JF03 - Eternal (11 page)

‘So what happened, Kristina? If you didn’t kill Herr Hauser, why were you found cleaning up the murder scene?’

‘There was so much blood. So much blood. Everywhere. It drove me mad.’ Kristina paused; then, although it still quivered, her voice hardened, as if she had drawn a steel line taut through her nerves. ‘I arrived to clean Herr Hauser’s place this morning, just as usual. I have a key and I let myself in. I knew there was something wrong as soon as I went into the apartment. Then I found … Then I found that
thing
…’

‘The scalp?’ asked Fabel.

Kristina nodded.

‘Where was it?’ asked Maria.

‘It was pinned out on the bathroom door. It took an age to clean.’

‘Just a moment,’ said Werner. ‘What time did you arrive at Herr Hauser’s apartment?’

‘Eight fifty-seven. Exactly eight fifty-seven a.m.’ As she answered, Kristina rubbed at a point on the surface of the interview table with her fingertip. ‘I’m never, ever late. You can check my appointment book.’

‘So after you found the scalp, you put it in the bin bag and started to clean up the door?’ asked Werner.

‘No. First I went into the bathroom and found Herr Hauser.’

‘Where was he?’

‘Between the toilet and the bath. Half-sitting, sort of …’

‘And you say he was already dead at this point?’ asked Maria.

‘Yes.’ Kristina’s eyes glossed with tears. ‘He was sitting there with the top of his head ripped off … it was horrible.’

‘Okay,’ said Susanne. ‘Just take a moment to calm yourself.’

Kristina sniffed hard and nodded. She absent-mindedly moistened her fingertip with her tongue and rubbed again at the same spot on the table top, as if trying to wipe off some blemish that was totally invisible to the others in the room.

‘It was horrible,’ she continued eventually. ‘Horrible. How could anyone do that to a person? And Herr Hauser seemed so nice. Like I told you, he was almost always at work when I was in to clean, but whenever I did meet him he seemed very friendly and polite. I just don’t know why anyone would do such a thing to him …’

‘What we don’t know or understand,’ said Maria, ‘is why anyone, if they found a murder scene, would choose not to contact the police but instead set about cleaning it up … and in the process destroy essential evidence. If you’re innocent, Kristina, why did you try to hide all traces of the crime?’

Kristina continued to rub at the invisible stain on the veneer surface of the interview table. Then she spoke without looking up.

‘They said I was mentally unsound when I killed Rauhe. That the balance of my mind was disturbed. I don’t know about that. But I do know that in prison, for a while, I was crazy. I nearly lost my
mind completely. It was because of what Rauhe did to me. Because of what I did to him.’ She looked up, her face hard, her eyes red-rimmed and moist with tears. ‘I would have panic attacks. Really bad ones. Much worse than the one I had today. I would feel as if I were suffocating, being smothered by the air I was breathing. It was like everything I was afraid of, everything I’d ever been afraid of, and all that terror Rauhe had put me through … all coming together at the one moment. The first time I thought it was a heart attack … and I was glad. I thought I was getting out of this hell. The prison put me on suicide watch and sent me for sessions with the prison psychiatrist. They said I was suffering from extreme post-traumatic stress and obsessive-compulsive disorder.’

‘What form did the OCD take?’ asked Susanne.

‘I developed a severe phobia about contamination … dirt, germs. Especially anything to do with blood. It became so strong that I stopped menstruating. I spent most of my time in prison in and out of the hospital wing. Anything could spark me off. The panic attacks became more and more severe until eventually they put me in the prison hospital wing permanently.’

‘What did they treat you with?’ asked Susanne.

‘Chlordiazepoxide and amitriptyline. They took me off the amitriptyline because it zonked me too much. I also got plenty of therapy and that helped a lot. If you’ve been through my record, you’ll know I was released early.’

‘So the therapy worked?’ asked Werner.

‘Yes and no … I got much better and was able to cope. But it was after I was released that I really started to get better. I was referred to a special clinic here in
Hamburg. One that only deals with phobias, anxiety disorders and obsessive-compulsive disorders.’

‘The Fear Clinic run by Dr Minks?’ asked Maria.

‘Yes … that’s the one.’ Kristina sounded surprised.

There was a brief silence as everyone waited for Maria to follow up her question. But she did not, instead holding Kristina in her steady blue-grey gaze.

‘Dr Minks worked wonders,’ Kristina continued. ‘He helped me get my life back. To get myself together again.’

‘It must have been effective.’ Werner leaned back in his chair and smiled. ‘For you to become a cleaner. I mean, does that not mean you face your worst fear each and every day?’

‘But that’s exactly it!’ Kristina suddenly became animated. ‘Dr Minks got me to confront my demons. My fears. It started in small steps, with Dr Minks there to support me. I was exposed more and more to the things that would trigger my panic attacks.’

‘Flooding …’ Susanne nodded. ‘The object of terror becomes an object of familiarity.’

‘That’s right – that’s exactly what Dr Minks called it. He said I could learn to control and channel my phobia, ultimately diminishing and conquering it.’ It was clear from the manner in which Kristina delivered the words that she was using an unaccustomed vocabulary learned from her psychologist. ‘He showed me that I could control chaos and get my life in order. So much so that it ended up that I became a cleaner.’ She paused and the zeal disappeared from her expression. ‘When I walked into Herr Hauser’s apartment … when I saw Herr Hauser and what had been done to him, I thought my world was falling apart. It was like I was right back in my
old apartment, when I …’ She let the thought die. ‘But Dr Minks taught me that I have to stay in control. He told me that I shouldn’t allow my past or my fear to define me, to define what I was capable of becoming. Dr Minks explained that I have to contain what I fear and by doing so contain the fear itself. There was blood. So much blood. It was like I was standing on the edge of a cliff or something. I really felt I was one step away from going mad. I had to take control. I had to get hold of the fear before it got hold of me.’

‘So you started to clean? Is that what you’re saying?’ Werner asked.

‘Yes. The blood first. It took so long. Then everything else. I didn’t let it win.’ Kristina rubbed again at the invisible spot on the table top. One last time. Decisively. ‘Don’t you see? The Chaos didn’t win. I stayed in control.’

The team had a brief meeting after the Kristina Dreyer interview. She remained the prime suspect and she was to be held in custody overnight, but it was clear that none of the team was convinced of her guilt.

After Fabel had wound the meeting up, he asked Maria to stay behind.

‘Is everything okay, Maria?’ he asked her when they were alone. Maria’s expression eloquently transmitted impatience and confusion. ‘It’s just that you didn’t say much in there.’

‘I tend to think there wasn’t much to say, to be honest,
Chef
. I think we’ll have to see what the forensic and pathology exams tell us about exactly
what happened. Not that Kristina Dreyer left us much to go on.’

Fabel nodded thoughtfully, then asked: ‘How do you know about this Fear Clinic she was attending?’

‘It got quite a bit of publicity when it opened. There was an article about it in the
Abendblatt
. It’s unique, and when Kristina Dreyer said she was attending a special clinic it was the only one that would fit.’ If Maria was hiding something, then Fabel could not read it in her face. Fabel found himself, not for the first time, becoming deeply irritated by her closed-off countenance. After what they had been through together, he felt that he deserved her confidence. He felt the urge to confront her; to ask just what the hell her problem was. But, if there was anything Fabel knew about himself, it was that he was a typical male of his age and background: he habitually repressed spontaneous expression of his feelings. It meant that he approached things in a more measured way; it also meant that he often churned deep inside with the turmoil of his feelings. He dropped the subject. He did not mention that he was concerned about Maria’s behaviour. He did not ask her if her life remained shredded by the horror of what had happened to her. Most of all, he did not give name to the monster whose spectre would, at times like these, stand between them: Vasyl Vitrenko.

Vitrenko had entered their lives as a shadowy suspect in a murder inquiry and had made a very tangible mark on every member of the team. Vitrenko, a Ukrainian, had been a former Spetsnaz officer and was as skilled with the instruments of death as a surgeon was with those of life. He had used Maria as a delaying tactic while he made his
escape: callously leaving her life hanging in the balance and forcing Fabel to give up his pursuit.

‘What do you think, Maria?’ he said eventually. ‘About Dreyer, I mean … Do you think she did it?’

‘It’s entirely possible that she took that step into madness again. Maybe she doesn’t remember killing Hauser. Maybe cleaning up the murder scene has wiped the memory of the murder from her mind. Or maybe she is telling the truth.’ Maria paused. ‘Fear can make us all behave in a strange way.’

It was, after all, what Dr Gunter Griebel had devoted much of his life to. As soon as he had seen the pale, dark-haired young man, there had been that instant of recognition; the instinctive knowledge that he was looking at a face that was familiar to him. Someone he knew.

But the young man was not someone whom Griebel knew. As they talked, it became clear that they had not met before. Yet the sense of familiarity remained, and with it the unshakeable, tantalising feeling that complete recognition was only a moment away; that if only he could place the face in a context then all would fall into place. And the gaze of the young man was disconcerting: a laser beam fixed on the older man.

They moved into the study and Griebel offered his guest a drink, which he declined. There was something strange about the way the young man moved around the house, as if each movement was measured, calculated. After a moment’s awkwardness Griebel indicated that his guest should sit.

‘Thanks for agreeing to meet with me,’ said the
younger man. ‘I apologise for the unorthodox manner in which I introduced myself to you. I had no intention of disturbing you while you paid your respects to your late wife, but it was pure chance that we were at the same place at the same time, just when I was going to phone you to try to arrange a meeting.’

‘You said you are a scientist yourself?’ Griebel asked, more to prevent an awkward silence than out of genuine interest. ‘What’s your field?’

‘It’s not unrelated to yours, Dr Griebel. I am fascinated by your research, particularly how a trauma suffered in one generation may have consequences for the generations that follow. Or that we pile one memory on another, generation after generation.’ The younger man stretched his hands out on the leather of the armchair. He looked at his hands, at the leather, as if contemplating them. ‘In my own way I am a seeker after the truth. The truth I seek perhaps isn’t as universal as yours, but the answer lies in the same area.’ He brought his laser-beam gaze back to bear on Griebel. ‘But the reason I am here is not professional. It’s personal.’

‘In what way personal?’ Griebel again sought to remember if and where they had met before, or of whom it was that the young man reminded him.

‘As I explained to you when we met in the graveyard, I am looking for answers for some of the mysteries in my own life. All my life I have been haunted by memories that are not mine … by a
life
that is not mine. And that is why you, your research, interests me so much.’

‘With the greatest respect.’ Griebel’s voice was edged with irritation. ‘I’ve heard all this kind of thing before. I’m not a philosopher. I’m not a psychologist and I’m
certainly not some kind of quasi-New Age guru. I am a scientist investigating scientific realities. I didn’t agree to meet you to explore the enigmas of your existence. I only agreed to meet you because of what you said about … well, about the past … the names you mentioned. Where did you get those names? What made you think the people you mentioned have anything to do with me?’

The young man smiled a broad, cold, joyless smile. ‘It seems so very long ago, doesn’t it, Gunter? A lifetime ago. You, me and the others? You’ve tried to move on … make a new life. If you can call the bourgeois banality you’ve been hiding behind a life. And all the time trying to pretend that the past didn’t happen.’

Griebel’s brow creased into a frown. He concentrated hard. Even the voice was familiar: tones he had heard – somewhere, sometime – before. ‘Who are you?’ he asked at last. ‘What do you want?’

‘It’s been so very long, Gunter. You all felt safe in your new lives, didn’t you? You all thought that you had put everything behind you. Put me behind you. But you all built your new lives on treachery.’ The younger man indicated Griebel’s study, the equipment, the books, with a dismissive sweep of his hand. ‘You have devoted so much time, so much of your life, to your studies. Your search for answers. You told me that you are a scientist looking for scientific realities; but I know you, Gunter. You are desperately seeking the same truths as I am. You want to see into the past, into what makes us what we are. And for all of your work, you are no further forward. But I am, Gunter. I have seen the answers you seek. I
am
the answer you seek.’

‘Who the hell are you?’ Griebel asked again.

‘But Gunter … you know already who I am …’ The younger man’s bright, frigid smile stayed fixed in place. ‘Don’t tell me you can’t see?’ He stood up, and removed a large velvet roll-pouch from the briefcase that he had set on the floor beside him.