Melanie Raabe - The Trap

What’s going on here?

“Yes,” I say, swallowing.

“Great,” says Henkel. “Victor said you hadn’t felt well and that the interview couldn’t take place. But we’d still love to have you in one of our next issues. I wanted to ask you if it would be possible to repeat the interview at a more opportune time. The sooner the better.”

I catch my breath.

“Repeat it?” I exclaim. “With Lenzen?”

“Oh, yes, I should perhaps have mentioned that to begin with. I’m afraid Victor Lenzen won’t be available. He’s made a spur-of-the-moment decision to leave for Syria tonight on a lengthy research trip. But if you wouldn’t mind making do with me or one of my other colleagues…”

“Victor Lenzen’s leaving the country tomorrow?” I gasp.

“Yes, the crazy fellow,” Henkel says in an offhand manner. “It was probably only a matter of time before he got itchy feet again. I know he was your preferred interviewer, but perhaps we can…”

I hang up. My head is ringing. Tonight is all I have left.

I’m so sunk in thought that I jump when the living-room door opens and my mother pops her head around the side.

“Is everything all right, love?”

My heart leaps with joy. She hasn’t called me that for years. My father’s face appears behind her. I smile, in spite of my panic.

“Yes,” I say. “But you’ll have to forgive me; I’m afraid I’ve got to be going again.”

“What — now?” my mother asks.

“Yes. I’m very sorry, but something’s cropped up.” My parents look at me in horror.

“But we’ve only just got you back. You can’t leave again straightaway,” my mother says. “Please stay the night.”

“I’ll be back soon. Promise.”

“Can’t it wait till tomorrow?” my father asks. “It’s late.”

I can see the concern on their faces. They don’t care what I write or how I live; they only want me to be with them. Linda. Their elder daughter, their only remaining daughter. My parents look at me in silence and I almost cave in.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll come back, I promise.”

I hug my mother and feel like bursting into tears. Gently, I free myself from her embrace. She lets me go, reluctantly. I hug my father — remember him spinning me through the air when I was little, so big and strong; a laughing giant. Now he feels fragile. I ease myself away from him. He looks at me with a smile, takes my face in his trembling hand and strokes my cheek with his thumb, the way he used to.

“See you tomorrow,” he says, letting me go.

“See you tomorrow,” my mother says. I nod, forcing a smile.

I take my bag, leave my parents’ house, step onto the street and feel the night swallow me up.

I am sitting in a taxi outside his house. To my immense relief, there are lights on; he’s at home. He’s divorced now, but he still lives here. That much, at least, I know. Not that his marital status should be a matter of interest to me in the present situation.

I am breathing a mixture of smells: leather seats, sweat and pungent aftershave. I let my gaze rest on the front steps, and remember how we sat there in the darkness sharing a cigarette, an infinitely long time ago.

I haven’t seen Julian for almost twelve years. At the beginning of those twelve years, I had been convinced that couldn’t be all; that he would get in touch sooner or later — give me a ring, drop me a line, turn up on my doorstep, make some kind of sign. But there was nothing. Superintendent Julian Schumer. I remember the bond between us, as invisible and as real as electricity.

I have missed him. Now I’m sitting here in a taxi outside his house, a classical music station on the radio, the driver drumming the beat on the steering wheel, and time running through my fingers as I try to summon up the courage to get out of the car.

I pull myself together. I stride toward the front door, dazzled partway by the light triggered by the sensor. I climb the steps, ring the bell, brace myself to meet Julian. My feelings are irrelevant. What matters is that he believes me — that he helps me. I manage one deep breath, then the heavy wooden door opens.

A very tall, very beautiful woman stands before me and looks at me inquiringly.

“Yes?” she says.

For a moment I am speechless. What an idiot I am. Why had this possibility never occurred to me? The world has carried on turning.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I say. “Is Julian Schumer in?”

“No, he isn’t.”

The woman folds her arms across her chest and leans back against the doorjamb. Her auburn hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders. She glances at the waiting taxi, then turns her attention back to me.

“Will he be home tonight?” I ask.

“He should have been back ages ago,” she replies. “Are you a colleague of his?”

I shake my head. I can feel the woman’s mistrust, but I have no choice but to ask her for a favor.

“Listen, I urgently need help. Can you try to get ahold of him on his mobile?”

“He doesn’t have his mobile with him.”

Oh, Linda. So much for your plans.

“Okay. Then…could you give him a message when he gets back?”

“Who are you anyway?”

“I’m Linda Michaelis. Julian investigated my sister’s murder many years ago. I urgently need his help.”

The woman frowns. She seems unsure whether or not to ask me in to hear what I have to say — and evidently decides against it.

“Tell him I was here. Linda Michaelis. Tell him I’ve found him — the man from back then. His name’s Victor Lenzen. Can you remember that? Victor Lenzen.”

The woman stares at me as if I’ve gone mad, but doesn’t reply.

“Tell him to come to this address as quickly as possible,” I say, rummaging in my bag for my notebook and tearing out the page where I’d jotted down Lenzen’s address.

“As quickly as possible, okay? It’s really important!”

I look at her imploringly but only succeed in making her back away from me.

“If it’s as important as all that, why don’t you ring the emergency number?” she asks. “Julian isn’t the only policeman on the planet, you know.”

“It’s a long story. Please!”

I hold out the scrap of paper. She stares at it. Without stopping to think, I grab her arm and thrust the paper into her hand, ignoring her startled gasp.

Then I turn and leave.

In the light of the streetlamp, the taxi is glowing orange like the setting sun. I make my way back to it on wobbly legs and get in. No more detours. I give the driver the address and brace myself. Lenzen’s face appears before me and adrenaline surges through my belly and mingles with my anger. My body is so full of energy that I find it hard to sit still. I take some deep breaths.

“Everything all right back there?” the driver asks.

“Everything’s fine,” I say.

“Do you feel ill?”

I shake my head.

“Can you tell me what we’re listening to?” I ask, to distract myself.

“It’s a Beethoven violin concerto,” the driver replies. “But I couldn’t tell you which. Do you like Beethoven?”

“My father loves Beethoven. He used to play the Ninth at full blast whenever he got the chance.”

“The most fascinating piece of music ever written, if you ask me.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely! Beethoven composed the Ninth Symphony when he was already stone deaf. That wonderful music, all the different parts, the instruments, the choir, the soloists — all those divinely beautiful sounds — came from the head of a deaf man.”

“I didn’t know that,” I lie.

The driver nods enthusiastically and his enthusiasm makes me happy.