“Sophie,” said Jonas, “slow down a bit. I can’t keep up!”
He could hear her nervous breathing at the other end of the line.
“I knew straightaway that I’d seen something in Britta’s flat that didn’t belong there. I told you, do you remember? That the culprit had left something behind, like a serial killer in a film. Something was out of place — I just didn’t know what. But now I do!”
“Keep calm, Sophie,” said Jonas as patiently as he could.
“Take a deep breath. That’s the way. Now, carry on.”
“Okay, so I said it must be a serial killer — a lunatic — and you said that there aren’t serial killers in real life; that most crimes are committed by the victim’s partner. All that stuff.”
“Sophie, I remember very well. Where are you going with this?”
“You said it couldn’t be a serial killer because, for one thing, there wasn’t a series because there’s no comparable case. But what if Britta’s the beginning? The first in a series? What if he keeps going?”
Jonas was silent.
“Are you still there? Jonas?”
“I’m still here.”
Her story was a muddle, but he realized that he was going to have to let her talk.
“Good. Well, in any case…I told you I was in the museum, in front of van Gogh’s sunflowers. Do you remember how I told you that something wasn’t right in Britta’s flat? Now I know what it was. No idea why I didn’t think of it before — it’s as if my brain had been blocked. Probably because it was far too obvious and somehow, for whatever reason, I was looking for something subtle, something obscure. But I knew it, damn it, I knew it!”
“It was the flowers,” said Jonas.
There was a moment of shocked silence.
“You knew?” Sophie asked.
“Not until just now,” said Jonas, trying to sound calm. “But listen, Sophie, I really should be getting back.”
“Do you know what that means, Jonas?” Sophie asked in excitement, ignoring his last words. “The murderer left flowers in Britta’s flat! What normal murderer, acting in the heat of the moment or out of base motives, would leave flowers next to his victim?”
“Let’s talk this over in peace some time, Sophie,” said Jonas.
“But…“
“I’ll ring you as soon as the meeting’s over, I promise.”
“The murderer left them there, do you see? They weren’t Britta’s flowers! Britta didn’t like cut flowers! Everyone knew that! The flowers are probably a kind of trademark of his! If that’s the case, he’ll do it again! That’s the direction your investigations must take. Maybe it’s not too late to stop him!”
“Sophie, we’ll talk later, I promise.”
“But there’s something else I must te—”
“Later.”
He hung up, put his mobile back in his pocket and returned to the airless flat.
The scene of the crime, which his colleagues were going over with a fine-tooth comb, was similar to the scene in Britta Peters’s flat. On the living-room floor lay a blonde woman. She was wearing a white dress that was now almost saturated with her blood. As far as appearances went, she could have been a sister of Britta Peters. Like her, she, too, lived alone; like her, she, too, had a ground-floor flat. When the police officers had arrived, the door had still been open.
Sophie’s words went through Jonas’s head: “The flowers are probably a kind of trademark of his.”
Jonas looked about the flat as he went back to join his colleagues. There was one big difference between the crime scenes: here the flowers he’d brought with him weren’t strewn about.
Again, Jonas heard Sophie’s voice: “He’ll do it again! But maybe it’s not too late to stop him!”
He looked at the corpse of the blonde woman. She was holding a small, neat bunch of white roses, which stood in lurid contrast to the dark dried blood in which she was lying.
It was too late.
23
I am sitting at the window looking out onto the lake. Sometimes I spot an animal at the edge of the woods, a fox or a rabbit — even a deer, if I’m very lucky. But there’s nothing there now.
I’ve been watching the sun rise. I haven’t slept. How could I have slept the night my world collapsed all over again? After the phone call?
I could hear him sit up in bed when I said my name. First there was a rustling down the line, and then his fraught voice.
“Frau Michaelis!” he said. “My goodness!” I had to swallow.
“It’s six in the morning,” he said, alarmed. “Has something happened? Do you need help?”
“No,” I said. “Not really. I’m sorry to disturb you…” There was a brief silence.
“That’s all right. I’m just surprised to hear from you.”
I could hardly believe he’d called me “Frau Michaelis.” And then his professionalism — the practiced composure that immediately took over, crowding out his surprise and his…his…
“How can I help you?”
Hey, Julian, I’ve written a book in which you’re one of the main characters. How are you?
I force myself to be as formal with him as he is with me. Has he really forgotten me? It’s probably for the best.
“I don’t know how much you remember — you investigated the murder of my sister some years ago,” I say.
“Of course I remember you,” he replies after a moment. He sounds neutral. I swallow my disappointment.
What did you expect, Linda?
I try to recall my original intention.
This isn’t about you, Linda.
“I have to ask you something,” I say.
“Please do.”
Entirely neutral. There’s…nothing there.
“Well, it’s about my sister’s case. I don’t know whether you remember, but I found my sister, and…”
“I remember,” he says. “I promised you I’d find the murderer and I wasn’t able to keep my word.”
That, too, he says neutrally. But he does remember that. Go on, Linda, ask him.
“There’s something on my mind.”
“Yes?”
Ask him!
“Well, first of all, I’m sorry if I woke you; it’s a stupid time to ring anyone, I know…It’s…Well, back then…” I swallow. “It wasn’t clear to me for a long time that I was the main suspect.” I pause, waiting for him to contradict me, which he doesn’t.
“And, well, I have to know whether you…” I can hear him breathing. “Did you think I was the murderer back then?”
Nothing.
“Do you think I’m the murderer?”
Still nothing. Is he thinking about it? Is he waiting for me to carry on talking?
Silence.
He thinks you’re finally going to confess, Linda. He’s waiting for your confession.
“Herr Schumer?” I ask.
I miss our conversations and I can’t think of anything I’d like more than to sit down and let you convince me that poetry can be wonderful. I want to know what became of that tedious colleague of yours and did your wife really move out in the end and do you still have that whorl of hair on the back of your head? And, anyway, how are you? I’ve missed you, Julian. I had the feeling we were from the same star.
“Herr Schumer,” I say, “I have to know.”
“The correct procedures were followed. We investigated every avenue to try to find the murderer.”
Evasive.
“But I’m afraid we were never able to pin him or her down.”
“Him or her.” Why not “the sister”?
Fuck.
“You’ll have to excuse me: this isn’t the best time. I don’t know if it’s a good idea to speak now. Why don’t we talk more another day?”