Maybe she hadn’t been to the vet either today, and instead she was strapped to a bed in the secure unit of the Bonhoeffer psychiatric hospital?
Emma didn’t think this very likely. Such serious, audiovisual schizophrenic episodes were extremely rare and weren’t triggered by a single traumatic incident. They were preceded by years and years of the most horrific damage. But maybe she couldn’t help thinking this and it was a lie to protect herself.
Deep down she was convinced that although her self-control and communication skills had gone, she hadn’t lost all relation to reality. But there was never a one hundred per cent certainty, especially when one’s soul had suffered as severe damage as hers.
‘The package was there!’ she exclaimed, to tear herself from the vicious circle of her thoughts. She repeated the words, as if to give herself courage. ‘The package was there. I had it in my hand.’
Emma said it three more times and with each repetition she felt a little better. With rediscovered determination she took her mobile from her pocket and called her husband’s number.
It beeped and went to his voicemail.
There was poor reception on sections of the A10 motorway; maybe they were going through a tunnel. At any rate Emma was grateful that she could deliver her message without being interrupted by critical questions.
‘Darling, I know this is going to sound strange, but do you think it’s possible that our delivery man isn’t completely kosher? Salim Yüzgec. Is there any way you could run a background check on him?’
She explained the reason for her suspicion and finished with the words, ‘There was one more thing. The vet says he saw you in Le Zen. You mentioned something to him about water damage. Could you tell me what that’s all about?’
She put the phone back into her trouser pocket and wiped the snow from her eyes.
It was only when she took a step backwards that she realised which fence she’d been gripping onto all this time.
The garden gate, which had seen better days, was hanging crookedly from a rusty post. It was lined with chicken wire, the holes far larger than normal. For a name plate someone had simply stuck some tape to the edge of the door and written on it in permanent marker.
The letters were somewhat faded and, just to make sure, Emma looked up again at the ancient enamel sign which, as was customary in this area, was affixed between the kitchen window and the guest lavatory: Teufelssee-Allee 16a.
No doubt about it.
Her gaze returned to the fence. For a split second she was afraid that the letters on the sticky tape might have vanished into thin air just like the package on her desk, but they were still there, unchanged:
A. P.
Like ‘A. Palandt’.
In the twinkling of an eye Emma made a momentous decision.
21
The logic was straightforward: if the card exists, so does the package.
Simple proof.
If, as he claimed, Salim had posted a delivery note through A. Palandt’s door, then he must have given Emma the package beforehand.
So simple. So logical.
To be certain, the most obvious thing Emma could do was ring the doorbell and ask for Palandt, assuming he was back home now. But after everything Emma had seen on the internet this morning, that was out of the question. She felt sick with fear at the idea that the door might open to reveal a man only vaguely resembling the guy in the lift.
No, the only possible option was to take a quick glance in the post box which – and here Emma was confronted with another problem – appeared to be non-existent. Like much about this house, it seemed to have gone missing.
Emma recalled that the delicate widow who lived here alone had always kept the house in good nick. Now there were bulbs missing from the outside lights and the small, clay garden ornaments had disappeared. As far as Emma could see, there were no longer curtains inside the windows either, which was why the plain, grey house with its coarse, pockmarked render didn’t just look uninviting, but abandoned.
I don’t think there’s anyone here.
The garden gate she’d been leaning against was stuck, but the entrance to the carport was wide open. She should abort her plan and go back home. But Emma felt magically drawn to the open gates. And if she were being honest with herself she’d know the reason why. It wasn’t just about proving the existence of the package; she was being driven by the paranoid compulsion to gain some certainty about the identity of A. Palandt.
As improbable as it was that this individual had anything to do with the Hairdresser and what Emma had suffered, she was sure that she’d be driven mad by the thought of the stranger and the contents of that package if she didn’t investigate further.
And so Emma sank into the ankle-deep snow on the way up to the house. She didn’t mind the wet that crept into her boots through the eyelets, nor the fact that the snow was making her headscarf damp, flattening her hair beneath.
More uncomfortable were the penetrating looks she thought she could feel in her back. Neighbours standing at the window, watching Emma make her way to the entrance, which unusually was at the side of the house, rather than the front. It was covered with corrugated iron and stood in the shade of a fir tree whose branches drooped like a curtain over the steps leading up to the house.
Emma climbed the four stairs and looked back at the street, but couldn’t see anyone. Nobody watching her from a car or a neighbouring garden, not even any passers-by wondering why the woman who hadn’t shown her face in public for half a year was suddenly crouching beside a stranger’s front door.
As she’d feared, the post was delivered directly through an aperture in the door at A. P.’s house.
Shit.
If he’d had an external post box, she might have been able to feel the card with her slim fingers, but like this?
Emma lifted the metal flap, peered through the hole and of course she saw nothing. Inside the house it was darker than outside.
She took out her mobile and with her clammy fingers switched on the torch function.
In the distance a dog barked, and the sound mingled with the ever-present drone of Heerstrasse, which she only ever noticed when friends visiting for the first time brought the subject up while they were sitting in the garden.
Or when fear sharpened her senses.
Not just the fear of being discovered (for what was she supposed to say if the door suddenly opened?), but also the fear of being totally overwhelmed psychologically. Until this morning the world outside her front door had seemed like a raging ocean, with her as a non-swimmer on the beach, and now she was about to venture way too far out into the wide-open sea.
But I don’t have a choice.
The light from her smartphone torch didn’t get her any further. Given the narrow aperture and the oblique angle available to her, all she could make out were some floorboards and something that did actually look like paper or letters scattered on the floor. But was the card for the missed delivery amongst them? It was impossible to tell.
Okay, that’s that then.
Emma felt relieved when she stood back up. Her brain had identified an acceptable reason for her not being able to conclude her plan. It was a good sign, a healthy sign that she wasn’t so driven by impulse as to look for spare keys hidden beneath the mat, shake the side window of the guest room, or simply try the doorknob, which…
… turned without any resistance!
Emma withdrew her hand. There was a loud creaking as the door ground across the dark floorboards, pushing the post inwards.
She glanced over her shoulder, but nobody was behind her, or at least nobody she could see. When she turned back she realised that it wasn’t as dark inside the house as she’d first thought. A wan, yellowish light fell into the hallway from one of the rooms, and in the glow Emma could see that the front door was wedged by a pile of bulk mail.
There was something else too.
Something that made her take two steps into the unfamiliar house, even though she found
the slim, metre-tall object she was heading towards more repellent than attractive.
But Emma couldn’t believe what she was staring at here in the hallway, right beside the coat stand. And as she was worried that it might be her imagination, a vision dreamed up by her deranged brain as further fuel for her paranoia, she had to inspect it close up to be sure.
Emma stretched out her hand.
Noticed her own breath, as here inside it was barely warmer than outside.
Touched the cold polystyrene.
And felt a strip of adhesive tape on the replica of the human head, to which a few hairs were stuck.
No doubt about it.
That’s a wig stand.
As she came to this realisation, which induced a numbness in Emma’s hands, her mobile phone started to buzz.
Luckily she’d switched it to vibrate, otherwise the sound would have echoed through the hallway like church bells.
‘Hello,’ she said, when she saw it was the veterinary practice on the line. Besides the wig stand, her concern for Samson was another reason to leave this house as quickly as possible.
‘Frau Stein? It’s Dr Plank’s practice here. I’m very sorry to disturb you, but we’ve got a problem with the payment for the laboratory analysis. The animal clinic at Düppel says your credit card has been blocked.’
‘That must be a mistake,’ Emma whispered on the way back out, which was now obstructed. Not by a person, nor an object, but by light.
Bright, white xenon light, flooding the driveway and pouring into the house she had just entered illegally.
Broad headlight beams swept across the hedge as the vehicle, its engine gurgling, slowly turned into the entrance to the carport.
22
Back entrance.
This was the only thing she could think of as soon as she’d cut off the call.
Emma’s body had switched into flight mode, and now her head felt clear. The fear of being discovered tore through the fog she’d been drifting in thanks to the diazepam.
For the time being at least.
There must be a back entrance here somewhere, she thought.
No way was she going to leave via the front door. Back past the mail, down the steps and straight into the arms of the owner of the wig stand as he was getting out of his car.
Out the back then.
And fast.
If, like most of the houses on the estate, this one was from the 1920s, it would have a similar floor plan with a living room that led onto a terrace.
Emma hurried down the hallway and opened the first door on the right into a large room that was even darker.
Initially she was worried that the external blinds might be down, but she only had to yank the heavy curtains stinking of dust and cold smoke to the side of the French doors.
These did indeed lead into the garden, which stretched out before her like a long, narrow towel.
The doors were old and their wavy glass panes made it seem as if you were looking at the world through a fisheye lens. But Emma wasn’t in the slightest bit interested in the distorted view of a massive weeping willow, several gnarled fruit trees and a scattering of snow-covered boulders.
Hearing footsteps in the doorway, she breathed in the particle-heavy air, suppressed a cough and tried to make as little noise as possible as she slowly turned the handle of the French doors anticlockwise. The piercing sound when she pulled the jammed door tore painfully at her eardrums. Louder than a school bell signalling break time, the noise resonated throughout the entire house.
An alarm system?
Surely Palandt hadn’t left the front door open, but secured the exit to the garden electronically?
It didn’t make any sense, particularly as there was nothing to protect here, going by the squalor of the living room.
The sofa to Emma’s left was half covered in old newspapers. On the other side a spring had worn through the fabric cover. An upturned beer crate served as a coffee table. Unsophisticated drawings of horses’ heads gaped from the walls, there was no dining table, no bookshelves, no rugs or chairs. An ugly statue of a dog stood on a mat right beside the door, a porcelain Labrador that could be used as an umbrella stand. She was reminded of Samson.
What I’d do to have him beside me now!
Otherwise there was just an empty chipboard display case, sitting diagonally in the room, as if it had been hurriedly dumped there by packers.
Certainly nothing that might interest a burglar, and yet an ear-splitting ringing had just shredded the silence.
Emma was sweating and her mouth felt parched, but the diazepam and adrenaline were performing great teamwork. Fear was spurring her on, her tiredness taking a break. It now dawned on her that it had only rung once, which was also unusual for a burglar alarm.
Emma let go of the handle and was just about to shove the door, clearly stuck, with her shoulder when she heard voices.
Foreign voices.
Albanians, Slovenes, Croats?
She couldn’t tell; all she could say was than none of them could be A. Palandt because the two men who must have first rung at the front door and were now coming down the hall, were shouting the house owner’s surname loudly and aggressively over and over again. ‘PAAALANDT? PAAAAALANDT!’
One of them had a hoarse rattle, as if he’d just had surgery on his larynx. The other man’s barking could have been coming straight from the stomach of a bull terrier.
Between the shouting, the two men hissed at each other in their native language, which sounded anything but friendly.
‘AAANTON?’
So now she knew his first name, but not the way out of here.
In vain Emma pushed and pulled at the door to the terrace. It was stuck fast, as if it had been glued or nailed to the floor, unlike the living-room door through which she’d just entered. This was kicked open with a fury that almost threw it off its hinges.
If the first of the two men hadn’t turned back to his accomplice because he couldn’t understand what he was saying, Emma would have been discovered immediately. But now she had a second or two to dart past the empty cabinet, where she’d intended to hide until she suddenly realised that it had been blocking her view of something which was, temporarily at least, her salvation: a connecting door.
It was open and Emma slunk through it while behind her the men seemed to be cursing in their mother tongue.
Did they see me?
She didn’t waste time thinking, nor did she look back, only forwards, where she saw a staircase. It led upstairs along the internal wall of the house.
Up is good…
… Better, at least than down… into the cellar. People in danger only went into the cellar in horror films. But not in a strange house, escaping from strange men looking for a strange neighbour, to do something to him they’d probably rather have no secret witnesses to.
So Emma held onto a narrow banister and tried to climb the old, well-worn wooden stairs as quietly as possible.
Behind her came a crash – had the men pushed over the cabinet? Glass shattered but the loudest sound was her breathing.
On the first floor, equally sombre, Emma felt her way along the ingrain wallpaper on the landing to a door.
Locked. Just like the second one, directly opposite.
That’s not possible.
She kept walking, towards a bright slit at the end of the landing. Another door, from beneath which the light slanted into the otherwise dark corridor that seemed like a tunnel to Emma. But this one wouldn’t open either.
Emma wanted to scream with fury, fear and despair, but the men downstairs were already doing just that.
‘PAAALAAANDT!’
Not just their bellowing, but their footsteps were approaching too. Hard, heavy boots climbing the stairs quicker than she had just done.
She turned to the left, having completely lost her bearings – she didn’t know whether she was facing the street or the garden – and shook another door handle.
N
othing.
With the strength of desperation she finally threw herself against it in one last attempt, and almost flew into the room.
Emma tripped, slipped from the handle, her knees crashed on the floor that was covered with a rug, and she used her elbows to prevent her from hitting her head.
Shit.
She immediately got up again and closed the door from the inside.
Did they hear me?
Overcome by faintness, Emma looked for something to hold onto and came across a small chest of drawers. She kneeled beside it, unaware that she’d hidden in exactly the same position only hours ago.
Her back to the wall, her eyes fixed on a large bed.
It was warmer than in the rest of the house; she could smell sweat and another slightly rotten odour.
Either the curtains here weren’t as thick as in the living room, or the tension had sharpened her senses. At any rate, Emma could see more than just shadows and shapes now.
She was obviously in Palandt’s bedroom, which was dominated by an antique four-poster bed.
It had been freshly made; a patchwork quilt bulged over a thick duvet that peeked out at the foot of the bed.
At the other end, cushions of various sizes were neatly arranged in three rows that took up a third of the bed.
Like in a hotel, Emma thought, detesting the comparison.
‘PAAALAAANDT?’
The men, now upstairs, rattled the same door handles she had only moments ago, except less gingerly.
Wood splintered, hinges creaked.
And Emma didn’t know where to go.
Under the bed?
No, that would be the first place they’d look.
There weren’t any large cupboards, just a clothes rail on wheels, a valet stand and a bedside table, right next to her, holding half a pharmacy’s worth of pillboxes, sprays, tablets in foil packaging and other medicines.
All of a sudden she couldn’t hear anything apart from the constant humming of fear inside her ears, then the proverbial calm before the storm was past. The bedroom door crashed open, knocking into the side of the chest of drawers she was hiding beside, and Emma was blinded.
The Package Page 10