of her movements, making it easier for her.

  She took some underwear out of one of the cupboard drawers and put it on, ignoring Ramon’s nauseating grin, got a pair of trousers and said, “I’m going to put a pullover on, it’s cold outside.”

  Michael nodded, following her hands with his eyes. It was only a water pistol, a useless toy. But that wasn’t obvious at first sight. The chunky black gun was in the middle of a pile of pullovers. Michael closed his eyes in horror when she picked up the top three and took one out of the drawer. Then he had himself back under control again and managed to give his look of alarm a plausible explanation. “I’m not letting that guy take you with him.”

  He pulled her to him, positioning their bodies in such a way that Ramon couldn’t see him slip his hand into the drawer. He gave a start of surprise. The weight must have told him what he was holding. And he hadn’t seen Zurkeulen’s gun. “Be sensible,” she said. “They’re both armed. We have to do what they ask.”

  He understood. The water pistol disappeared in the left-hand pocket of his bathrobe. “OK,” he muttered, moving away from her and letting his arm hang down beside the pocket. He looked harmless, defeated.

  Zurkeulen was already out on the landing when she came back into the bedroom. He waved her over. He’d put the gun back in his jacket pocket. She came out and almost stumbled over Andrea, who was lying on her stomach, her arm over her face. As she passed, it was impossible to say whether she’d been injured or in what way. But her shoulders were twitching so she wasn’t dead, thank God. Zurkeulen made her lead the way down the stairs and followed close behind.

  “Take the jacket, Nadia,” Michael shouted from the dressing room. “It really is cold.”

  Zurkeulen gave a mocking smile. She saw it as she quickly looked back. “If anything happens to my husband…” she said.

  “Nothing’s going to happen to him,” Zurkeulen promised. “As long as he does nothing to provoke Ramon.”

  Michael called out again, telling her to take the jacket. She felt there was something urgent about his tone. There was only the leather jacket in the closet. And underneath the jacket was the alarm with all the buttons. Zurkeulen kept his eyes on her hands as she went to get the jacket. She didn’t go too close to the box, just took the jacket off the hanger and slipped it on. It must have belonged to Nadia, it fitted perfectly. Zurkeulen gestured towards the front door.

  The street was empty, the nearby houses dark. The street lamps made pools of glittering light on the damp tarmac. No one noticed anything, not even Eleanor Ravatzky’s dog. The black limousine was in the drive. Zurkeulen unlocked the doors, waited until she was settled in the front passenger seat, then got in himself. The engine made a soft hum as the car drove almost silently out into the street.

  Something was digging into her hip. There must be some object in the right pocket of her jacket, the seat belt was pressing it against her hipbone. She passed her hand over it and felt a longish object under her fingers.

  Zurkeulen noticed. “Lift your hands up,” he demanded, as he pulled up at the side of the road. Then he felt in her jacket pocket and took the object out. It was a cigarette lighter, fairly large, with a firm’s logo on the side. In the left pocket was a slim cigarette case. He put them in her hands. “I must ask you not to smoke in my car.”

  “I gave up some time ago,” she said. “I’m pregnant.” Why she said that, whether she hoped it might make him treat her more gently, she couldn’t say. Men like Zurkeulen knew no mercy. He was sitting at the wheel like a stone statue, cold, stiff and silent. She almost wished he’d asked who she really was. And perhaps realized that they’d both been taken for a ride. But if not even Nadia had managed to stay alive…

  On the other hand, she wasn’t Nadia and she’d already managed to get out of one apparently hopeless situation. The two awful days in the abandoned factory after the second bank robbery suddenly took on meaning. Dieter’s opinion that she occasionally tended to wildly overestimate her own abilities was neither here nor there. It might be crazy to imagine she could somehow outwit Zurkeulen, escape and rescue Michael and Andrea, but it was precisely that idea which kept her from slumping down listlessly in her seat.

  She wondered whether it would help to start a conversation. He must know that she’d lied and Helga had told the truth. She herself had shown Ramon that she knew Alfo Investment. Even though she couldn’t say for sure at what point the grey car had started to tail the Alfa, there was only one place he could have picked it up and that was the underground car park of Gerler House. Should she tell him her marriage had broken down and that she’d already discussed getting an apartment with an estate agent’s, Behringer and Partners? What would be the point? After the way Michael had reacted, he would hardly believe her. And Hardenberg would presumably render anything she did in that direction futile.

  He accelerated when they were on the autobahn. Her thoughts went back to the house. Would Michael have any chance? With a water pistol against Ramon’s gun? Or would he rather not take any risks so as not to endanger her? And Andrea? She’d been crying, though silently, what in Heaven’s name had they done to her? Or to little Pascal? Or to Andrea’s husband, if she had one? She’d also mentioned a grandmother.

  The suburbs were approaching far too quickly. If she’d been the only one involved, she’d have tried using her fists, her teeth, holding the cigarette lighter to his hair, even at the risk of it ending up with two dead bodies being recovered from a crashed car. But there were two other lives to consider. Even if it had just been Michael alone, she wouldn’t have taken the slightest risk. She played with the useless lighter in her lap. It came apart and she thought she’d broken it. But it wasn’t broken, it was a knife. A thin, na
rrow blade attached to a plastic ring that formed the bottom of an ordinary plastic disposable lighter. The urgency in Michael’s voice suddenly made sense.

  Zurkeulen was staring concentratedly into the darkness of the autobahn exit. She pushed the blade back in as the car swung into the long curve. He slowed down and turned off to the right. On the right-hand side were detached houses. Again he turned off. Antoniterweg she read, a blue sign on a white wall. They passed large houses with extensive gardens. Feeling with her fingers, she pulled the plastic ring out of the lighter in her lap. Zurkeulen was looking ahead, she out of the side window. Number fifty-three. There were several building sites on the other side of the road. The thin, narrow blade was almost completely hidden in her hand.

  Number seventy-five. The car slowed down and stopped outside number seventy-nine. “You lead the way,” he said, pointing to the car door, “I would like to stay in the background initially. And it would be sensible if you didn’t indicate my presence to Herr Hardenberg. I would like you to allow me to see you greet each other in a relaxed manner. It could turn out to be highly beneficial for your future.

  Whatever he was promising, he couldn’t afford any witnesses, that much was clear. When she didn’t move, he leaned over and stretched his arm out across her lap for the door handle. One second later the thin blade was at his throat.

  “Don’t move,” she said. “If you move I’ll cut your throat. And don’t delude yourself that I’ll have any inhibitions.” She felt in his pocket, grasped the gun, pulled it out and placed the muzzle against the back of his neck.

  He didn’t move. Half lying across her lap, he said, “You’re making a big mistake, Frau Trenkler. I’m afraid it’s going to cost your husband his life. And that is quite unnecessary. I wasn’t thinking of violence, more of cooperation.”

  “You don’t believe that yourself,” she said. “But you’ve no need to worry about my husband. He’s got a gun, a much bigger one than the little thing your companion was waving around. And now turn the car round. We’re going back.”

  She thought she could hear him grinding his teeth. “First take the knife away,” he said.

  She withdrew the hand holding the blade. Immediately he made a downwards and sideways thrust with his head. It was a violent butt to the solar plexus and stomach that winded her. She didn’t deliberately squeeze the trigger, it was just a reflex action set off by the pain. But nothing happened.

  Zurkeulen took the gun away from her and said, almost sympathetically, “The safety catch is on.” Then he forced the little knife out of her clenched hand.

  He gave her three minutes, just three minutes, to get over his head butt. Whilst she was doing so, he rang Ramon. It turned out to be unnecessary to warn him about the water pistol. He’d overpowered Michael long ago, Ramon said. Zurkeulen passed the information on to her. “Was there any difficulty?” he asked. “You sound rather strained.”

  Ramon said that had been caused by Michael’s violent resistance, which had cost him one of his front teeth. “You didn’t shoot, I hope?” Zurkeulen said, asking whether Herr Trenkler was still conscious and wanted to say farewell to his wife. Ramon informed him that he was no longer capable of that. “Then take him down to the cellar,” Zurkeulen ordered. “The woman too. Throw the pair of them in the pool.”

  After he’d rung off, he looked at the knife in his hand. The thin blade was a beautiful little toy, he said, more delicate than the implements Ramon normally employed. He described in graphic terms how he intended to use it. Then he said, “Will you get out now, please. Can you manage or shall I help you?”

  She would rather have let herself be cut to pieces than allow him to touch her, even in support. Somehow she managed to get out of the car, without seeing or hearing anything. A veil had come down over her eyes. All dead. Nadia tortured and run over, Andrea knocked unconscious and drowned. Michael as well. She could still feel his arm round her shoulders, his hand putting her fingers over the sheet and pressing it to her breast. She saw him spin round in the dressing-room doorway.

  Dieter would probably say, “Now don’t get all worked up, it wasn’t your fault. And for you it couldn’t have turned out better. Trenkler was a serious risk. Sell the house and you’ll be set up for life.” Dieter had always been an idiot, even if his opinions were mostly correct.

  The veil over her eyes was water. And once again she felt it close over her head, felt Michael draw her to him and kiss her. And Paris! He’d been so happy, so full of plans, so looking forward to having a child.

  Philip Hardenberg’s house lay in darkness behind a six-foot hedge almost bare of leaves. Gravel crunched under her feet. She could hear it. Zurkeulen was five or six steps behind her and from him she heard nothing. He was walking on the grass. She could hardly see and all she felt was the icy wind on her tear-damp cheeks.

  Zurkeulen had promised he would let her live, if she helped him get his money. And he was convinced she wanted to live. Even without a husband it was worth it for the child, he’d said. And he believed it would be worth it even more, once he’d shown her how he dealt with people who cheated him. He was only going to use the little knife on Philip Hardenberg. Helga Barthel would have a quick and painless death. He hated having to cause a woman needless pain. He left that sort of stuff to Ramon, he couldn’t even watch such unpleasant things.

  She was almost at the front door. Everything was dark. She stumbled on the first step, steadied herself against the wall and took the next two steps without being conscious of them. There must be a bell-push somewhere but she couldn’t find it in the darkness. And Philip Hardenberg didn’t seem to go in for movement sensors that switched a security light on. She knocked on the door and turned round for Zurkeulen. But all she could see were two tall pine trees on the lawn.

  She heard the door being opened. No light went on. Instead, a hand shot out and dragged her into the hall - it was a repeat of the Sunday of the dress rehearsal. Before she realized what was happening, the door was closed. She felt an arm round her waist, a hand over her mouth, someone’s breath on her ear. “Are you all right?” a man’s voice she didn’t recognize asked. Somehow she managed to nod.

  Outside the house all was silent. There was silence everywhere apart from some dark corner where muted groans could be heard. The pressure from the hand over her mouth slackened a little as the man behind her changed his position.

  “Michael.” She felt the sob rising in her throat, she could do nothing to stop it. “Ramon’s killed my husband.” Under the man’s hand her shoulders twitched, as she’d seen Andrea’s shoulders twitch on the landing.

  The hand closed over her mouth again. The voice behind her whispered. “Your husband’s OK. Frau Gerling as well.” That must be Andrea. In that moment all she felt was her knees giving way. But the man held her. They were still standing close to the front door in complete darkness.

  There was a crackling sound quite near and a distorted voice saying, “He’s leaving.” A few minutes later the same voice said, “You can put the light on now.”

  The hand was taken off her mouth, the arm let go of her waist. The light went on in the hall. She turned round slowly and found herself facing a man in a grey suit. The light was switched on in the living room as well. For a brief moment she saw two legs in dark trousers sticking out from behind a table. There were two of them in the house, one man in the hall, the other seeing to Helga Barthel and Philip Hardenberg. The third was on the building site opposite. The man in the grey suit opened the door. His colleague was coming across the lawn. He grinned as he closed the door behind him. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said. “Why didn’t he go to the door with her?”

  The other laughed softly and said, “He rang up. It must have been a nasty shock for him to get a dead man on the line instead of his thug.”

  During those first minutes no one felt the need to explain things to her. Perhaps she wouldn’t have understood anyway. She hadn’t come to terms with the previous hour yet an
d already new events were piling up on top: three unknown men, very young and so inappropriately dressed in their suits. They looked as if they should be in a bank, not on building sites or in other people’s houses. And they were behaving as if the last half hour had taken them back to their childhood, pure adventure, a welcome change from the tedious hours in the office.

  One sat her down on a chair in Hardenberg’s living room and took a mobile out of his trouser pocket. Helga Barthel was lying on the sofa, within reach of her, without her glasses and without any visible injuries, completely motionless, her face a pale blue. Philip Hardenberg was kneeling on the gleaming parquet floor between the table and the sofa. His head was resting on Helga’s breast. He didn’t move. His breath came in short gasps, interrupted now and then by groans or sobs.

  The man with the mobile was making his report. It had been quite simple, he said. They’d expected it would be much more difficult, that Zurkeulen would come with her to the door. That would have complicated things. On what plausible pretext could they have let him go after three night-time attacks with several injured? As it was, Zurkeulen must have assumed Philip Hardenberg had summoned up his last resources of strength and played the hero to rescue Nadia Trenkler.

  At some point she started to cry out for Michael and couldn’t stop until the man handed her the mobile. But instead of Michael she heard Wolfgang Blasting. “Calm down, Nadia. Doc’s fine. He’s not even seriously injured.”

  “I want to talk to him. I want to talk to him straight away.”

  “He’s not here, Nadia, he’s taking Frau Gerling home. Now put me back on to Schneider.”

  Schneider was the one who’d pulled her into the house. He took the mobile from her and continued his report to Wolfgang Blasting. Frau Barthel was in a bad way, a serious problem with her heart. She’d taken some medicine, he said, and now she was sleeping - or unconscious, she urgently needed a doctor.