“U2. No, the Beatles.” Interesting.
“What’s your favorite Beatles song?”
“All You Need Is Love.”
Touché. I try not to let anything show, but I fail. Lenzen looks at me; his gaze is shifty, inscrutable.
Time to tighten the screws.
“You lied to me, Herr Lenzen,” I say. “But it doesn’t matter. I know your daughter’s name isn’t Sara; it’s Marie.” I let this sink in.
“You know,” I say, “I know a great deal about you. More than you think. I’ve had you watched for a long time. Your every move.”
That’s a lie, but what the hell.
“You’re crazy,” says Lenzen. I ignore this.
“In fact I know the answer to every single question I’ve asked you and to all the questions I’m going to ask you.”
He snorts. “Then why ask?” Now that’s predictable.
“Because I’d like to hear the answers from you.”
“The answers to what? Why? I don’t understand any of this!” At least part of his desperation sounds genuine. I mustn’t go easy on him now.
“Have you ever been involved in a fight?”
“No.”
“Have you ever hit anyone in the face?”
“No!”
“Have you ever hit a woman?”
“I thought ‘anyone’ included women.”
He seems back in control, damn him. Talk of violence leaves him untroubled. Cold bastard.
“Have you ever raped a woman?”
His face no longer betrays any emotion.
“No.”
The only sore point I’ve been able to make out so far is his daughter. I decide to embed all potentially delicate and provoking questions in questions concerning her.
“How old is your daughter?”
“Twelve.”
His jaw muscles clench.
“What year is your daughter in at school?”
“Year seven.”
“What’s your daughter’s favorite subject?”
I spot a vein I hadn’t noticed before on Lenzen’s temple. It’s throbbing.
“Maths.”
“What’s the name of your daughter’s horse?” And throbbing.
“Lucy.”
“Do you think you’re a good father?” His jaws are grinding.
“Yes.”
“Have you ever raped a woman?”
“No.”
“What’s the name of your daughter’s best friend?”
“I don’t know.”
“Annika,” I say. “Annika Mehler.” Lenzen swallows. I feel nothing at all.
“What’s your daughter’s favorite color?”
“Orange.”
His hand strays toward his temple; he’s sick of all these questions about his daughter. Good.
“What’s your daughter’s favorite film?”
“The Little Mermaid.”
“Have you ever killed anyone?”
“No.”
The answer comes swiftly, like the others. But he knows we’re getting to the heart of the matter. What is he hoping for? How’s he going to get out of this one?
“Are you afraid of death?”
“No.”
“What’s the most traumatic thing that’s ever happened to you?”
He clears his throat. “This.”
“Is there anything you’d kill for?”
“No.”
“Would you kill for your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“But you said…” He loses his cool.
“I know what I said!” he shouts. “Dear God! Of course I’d do anything to protect my child.”
He tries to calm down, but fails.
“Can you tell me what the hell’s going on here?” He’s yelling.
“What the fuck is this? Is it a game? Are you thinking out a new crime novel? Am I your guinea pig? Is that it? Fuck!”
He slams his clenched fist down on the table. His fury is elemental. It scares me, despite the gun in my hand, but I contain my emotions. Outside, the sun is shining again; I can feel the warmth of its rays on my cheek.
“Calm down, Herr Lenzen,” I say and raise the gun. “This is not a toy.”
“I can see that!” Lenzen snarls. “Do you think I’m a choirboy? I know what a bloody gun looks like. I was almost kidnapped twice in Algeria; I’ve reported on goddamn warlords in Afghanistan: I am perfectly capable of telling a real gun from a water pistol, believe me.”
His face is bright red. He’s losing control. I don’t know whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing.
“You don’t like the situation,” I say matter-of-factly.
“You’re damn right I don’t! Can’t you at least tell me…” he begins.
“But you can put an end to the situation at any time,” I say, interrupting him.
I try to sound calm. I hadn’t yet been as conscious of the microphones in the house as I am at this moment.
“And how can I go about doing that?” Lenzen demands.
“By giving me what I want.”
“What do you want, for heaven’s sake?”
“The truth,” I say. “I want you to confess.”
Lenzen stares at me. My gun and I stare back. Then he blinks.
“You want me to confess,” he echoes in disbelief. Everything in me is quivering.
“That’s exactly what I want.”
Lenzen makes a deep, rumbling noise. It takes me a moment to realize that it’s laughter — mirthless and hysterical.
“Then maybe you’d like to tell me what the hell I’m supposed to confess to! What have I done to you? I didn’t ask for this interview!”
“You don’t know what I’m talking about?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea,” says Lenzen.
“I find that hard to…”
I get no further. With a swooping movement, Lenzen lunges at me across the table; he’s over it in a split second, sweeping me off my chair. My head strikes the floor hard and Lenzen’s on me. A shot goes off, my brain explodes, I see only mottled red, hear a whistling sound in my ears. I kick and thrash and try to heave Lenzen off me, but he’s too heavy. I want to get away from him — get away — and, instinctively rather than deliberately, I bring the gun down on his skull. He screams and goes limp. I roll him off me, get to my feet, take a few steps backward, and stumble, almost falling over my chair. I manage to stay on my feet and stand there, gasping for air. I point the gun at Lenzen. I’m perfectly calm now; there’s no anger left in me — only cold hatred. I feel like pulling the trigger. Lenzen’s crouching before me, motionless, staring into the muzzle of the gun. I see his wide-open eyes, the sweat glistening on his face, the rise and fall of his chest — I see everything as if in slow motion. My right hand, holding the gun, trembles. The moment passes. I regain self-control and lower the gun a little. I realize I’ve been holding my breath. Lenzen’s gasping for air; we’re both gasping for air. He’s bleeding from a wound on his head. He gets onto his knees, looking out at me from behind metallic eyes — a wounded animal.
“Get up,” I say.
Lenzen gets up. He puts his hand to his head and looks aghast when he feels the blood. I fight back my nausea.
“Turn around and walk towards the front door.” He looks at me uncomprehendingly.
“Go on,” I say.
I follow him with raised gun, steering him on wobbly legs toward the guest bathroom which, as luck will have it, is right next to the dining room. I get him to take a towel, wet it, press it to the bleeding. It’s soon clear that the wound is tiny; I didn’t hit him properly at all. Neither of us says a word; only our heavy breathing is audible.
Then I steer Lenzen back to the dining-room table. Thick clouds cover the sun and dusk is falling; we’re on the narrow ridge between daytime and evening. Far off, there’s a rumble. The storm that Charlotte had prophesied is coming. It may be some time coming, but the air in the room is already electrically charged.
“Please,” said Lenzen, “let me go.”
I stare at him. What is he thinking?