No!
I realize how dangerous this train of thought is. I must pull myself together, remember what I learned from Dr. Christensen: that thinking this way might lead to a breakdown. The situation is not only a strain on Victor Lenzen’s nerves but on mine too. I mustn’t budge an inch, mustn’t show any pity and I certainly mustn’t start doubting now. Victor Lenzen is guilty. Everyone has a breaking point; Lenzen just hasn’t yet reached his. He’s used to extreme situations; he said as much himself. Maybe now is the time to offer him the famous way out: a tangible incentive to confess.
“Herr Lenzen,” I say. “If you give me what I want, I promise I’ll let you go.”
He coughs, gasping for breath, then looks at me.
“Give me what I want — and this nightmare will be over,” I say.
I hear him swallow.
“But you want a confession!” he says, turning from me, his hand clutching at his stomach.
“That’s right.”
I know what he’s going to say next: But if I were to confess, you’d shoot me straightaway! Why should I believe you? Of course my only answer to that could be: Right now, you have no alternative, Herr Lenzen.
He says nothing. Then he gives me a steady look.
“I have nothing to confess,” he says.
“Herr Lenzen, you’re not thinking straight. You have two options. Option one: you tell me the truth. That’s all I want. I want to know what happened to my younger sister that night twelve years ago. You tell me — and I’ll let you go. That’s number one. Option two is this gun here.”
Lenzen stares into the muzzle of the gun.
“And,” I add, “my patience won’t hold out forever.”
“Please,” Lenzen says, “you’ve got the wrong man!”
I stifle a groan. How long can he continue to deny it? I decide to change tactics.
“Would you like a tissue?” I ask, taking care to make my voice sound brighter, softer.
He shakes his head.
“A glass of water?” He shakes his head.
“Herr Lenzen, I understand why you’re denying it,” I say. “It must be hard for you to believe that I really will let you go if you tell me what I want to know. That’s perfectly understandable for someone in your position. But it’s the truth. If you tell me what I want to know, I’ll let you go.”
It is quite still again; only Lenzen’s shallow breath can be heard. Standing there, hunched over, he seems a lot smaller.
“I’m not going to lie to you,” I say. “I will, of course, inform the police. But you will leave this house unscathed.”
Now I have his attention. He looks at me.
“I’m not a murderer,” he says. Tears glisten in his eyes. I don’t know whether it’s because of the retching or because he really is on the point of crying again. At this moment, I feel sorry for him, in spite of everything.
Lenzen straightens up, taking his hand off his stomach. He turns to face me once more. His eyes are red; he looks older. His laughter lines have vanished. I can see him fight the impulse to wipe his mouth on the sleeve of his smart shirt. I can smell the pool of vomit at his feet.
I squash my pity and tell myself it’s a good thing. The more ill at ease he feels, the better. His situation is humiliating and that rankles — good! I hold the gun so tight that my knuckles stick out white. Lenzen stares at me in silence. A trial of strength. I’m not going to be the first to speak. I want to see how he turns the situation now. The way out is clear; the cards are on the table. He has to confess.
It is silent. Outside, the sky flickers. I hear my breathing and I hear Lenzen’s, gasping and fitful. Thunder follows. Apart from that, it is quite still.
Lenzen closes his eyes, as if by so doing he could release himself from this nightmare. When he opens his eyes, he begins to speak. At last.
“Please listen to me, Frau Conrads,” he says. “There’s been some mistake! My name is Victor Lenzen. I’m a journalist. And a family man. Not a particularly good one, but…”
He’s losing focus.
“I abhor violence. I’m a pacifist. I’m a human-rights activist. I’ve never harmed anyone in my life.”
His gaze is penetrating. I waver.
“You have to believe me!” he says. But I must not doubt.
“If you lie to me once more, I’ll pull the trigger.”
My voice sounds strange. I don’t know whether I really mean it.
“If you lie to me once more, I’ll pull the trigger,” I repeat. Lenzen says nothing — he simply stares at me.
I wait, as the storm grows closer and the wind gets up. I wait a long time and I realize that he’s decided not to talk to me anymore.
It’s over to me.
23
JONAS
A feeling for whether a case would be solved quickly or not at all always took hold fast. Jonas’s gut instinct told him that the case concerning the elfin woman who had been found stabbed to death in her flat was not going to be solved as rapidly as his colleagues assumed. They expected either the jealous lover or the piqued ex to be charged, especially as there had been an eyewitness.
But a sense of unease was creeping over Jonas, so black and heavy that it left no room for optimism. True, everything smacked of a crime passionnel, and there was an identikit picture of the culprit. But no one from the victim’s circle of friends and relations had recognized the picture. How was that possible, if it was a crime of passion? Of course, a secret affair was a possibility. But that wouldn’t have been like Britta Peters.
Jonas took a deep breath and entered the conference room. It smelled of a peculiar mixture of PVC flooring and coffee. The entire team had already assembled: Michael Dzierzewski, Volker Zimmer, Antonia Bug and Nilgün Arslan, a much-loved colleague recently returned from maternity leave. The room was filled with murmurs as they discussed yesterday’s football match, trip to the cinema or evening in the pub. The inevitable fluorescent lighting was on, even though it was broad daylight.
Jonas switched it off and stepped in front of the group.
“Good morning all,” he said. “Let’s hear what you’ve got to say. Volker!” He pointed to the man in jeans and a black polo shirt.
“I had a word with the victim’s landlord,” Zimmer said.
“We’d heard from a neighbor that Britta Peters had complained about the man gaining access to her flat without her agreement.”
“We remember all that,” said Jonas impatiently.
“Well, the only crime this landlord — a certain Hans Feldmann — has committed is boring his son and daughter-in-law to death with three hours of photos from his recent trip to Sweden.”
“He has an alibi?” Jonas asked.
“Yes, his son and daughter-in-law stayed the night with him.”
“Couldn’t he have slipped out briefly?”
“It’s possible,” Zimmer replied. “But if the eyewitness’s statement is to be believed, it wasn’t Hans Feldmann she saw: he’s over seventy.”
“Okay,” said Jonas. “Michael?”
“The ex-boyfriend can be ruled out too,” said Dzierzewski.
“Britta’s teenage sweetheart?” asked Bug.
“That’s the one. The two of them had been together for a long time and it seems it wasn’t a pretty breakup. But he split up with her, not the other way around.”
“Okay, that makes him less suspicious,” said Jonas.
“Doesn’t mean he’s off the hook.”
“I’m afraid he is. He was away, you see — with his new flame, a certain Vanessa Schneider. A romantic holiday to the Maldives.”
“Okay, keep going — what else?” asked Jonas.