“Do you miss being in a relationship?” he asks.
“Sometimes,” I say, and go straight to my next question. “Do you have children?”
“A daughter.”
Lenzen takes a sip of water.
“Would you have liked a family?” he asks. “A husband, children?”
“No,” I say.
“No?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “Are you married?”
“Divorced.”
“Why did your marriage fail?”
“My turn,” Lenzen says. “Do you miss sex?” He leans forward again.
“Excuse me?”
“Do you miss sex?” he repeats.
I am scared, but I don’t show it.
“Not much,” I say. Keep going. “Why did your marriage fail?”
“Because I work too much, I suppose, but you’d have to ask my ex-wife.”
Once again, his hand strays to his temple. The question upsets him — all mention of his family upsets him; I must remember that. But I need a lie from him. I want to know what he looks like when he tells a lie. It is, however, his move.
“Do you have a good relationship with your parents?”
“Yes.”
That’s the third lie I’ve told.
“Have you ever had an affair?”
“No,” he replies and plows straight on. “What were you like as a child?”
“Wild,” I say. “More the way you’d imagine a little boy.”
He nods, as if he has no trouble picturing me.
“Have you ever been to a prostitute?” I ask.
“No.”
Impossible to tell whether or not he’s lying.
“Do you have a good relationship with your sister?” he asks. Alarm bells.
“Why do you ask that?”
“Because I’m fascinated by the dynamics between the sisters in your book. You told me earlier that you had a sister, and I wonder whether that’s the reason you describe the love between the sisters with such sensitivity. Well?”
“Yes,” I say, “a very good relationship.”
I swallow. No emotion now — no pain. Keep going.
“Do you consider yourself to be a good father?” I ask. His hand goes to his temple; it’s definitely a pattern.
“Um…yes,” says Lenzen.
A weak point. Good. I hope he’s wondering what I’m driving at with all these questions. I hope it’s making him nervous. Nervousness is good. He needn’t know that I’m not driving at anything; that my only aim is to disconcert him.
“Do you draw inspiration from real-life events?” he asks.
“Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t.”
“And in your latest book?” As if he didn’t know.
“Yes.”
Time to hit below the belt.
“Have you ever raped a woman?” I ask. Lenzen frowns and gives me a shocked look.
“What’s all this about?” he asks. “I don’t know if I like your mind games, Frau Conrads.”
He looks genuinely aghast. I feel tempted to applaud.
“Just say no,” I say.
“No,” he says.
The angry furrow between his eyebrows is still there. Silence.
“What’s your dog called again?” Lenzen asks at last.
“That’s your question?” I ask in surprise.
“No, it slipped my mind, that’s all,” he says.
Is it supposed to be a threat? Has he started talking about my dog because he can imagine how much I love the creature and how unbearable it would be to me if anything were to happen to it?
“Bukowski,” I say and am about to start on my next question when Charlotte appears in the door.
I jump because I had quite forgotten she was still here.
“Sorry to bother you again,” she says, “but if there’s nothing else I can do for you, I think I will be getting on my way now.”
“That’s fine, Charlotte,” I say. “You go home.”
“By the way, there’s supposed to be a storm this evening. Remember to close all the windows before you go to bed.”
“All right,” I say. “Thanks.”
The thought that I am about to be left alone in the house with Lenzen is not an agreeable one. But even less agreeable is the way his dangerous eyes are turned on Charlotte. She goes up to Lenzen, her hand held out. He rises politely.
“It was a real pleasure to meet you,” says Charlotte, brushing a nonexistent strand of hair behind her ear. She blushes.
Lenzen smiles noncommittally, sits down and turns to me again. Once more I see him through Charlotte’s eyes: his composure, his charisma. People like that have a talent for getting away with almost anything.
“Maybe see you around,” Charlotte says.
Lenzen only smiles. I realize that he’s not flirting with her — she’s the only one flirting. He’s barely taking any notice of her; all his attention is on me. Charlotte hangs around a moment longer in the dining room, like a woman who’s been stood up, while Lenzen’s eyes are on me again. She gives me a quick nod, then she’s gone.
I draw a deep breath.
“Your assistant and I had a little chat earlier on, and found out by chance that we live only a few streets away from one another,” Lenzen explains casually. “Funny that we’ve never met in Munich before. But you know how it is — once you know someone, you’re always bumping into them.” He grins at me, gets up, grabs a wrap from the caterers’ serving trolley, bites into it, chews. Advantage.
His threat is clear to me. He has realized that I am fond of Charlotte. And he has told me that it is not remotely in my power to keep him away from her.
19
JONAS
He could feel himself losing control, growing irrational, but couldn’t do anything about it. He had no business being here. What was he doing, calling in on the witness?
During the night, something had shifted in the atmosphere over the city. The light was different. The leaves on the trees had not yet started to change color, but he had sensed, as he walked through the streets, that summer was coming to an end, autumn on its way.
Jonas parked the car, got out, rang the bell. The buzzer sounded. He stepped into the hall and began to walk up to the fourth floor. Sophie was waiting for him at the door.
“It’s you!” was all she said when she recognized him.
“Please tell me they’ve caught him!”
Jonas swallowed. It hadn’t occurred to him that Sophie would assume there had been developments in the investigations.
“No,” he said. “I’m sorry, but that’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why? More questions?”
“Not really,” Jonas replied. “May I come in?”
Sophie ran her hand through her hair, hesitating for a moment.
“Of course,” she said. “Please. I’ve made coffee.”
Jonas followed her along a hallway cluttered with cardboard boxes.
“Are you moving?”
“No,” Sophie said tersely, “my fiancé’s moving out.” Then she snorted and corrected herself.
“My ex-fiancé.”
Jonas didn’t know what to say, so said nothing.
“Would you like to sit down?” Sophie indicated one of her kitchen chairs.
“I’d rather stand,” Jonas said. “Thanks.”
He looked about him at the big, light, high-ceilinged room: whitewashed walls, a few framed reproductions — Egon Schiele, he thought, but wasn’t sure. A solitary orchid stood on the windowsill, an empty coffee cup beside it. The dishwasher was on; there was something comforting about its gentle drone.
“Milk and sugar?” Sophie asked.
“Just milk, please,”
Sophie opened a carton of milk and pulled a face.
“Shit,” she said. “It’s off.”
Furious, she emptied it into the sink.
“Damn!” She turned away from Jonas, put her hands on her hips as if to steady herself, and grimaced, struggling to hold back the tears.