Sophie’s mobile was ringing and she recognized her parents’ number. She didn’t have the slightest inclination to take the call. The last time her mother had rung, she’d accused her of being unnatural for not crying over her sister and told her she ought to be with them rather than running all over town playing James Bond.
The ringing stopped. Sophie stared at the improvised pin board with all the information and evidence she had gathered in connection with the murder; it took up nearly her entire study. There was so much that she didn’t understand. How was it possible that nobody else had seen the murderer? Why hadn’t he attacked her, the eyewitness? What would he have done if she hadn’t turned up? Why hadn’t he run away as soon as he heard somebody in the flat? Was he a burglar? If so, why hadn’t he stolen anything? And what the hell was the detail that had struck such a false note but that she couldn’t now lay her finger on, no matter how hard she racked her brains?
Of the countless agonizing questions, the worst was: why? Why did her sister have to die? Who had hated Britta that much? Britta, who was always ready to listen to everyone; Britta, who took such good care of others — perfect Britta! Sophie clung to her conviction that it must have been a stranger. But how was she supposed to find a stranger?
The flat seemed unbearably airless to Sophie. She slipped on her trainers, left the house, stepped onto the street and set off. It was a Saturday, and there must have been some football match on that afternoon because it was crowded when Sophie reached the underground station. Without knowing where she was actually going, she allowed herself to be carried down the escalator by the crowd and eventually came to a stop on the platform where the trains left for the town center. It reeked of sweat and trouble; the football fans were everywhere, with their beery breath and aggressive singing.
Sophie was borne onto a train by the stream of people. She stood there, squashed between three giants, and the train set off with a jolt. The rucksack of the man in front of her was in her face; the zip scratched her cheek as the train took a bend. The windows were steamed up and there were no longer people in the carriage, only a heaving, homogenous mass, breathing the humid, unwholesome air. Sophie tried to elbow herself a bit of space, but the crowd around her didn’t budge a millimeter. The air was no longer air; it was hot and doughy and solid. Someone switched on a ghetto blaster; “Seven Nation Army” blared out and the mass broke into a delighted roar.
Sophie clenched her teeth. She felt like a nail bomb.
At the next station, she was thrown out of the damp heat of the train onto the platform; the crowd carried her toward the exit. Sophie fought her way through the swarms of people, broke free and began to run.
Only when she had entered the museum did she breathe freely again. This was what she needed if she was to stay sane: a few hours with her favorite artists, with Raphael and Rubens and van Gogh. A little beauty, a little time to forget.
Sophie bought herself a ticket and wandered about, eventually coming to stop in front of one of van Gogh’s Sunflowers. She marveled at the radiant colors and at the vitality that always seemed to emanate from the painting, and for a moment she forgot her fears and worries. Then it came back to her — that detail in Britta’s flat that had struck such a frighteningly false note.
21
Once again the weather has changed, and again the balance of power threatens to tip. Victor Lenzen is no longer cowering before me like a thrashed dog; he’s regained some of his self-confidence.
“I have an alibi,” he says.
We’re sitting in semi-darkness. The storm’s on its way. I can hear the thunder coming closer and closer, and I have a terrible feeling that something dreadful is going to happen when the storm reaches us. I brush the thought aside, telling myself that my grandmother was afraid of storms and communicated her fear to me; that it’s superstition and nothing more.
Lenzen is lying. He must be lying. I saw him.
“I have an alibi,” he repeats.
“How are you going to prove it?” I ask.
My voice sounds husky. Fear is creeping up on me, cold and merciless.
“I remember that summer,” Lenzen says. “2002. World Cup in Japan and South Korea. Brazil and Germany in the final.”
“How are you going to prove that you have an alibi?” I repeat impatiently.
“I flew to Afghanistan on 20 August,” Lenzen says. “I remember it very well, because my ex-wife’s birthday is 21 August, and she was pissed off because I was going to miss her party.”
My world begins to totter.
I grasp the pistol, steadying myself. Just another trick.
“How are you going to prove it?” I ask, forcing myself to breathe steadily.
“I was reporting daily at that time, on the ground. The deployment of German troops in Afghanistan was still relatively recent; people were interested in what was going on in the Hindu Kush. I accompanied some soldiers at close quarters; the reports should still be on the Internet — even today.”
I stare at him. Gooseflesh spreads over my body. I won’t believe him. He’s bluffing.
“Look it up,” says Lenzen with an encouraging glance at my smartphone, which is lying on the table in front of me, and I see through his trick. The bastard. He’s hoping for a brief moment of distraction to attack me again, to take the gun off me.
I shake my head and point my chin at Lenzen’s phone without loosening my grasp on the gun. I haven’t forgotten the rapid swooping movement with which Lenzen got over the table; I won’t be giving him another opportunity to do that.
Lenzen understands and picks up his phone. He begins to tap around on it.
I grow nervous. What if he wanted to get to his phone to call the police?
“Any funny business and you won’t leave this house alive.”
Scarcely have the words left my mouth before I give a mental start. Why should he want to ring the police if he’s Anna’s murderer?
You’ve stopped thinking straight, Linda.
Lenzen frowns at me and goes back to tapping. At length he looks up, an inscrutable expression on his face, and pushes his phone across the table to me. I pick it up, without taking my eyes off Lenzen. Then I lower my gaze and read.
Spiegel Online. I read, scroll, read again, scroll up, scroll down. Compare the names, the dates. Spiegel Online. Archive. Victor Lenzen. Afghanistan. 21 August 2002, 22 August 2002, 23 August 2002, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28 August 2002.
I read and read, over and over again. My brain’s searching for a way out.
“Linda?”
I scroll up and down.
“Linda?”
I hear his voice as if through cotton wool.
“Linda?”
I look up.
“How was your sister killed?”
My hands are trembling like an old woman’s.
“How was your sister killed?” Lenzen repeats.
“She was stabbed seven times,” I say, as if in a trance. So much anger. And the blood — blood everywhere.
I don’t know whether I say it out loud or only think it.
“Linda,” says Lenzen, “you’ve got the wrong man. Please think about it.”
I can hardly concentrate on what Lenzen is saying; it’s all going too fast for me; I’m lagging three steps behind, still trying to come to terms with the fact that Lenzen has just come up with an alibi. It’s not possible, it’s just not possible.
“Get it clear in your head what that means,” Lenzen says, speaking slowly and quietly, as if he were trying to charm a poisonous snake. “You’re not seeing justice served if you shoot me. On the contrary: no matter what you do to me, the true murderer is still out there somewhere.”