The Sinner (27 page)

A good half of what I brought home was unpaid-for. At the
supermarket I stole sweets and some of the groceries I had to get
for Mother. In Woolworths I took barrettes, lipsticks and other bits
and pieces I could easily slip into my jacket pocket but didn't need
myself. Those things I sold in the playground.

I was an unbelievably good shoplifter. I looked so nice and
innocent, no one would have thought me capable of skulduggery.
Plenty of people knew who I was. I was just "that poor child" to
the checkout girl at the supermarket, who lived on our street, and
at Woolworths one of the sales assistants was a good friend of Grit
Adigar, so it was just as easy there.

Nobody ever caught on, not even the girls who bought things
from me. All I had to tell them was: "My aunt has sent me another
parcel, but the stuff's no use to me. My mother would crucify me
if she saw me wearing lipstick." They were all delighted to buy the
things from me at half price.

I was rolling in it. I had my pocket money from Father, the
proceeds of my raids on Mother's purse and my income from the
playground. And I spent very little. I hoarded it all, the cash as
well as the confectionery. I often had so many sweets in the barn
I couldn't eat them by myself. In summer the chocolate melted
under the old potato sacks, so I often took some to school and gave
it to the other girls. This made me their best friend, and they vied
with each other for the privilege of playing with me during break.

And I went on gambling with Magdalena's life. It was like the
ladder superstition. You screw up the courage to walk under it and
nothing happens, so you do it again and again. In the end you
become convinced you're immune to bad luck. But you can't cheat
fate like a mother who isn't right in the head. Sooner or later, when
you're least expecting it, disaster strikes.

For a long time it looked as if I had no influence on Magdalena's
condition. No matter what I did or didn't do, she remained
equally well or unwell. It depended on your point of view She had
survived leukaemia. After five years, the doctors said, you were safe
to assume a complete cure.

Because even the doctors called it a miracle, Mother naturally
attributed her recovery to our prayers. But I didn't pray any more; I
kneeled before the crucifix and thought up stories for Magdalena.

Once I told her I had a regular girlfriend. I was nearly thirteen
and could easily have bought myself one. With eight hundred
marks stashed away in the barn, I knew that Magdalena had been
wrong in one respect: money can get you anything.

She found the girlfriend story exciting and asked me to describe
her. She wanted to know every detail. How tall was she? Was she
fat or thin? Was she pretty? Did we talk about boys? Had she ever
been in love with one? Did I think I could get her to walk past our
house? Then she could see her.

One afternoon we were in the bedroom Magdalena shared with
Mother, which overlooked the street. She was sitting on her bed,
while I kept watch beside the window When a really pretty girl
came down the street I helped Magdalena over to the window
Holding her tight with one arm, I tapped on the glass to attract the
girl's attention. She looked up but shook her head. She probably
thought we were daft.

I told Magdalena my friend knew how careful we had to
be because of Mother - that was why she'd shaken her head.
Magdalena believed every word of it.

Once, when I'd frittered away half the afternoon shopping, I told
her my friend had invited me to come to the ice-cream parlour and
stood me a strawberry sundae with whipped cream. She'd raved
about some boy she was very much in love with but the boy himself
was unaware of this.

The next day I told her we'd written the boy a letter, and my
friend had asked me to slip it into his pocket. Lies, lies, all lies! There
were times when it seemed to me that my life was one big lie.

Rudolf Grovian was gradually losing his temper, but not with her,
with himself. Her aunt's warning - "She'll slam the door in your
face" - flashed through his mind. Damnation, he'd tackled things
the wrong way, but it ought to be possible to get his foot in the
door again. He cast around in vain for the right tone to adopt. Any
references to Margret Rosch only bolted the door more firmly.

When he asked how Margret had lied to him and what she'd
stolen - he would "never guess what it was, even in his worst
nightmare" - she said: "Do your own work. You're paid for it, I'm
not."

He reverted to the crucial question: if Johnny existed, was he
identical with Georg Frankenberg? She didn't answer, so he felt
obliged to threaten her although it was the last thing he'd wanted
to do. "In that case, Fran Bender, I suppose I'll have to speak to
your father after all."

She smiled. "Why not try my mother? She knows everything.
But make sure your knees are well padded."

She drank the last of her coffee, put the cup down with an air of
finality and looked up at him. "That wraps it up, doesn't it? May I
change before you hand me over to the examining magistrate? My
clothes are all sweaty. I slept in them, and I wore them all yesterday.
I'd also like to clean my teeth."

He felt infinitely sorry for her at that moment. She had always
been dependent on herself Why should she believe him, of all
people, if he offered to help her? That apart, what help could he
offer her? Several years behind bars. With as much neutrality as he could muster, he said: "Your things aren't here yet, Frau Bender.
We asked your husband to bring them here, but he still hasn't
appeared."

She shrugged her shoulders indifferently. "He won't either. I said
Margret should do it."

Margret turned up half an hour later. In the interim he made
three attempts to elicit some information about the other girl.
Who was she? The first time he put the question calmly. `Ask my
mother," she suggested. "But you're welcome to try my father as
well. He's bound to be pleased if you tell him I was raped while
another girl was beaten to death."

He asked a little more forcefully the second time. She turned
to Werner Hoss. "Does your boss need a hearing aid, or is he
just pig-headed? He's got a major problem - sounds like an old
gramophone record with a crack in it."

The third time he sounded almost imploring. She glanced at the
coffee machine. "Is that a reject from home?" she asked. "Can't
the police afford a new one? They aren't all that expensive. There
are some that boil the water properly; it makes the coffee taste
much better. I bought one like that. I'll miss it, unless they let me
have one in my cell. If they do I'll send for it. Then, when you visit
me, you can also have a cup. You will visit me, won't you? We can
spend a cosy afternoon drinking coffee and telling tall stories. Let's
see who's better at it."

Grovian's patience was tested to the limit. He felt almost relieved
when there was a knock at the door, and her aunt came in. Margret
Rosch had packed a small suitcase. Werner Hoss took it from
her and examined the contents. They didn't amount to much,
just two nighties, her toilet articles, two blouses, two skirts, some
underclothes, two pairs of tights, a pair of flat-heeled shoes and a
framed photograph of her son.

It was a peaceful picture taken on a terrace. The little boy was
crouching down with one hand resting on a green tractor, blinking
at the sunlight and the camera.

She waved the photo away when Hoss put it with the rest of her
things. Her face had stiffened, her voice was harsh and impersonal, and the look she gave her aunt would have graced an ice maiden.
"Take that away," she said.

Margret Rosch, who had made such a resolute impression on
Grovian in the small hours, was now looking helpless and somehow
apprehensive. "But why? I thought you'd like to have a picture of
him. I'm sure it's allowed, isn't it?" She gave Grovian an almost
despairing glance. He merely nodded.

"I don't want it," said Cora. "Take it away."

Like a cowed child, her aunt took the snap from the heap of
clothes and put it in her handbag.

"Did you bring the tablets?" Cora asked.

Margret Rosch nodded. She reached in her handbag and took
out a small packet. Grovian thought he knew why he'd failed to get
his foot in the door. "That's not possible," he said.

"But she needs them," Margret Rosch protested. "She often
suffers from violent headaches - they're the result of a serious head
injury. Surely she told you yesterday about that accident?" The
stress on the last word was unmistakable.

Grovian took the packet from her. "I'll give them to the people in
charge. If she needs them, she'll be given them. In the prescribed
dosage."

Margret stepped forward as though about to embrace her niece.

"No, don't bother," Cora said almost casually. "Pretend I'm
dead, that's the best plan. You won't need my corpse for that, will
you? If you do need one, try the hospital morgue. There are always
a few lying around in there."

To Grovian, that remark sounded plain spiteful. Her aunt reacted
accordingly. She swallowed hard, lowered her arms and made for
the door without a word of farewell. A moment later the door
closed behind her. With a jerk of the head, Grovian signed to Hoss
to leave the room as well. As soon as they were alone together he
embarked on a final attempt.

"Well," he said, "now we can talk in private, Fran Bender. Let's
do so like sensible adults. The lake didn't work, and neither will
these tablets. Don't even think of trying anything else; I'll make
sure you don't get the chance."

She remained impassive.

`EA serious head injury," he said deliberately. "That's a pretty
deep scar on your forehead - not just skin-deep, the skull was
obviously fractured. I noticed it last night. Before you fainted you
said something about a crystal paw and how cruel it was of your
husband to smoke a cigarette beforehand because the ashtray
started it all. So don't tell me you walked in front of a car."

She smirked at him. "I'm telling you nothing more. There
should be some of the weekend left once I've said my piece to the
magistrate. What does your wife say when you work overtime? Or
don't you have a wife?"

"Yes, I do."

"Good." The smirk became a grin. "Then tuck her up in the car
and take her for a nice outing when you've handed me over. Drive
to the Otto Maigler Lido and better take Herr Hoss with you. He
can show you an interesting spot. A man was killed there yesterday.
Just imagine, the poor fellow was butchered simply because he was
necking with his wife and listening to some music - butchered by
some stupid cow who flipped because she didn't like the tune."

"Frau Bender," said Grovian, trying to sound authoritative,
"spare me the comedy act. How did you get that scar?"

She stared at him, her uninjured eye like a hole in her face. He
longed to know what was smouldering inside it, rage or panic. For
a moment lie felt he'd struck the right note. Then she tapped the
right side of her head. "I've got a scar here too, an even bigger one,
like to see it? You'll have to brush the hair aside, not that there's
much to see. It's a good repair job."

"Who inflicted these injuries on you?"

She shrugged, and the grin stole back over her battered features.
"I already toldyou. If you don't believe me, that's your problem. My
head hit the bonnet, more I can't say. I was high when it happened.
The doctor explained to you about my arms, and I'm sure my aunt
also told you what my problem was. I used to shoot up."

She held out her left arm and pointed to the inside of the elbow
"I wasn't careful enough - I didn't sterilize my needles. The skin
got badly inflamed. See? It's all pitted."

She ran her finger over the scar tissue. "I tried everything on
offer," she went on. "Grass, coke and finally heroin." She laughed
softly. "But don't worry, you haven't missed anything, I've been
clean for years. Now will you show me where I can change?"

Although offhand, her voice had a harsh, hostile edge. He had no
idea how a traumatized person felt, but the wall analogy struck him
as appropriate. In her case he was managing to do what he never
succeeded in doing with his daughter: remain calm, sympathetic and
patient. He simply imagined that she was standing in front of her
wall, defending all that lay hidden behind it with tooth and claw

"Why didn't you tell us last night you were an addict?"

She gave another shrug. "Because I didn't think it was any of
your business. It's a few years ago now, and it's quite irrelevant. My
husband knows nothing about it. I hoped he would never find out.
It was long before his time."

"Whose time was it, Georg Frankenberg's? Did he give you the
stuff?"

She cast up her eyes at the ceiling "Who are you investigating:
me or him? What are you trying to pin on the poor devil? You want
to brand him a criminal, is that it? Doesn't it fit your idea of the
world that a woman can kill someone simply because she's annoyed
by some loud music? Shall I tell you something? I really wanted to
stab the woman. It was his bad luck to be lying on top."