Melanie Raabe - The Trap

“Okay.”

Jonas watched Bug disappear in the direction of the conference room, her ponytail bouncing behind her. His thoughts strayed to Sophie Peters. All through the questioning she’d held up bloody well — no outbursts, no tears. Jonas put a cigarette between his lips as he headed outside; he felt for his lighter and was about to snap it open when he saw her, sitting on the low wall that edged the patch of lawn in front of the building.

She was slumped over, her face buried in her hands. Her heaving shoulders told him how hard she was crying. Jonas froze. Sophie hadn’t seen him. He wondered whether he should go to her, then thought better of it.

Back in the conference room, he couldn’t get Sophie out of his head. He watched the last of his colleagues trickle in for the meeting and felt a loathing for this room, with its strip lighting and its smell of PVC and coffee, where he had already spent so many hours.

Silence fell. Jonas realized that everyone was looking at him expectantly, and forced himself to concentrate.

“Well,” he said, addressing no one in particular. “Who would like to begin?”

Antonia Bug plunged in.

“First of all,” she began in her staccato-like way, “there’s the ex-boyfriend, who probably wasn’t even in the country at the time of the murder. That’s something we’re looking into.”

Jonas had a very clear image of what Bug must have been like as a child — precocious, overeager, a nerd. But popular all the same — blonde ponytail, glasses, her cutesy exercise books filled with neat, joined-up handwriting.

He let his thoughts wander. He’d long since read all the information that the team had put together about the victim and her social milieu: Britta Peters, twenty-four years old, graphic designer for an internet start-up, single, in good health. Killed with seven knife wounds. No sexual assault. The murder weapon, probably a kitchen knife, missing. It all pointed to an argument with someone she knew — an outburst of rage, an act of panic, a sudden fit of anger. The partner. Whenever anything like that happened, it was always the victim’s partner; the mystery murderer only exists in films. Yet the victim’s sister claimed to have seen the murderer, and not only she but all the victim’s acquaintances swore that Britta Peters had been single, that she had lost interest in dating after a painful separation, nothing in her head but work, work, work.

The voice of Volker Zimmer, a colleague known for his pedantry, brought Jonas back to earth. Bug had come to the end of her monologue.

“I’ve been asking around in the block of flats where the victim lived and in the neighborhood,” Zimmer said. “It didn’t yield much to begin with. But then I talked to a woman who lives in the flat above the victim and is about the same age.” Jonas waited for Zimmer to get to the point. He was familiar with Zimmer’s wordiness, but he also knew that he only ever spoke if he really had something to say.

“She claims that Britta Peters was furious because her landlord had several times taken the liberty of going into her flat while she was out. It seems that she was more than a little upset by this; she’d even thought of moving out.”

“Understandable,” Bug threw in.

“Does the landlord live in the same block?” Jonas asked.

“Yes,” Zimmer replied, “he has the big penthouse flat at the top.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“He wasn’t in. But I’ll drive around again later.”

Jonas nodded pensively and his thoughts began to drift again, as Michael Dzierzewski, a dependably cheerful elderly colleague with whom Jonas went to the occasional football match, began to report on details concerning the victim’s place of work.

When the meeting came to a close, the team dispersed to check up on ex-boyfriends, landlords and male colleagues. Jonas watched his own colleagues go about their work with professional zeal. He thought of Sophie and the promise he had made her, and wondered whether he would be able to keep it.

Back in his office, he sat down at his desk. He glanced at the framed photograph of him and Mia in happier times. He contemplated it for a moment, then decided that now was not the time to be dwelling on his marriage, and set to work.

Victor Lenzen has amazing eyes — so clear and cold. They stand in contrast to the wrinkles in his weather-beaten face. Victor Lenzen resembles a beautiful aging wolf. He looks at me and I still haven’t got used to his look. In my absence, he has taken off his jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. He has also rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt a little.

My gaze comes to rest on his lower arm, on the texture of his skin. I can see the individual cells that make it up. I imagine running a finger along a protruding vein, feeling the warmth emanating from him, and I am choked by an emotion that I could really do without right now. I have been alone for a very long time. A handshake or a fleeting hug are all the physical contact I’ve tolerated over the past years. Why do I have to think these thoughts now?

“Can we?” Lenzen asks.

Here we go. I must concentrate. I’ve survived the photo shoot and now we’re off — the interview can begin.

“I’m ready,” I say.

I sit up straight, aware of my rigid body.

Lenzen gives a quick nod. He has his papers in front of him but doesn’t refer to them.

“Frau Conrads, once again thank you very much for inviting us to your beautiful house.”

“Not at all.”

“First question then — how are you?”

“I’m sorry?” I say, surprised at the question, and realize from the soft click on my left that the photographer has recorded the moment. I am still struggling with dizziness and surges of nausea, but I don’t let it show.

“I mean, you live a very secluded life — that’s common knowledge. So it’s only natural that your many readers should wonder how you are.”

“I’m well,” I say.

Lenzen’s nod is barely perceptible. He looks me in the face, not taking his eyes off me. Is he trying to read me?

“You’ve had great success with your novels. Why have you switched genre and written a thriller?”

Back to the opening question, which I didn’t get around to answering earlier because Charlotte interrupted us. Good. I am prepared for this question — which cannot be said of Lenzen’s bizarre preamble. I give him the spiel I’ve rehearsed.

“As you mentioned before, my life is far from normal. I don’t leave the house, don’t go to work, don’t go to the baker’s or the supermarket. I don’t travel, I don’t meet friends in cafés or clubs. I live a life that is very secluded, which means it is not always easy to avoid boredom. Writing is my way of allowing myself to escape a bit, and I wanted to try out something different. Of course I understand if some of the people who liked my previous books are surprised by the new direction, but I needed a kind of literary change of scene.”

While I’m talking, Lenzen takes a sip of water — very good. The more traces he leaves behind, the better.

“And why, of all the genres available to an author, did you choose the thriller?” Lenzen persists.

“Maybe because it offers the greatest possible contrast to my previous work.”

Sounds plausible enough. It is important to get the interview off to a normal start. Let Lenzen wonder what I’m hatching — I don’t care. I’ll strike when he’s least expecting it.

He has a quick look through his notes now, and my gaze falls on the ashtray on the table.

“You don’t happen to have a cigarette for me, do you?” I ask. Lenzen looks at me in surprise. “Yes, I do,” he says.

My heart gives a leap when Lenzen digs a blue packet of Gauloises out of his pocket and holds it out to me. I take one.