Jonas moved away from the window and sat down at his desk. He wondered what Sophie was doing now. For days, he had been resisting the temptation to give her a call. She would get over the shock, he was sure of that; she’d soon be her old self again. People like Sophie always landed on their feet. But he was struggling with himself; he felt like hearing her voice. He took his phone, entered her number, hesitated — and gave a start when Antonia Bug stormed into his office.
“Dead man in a wood,” she said. “Are you coming?” Jonas nodded. “Be right with you.”
“What’s the matter?” Bug asked. “You’ve got a face like a wet week.”
Jonas didn’t answer.
“Are you still thinking about our journalist?” she asked.
It annoyed Jonas that Bug should speak so matter-of-factly about the murderer. After all, the man had gone on to kill another woman after Britta Peters. But they all talked like that. The press in particular had been in a frenzy after the revelation that the wanted man was one of their own.
“We should have got him,” Jonas replied. “He shouldn’t have been given the opportunity to strike a second time. When Zimmer found out that Britta Peters had complained about her landlord letting himself into her flat, we should have pursued it.”
“We did pursue it.”
“But we shouldn’t have just accepted the old man’s denial. If we’d been more persistent, we might have realized that it wasn’t him who’d let himself into the flat; it was his son.”
“You’re right,” said Bug. “Maybe things would have turned out differently. But what use is it now?”
She shrugged. She had dismissed the entire case astonishingly quickly.
Jonas, however, was still coming to terms with the murderer’s coldness. He hadn’t borne any kind of grudge against Britta Peters; he hadn’t really known her at all. He’d simply seen her one day on a visit to his father, and she’d happened to be his type; she’d triggered something in him. So pure, so innocent. He had killed her “because he wanted her and because he could.” There had been no other motive. He had thought the white roses in the victims’ flats “a nice touch,” something “original”—“like in the movies.”
Jonas Weber was going to be plagued by thoughts of this man, whose trial was soon to begin, for a long time to come.
“Are you coming?” Antonia repeated.
Jonas nodded again and put his mobile away. It was for the best. Sophie had got what she wanted; her sister’s murder had been solved. That was what it had been about — that and nothing else.
28
By the time Charlotte shows up in the early morning and starts to unpack my shopping, I have already put in several hours of hard work. I have watched the surveillance technicians with their impassive faces remove the microphones and cameras from my house. I have cleaned up. I have eliminated all traces of Victor Lenzen. I have seen the videos of the crazy author and the bewildered reporter. I have kept my anger in check — no more rooms laid to waste, no more bloody fists. Instead, I have prepared myself.
Now all that remains is to get Charlotte on board, but it’s not that easy. We’re standing in the kitchen. Charlotte is putting fruit and vegetables and milk and cheese in the fridge, and gives me a suspicious look. I can sympathize; my request must seem odd to her.
“How long do you want me to keep Bukowski?” she asks.
“A week? Would that be all right?” Charlotte scrutinizes me, then nods.
“Sure — why not? Love to. My son will go wild. He adores dogs; he’d like one of his own.”
She hesitates, casting a stolen glance at the bandage on my right hand — the hand I smashed against my study wall like a madwoman and injured so badly that I had to ask my GP to come and attend to it. I know there’s something else Charlotte wants to say: that she’s worried about this peculiar employer of hers, who never sets foot outside, has been through at least one depressive crisis recently, and is now asking her to take care of her dog. It sounds as if I’m planning my suicide and want to make sure that somebody will take care of my beloved pet when I’m dead. Of course it does — normal people don’t give their pets to other people to look after unless they’re going on holiday, and the idea that I might have plans to travel is absurd.
“Frau Conrads,” she says falteringly, “are you all right?”
I feel such immense fondness for Charlotte that I can barely stop myself from hugging her, which would surely unsettle her even more.
“Everything’s fine — really it is. I know I’ve been strange these last weeks and months, maybe even depressed, but I’m better now. I just have an awful lot to get done in the next few days and Bukowski needs so much attention at the moment…”
I pause. I know I sound ridiculous, but there’s nothing I can do about it.
“It would be really great if you could take him for a few days. I’ll pay you, of course.”
Charlotte nods, nervously scratching her tattooed lower arm.
“Okay.”
I can no longer restrain myself and I fling my arms around her neck. Earlier today, I had asked her whether the journalist who had interviewed me had been in touch with her and she said no. In any case, I don’t believe that Lenzen would harm Charlotte. He’s not stupid.
Charlotte suffers my embrace. I hold her tight for a few seconds, then let her go.
“Er, thanks,” Charlotte mumbles, embarrassed. “I’ll go and pack the dog’s things then.” And she takes herself off upstairs.
I’m immensely relieved, almost cheerful even. I’m about to go in my study when I stop in the hall and stare in amazement at the little orchid I fetched in from my conservatory a few months ago. I’ve tended it with care, fed it fertilizer, watered it once a week, given it frequent attention. But it is only now that I see the new stem it’s put out. The buds on it are tiny, unspectacular and tight, but already they hold the lush splendor of exotic blooms. It seems a miracle. I decide to entrust the plant to Charlotte’s care as well. I wouldn’t want it dying while I’m away.
The rest of the day I’ve spent at my laptop in my study, reading. I’ve discovered that orchids can survive practically anywhere — in soil, on rocks and stones, on other plants. They can, in theory, continue to grow indefinitely, but almost nothing is known about how long they can live.
At some point, Charlotte left. Bukowski made a scene when she put him in her car, as if he feared that something awful was in store. He knows Charlotte’s car because she’s the one who drives him to the vet, but he was still distraught. I stroked him a bit and ruffled his fur, but only a little. I didn’t want him to think we were parting for good.
Hope to see you again, mate.
After Charlotte and Bukowski had left, I went into the conservatory and watered my plants. When I’d finished, I made myself some coffee. Then, cup in hand, I wandered into my library, breathed in its soothing smell and looked out of the window for a while, until my coffee began to grow cold and the world outside began to grow dark.
It is night. There’s nothing left to do. I am ready.
Epilogue
SOPHIE
She had bumped into him quite by chance. She had gone to a pub she’d never been to before and, although it was pretty full, had spotted him at once.
He was sitting at the bar on his own, a drink in front of him. Sophie could hardly believe it. Then it occurred to her that he might think she was stalking him, and was on the point of walking out again when he turned and spotted her. She gave an embarrassed smile and went over.