“A quick question about the ex-boyfriend first,” said Nilgün.
“Does anyone know why he dumped her?”
“He thought she was cheating on him,” Dzierzewski replied. “But her sister and all her girlfriends swear that that’s nonsense and that he was only looking for an excuse because — I quote—‘he’s a cowardly bastard.’”
“All right,” Jonas replied. “Cowardly bastard or not — he’s out. Anything else?”
“Not much,” said Antonia. “No other partners, no ex-boyfriends, no trouble at work, no debts, no enemies, no arguments. You could pretty much say that Britta Peters was an incredibly dull person.”
“Or an incredibly good one,” said Jonas. The team was silent.
“Okay then,” he said. “The only thing we can do now is carry on looking for the mystery man observed by the eyewitness at the scene of the crime.”
“Allegedly observed,” said Antonia Bug. “I think the sister’s lying. I mean, please, even the identikit artist says she sounded as if she was making the face up as she went along.”
Jonas sighed.
“Some people aren’t good at faces,” he said. “Especially not in stressful situations. And why should Sophie Peters have killed her sister? She alerted the police as soon as she found her. There was no blood on her clothes. Even the stab wounds inflicted on the victim suggest the culprit was much bigger than Sophie Peters — and, in all probability, a man. Besides…”
“I know all that,” said Antonia Bug, interrupting him, “and I didn’t say I thought Sophie Peters killed her sister. But what if she’s covering for the murderer? You’re not telling me you believe this story of the mystery man.”
“Who do you have in mind?”
“I don’t know — maybe her fiancé. Do you remember how Sophie Peters reacted when I asked her the reason for the argument she’d had with him?”
Jonas thought of the removal boxes in Sophie’s flat. Her fiancé was moving out. What were the implications of their breakup?
“Sophie Peters and her fiancé have split up since,” said Jonas.
A murmur went around the room. Antonia Bug slapped her thigh.
“There you are,” she cried. “There you are!”
Jonas held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
“Do we have any reason to believe that Sophie Peters’s fiancé was having an affair with the murder victim?” he asked.
Volker Zimmer was about to say something, but Bug was faster.
“A good friend of Britta Peters told me that said fiancé, Paul Albrecht, was madly in love with Britta, and that Sophie Peters knew it. Britta Peters apparently told her herself.”
“Sorry, folks,” said Zimmer, finally making himself heard, “but I’m afraid I have to take the wind out of your sails. I checked on the fiancé yesterday. He did indeed have an argument with Sophie Peters on the night of the crime. But after she’d gone off in a huff to be consoled by her sister, he took himself to the pub and went on such a bender with two colleagues from his solicitors’ office that the landlord had to kick all three of them out and call them a taxi. It can’t have been him. He’s definitively out.”
“Damn,” said Bug.
Helpless silence filled the room.
“All right,” said Jonas. “Antonia and Michael, please talk to the victim’s colleagues again. Find out if she was really planning to move away — had she perhaps already handed in her notice? You might hear something. Volker and Nilgün, please have another word with the victim’s ex-boyfriend. Maybe we can find out from him whether there had been a new man in Britta Peters’s life after all. Ask him if he really thinks Britta Peters was cheating on him. Meanwhile, I’ll get in touch with forensics again.”
As the team scattered, Jonas fought the urge to go out and light up. It was getting more and more obvious: if they really didn’t find the murderer anywhere in the victim’s circle of friends and relations, it was going to be very, very hard. He wouldn’t be able to keep the promise he had made to Sophie.
20
Victor Lenzen looks at me with bowed head and says nothing. I stare back. I’m going to stand my ground, no matter what happens.
We’re sitting down again. I had asked him — with raised gun — to return to his seat.
“Where were you living twelve years ago?” I ask. Lenzen lets out a tormented noise, but says nothing.
“Where were you living twelve years ago?”
I don’t raise my voice, I don’t shout; I simply ask, the way I’ve learned.
“Do you know Anna Michaelis?”
It is disconcerting looking somebody in the eyes for a long time. Lenzen’s eyes are very pale — gray, almost white. But the gray contains some tiny speckles of green and brown, and is edged with a black circle. Lenzen’s eyes look like an eclipse of the sun.
“Do you know Anna Michaelis?” Silence.
“Where were you on 23 August 2002?” Silence.
“Where were you on 23 August 2002?”
Nothing — just a frown. As if the date reminds him of something that is only now coming back to him.
“I don’t know,” he says faintly. He’s talking. Good.
“Why are you lying to me, Herr Lenzen?”
In a film, I would release the safety catch at this point to drive my words home.
“Where were you living twelve years ago?” I repeat. “Talk, damn it!”
“In Munich,” says Lenzen.
“Do you know Anna Michaelis?”
“No.”
“Why are you lying, Herr Lenzen? There’s no point.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Why did you kill Anna Michaelis?”
“I’ve never killed anyone.”
“Have you killed other women?”
“I’ve never killed anyone.”
“What are you?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“What are you? Are you a rapist? A robber and murderer? Did you know Anna?”
“Anna,” Lenzen says, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. “No.”
It does something to me, hearing him speak Anna’s name out loud like that — the name she was so proud of being able to read backward as well as forward. I tremble. I see Anna lying in a pool of blood, although blood gave her the creeps, and I know that I’m not going to let Lenzen go: Victor Lenzen will confess or die.
“Do you know an Anna Michaelis?”
“No, I don’t know any Anna Michaelis.”
“Where were you on 23 August 2002?” Silence again.
“Where were you on 23 August 2002?”
“I…“ He hesitates. “I’m not sure.”
That annoys me. He knows perfectly well where he was on 23 August 2002. He knows perfectly well what I’m driving at. The cat’s been out of the bag for ages. So what’s all this about?
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, unable to conceal my impatience.
“Frau Conrads, please listen to me. Please. Do me a favor.” I’m sick of him. I’m supposed to be breaking him and instead I’m the one who’s being worn down. I can’t bear his look anymore, his voice, his lies. I no longer believe he’s going to confess.
“All right then,” I say.
“I didn’t know you’d lost your sister,” says Lenzen, and his hypocrisy makes my gun hand tremble.
Lost. The way he says that — as if no one were to blame. I feel like hitting him again, but harder and more than once.
He sees it in my eyes and holds up his hands beseechingly. Look at him, cowering there, cringing like a beaten child, trying to appeal to my pity. It’s pathetic.
“I didn’t know,” Lenzen repeats, “and I’m very sorry.” I’d like to shoot him, to see what it feels like.
“You really think I did it.”
“I know you did,” I correct him, “yes.”