Sascha Arango - The Truth and Other Lies

The guy’s not a cop, Henry decided, as the elevator door closed behind him. He’s not a private detective either. He’s a perfectly normal man with a bee in his bonnet. An amateur. He must have been after Henry for quite some time. Why had he put on an act, pretended not to know him? If he were just a fan who had made a clumsy attempt to get close to his idol, he would have owned up to it in the hospital, if not sooner. Maybe he just wanted to make his mark and write a biography of him. Perhaps during his research he’d come across the gap in Henry’s past and smelled blood.

Whoever uncovers me will undoubtedly become famous, Henry thought, and pressed the button for the ground floor. On his way down it occurred to him that Fasch hadn’t asked about the briefcase. Of course, he would have given himself away then, but how could he not miss it? Gathering all that stuff would have cost time, effort, and money. He would surely set great store on getting it back.

So much was clear to Henry: this fellow had come perilously close to uncovering his secret and wanted to do him harm, but didn’t know how. Now he has a problem because he owes me. Maybe he’ll never walk again, thought Henry with a flicker of compassion. Nevertheless, Henry had to keep ahead of him, find out his plan, which wouldn’t be so difficult — anyone looking for clues invariably leaves his own clues along the way. Deep down inside, Henry had the feeling he’d met Fasch before. Sometime and somewhere.

He strolled through the little park in front of the hospital to the parking lot. It was hot. Flakes of blossom floated between the lime trees, a gardener was mowing the lawn, a sprinkler was soaking a stray newspaper. People in dressing gowns sat on benches. A bald woman on crutches was with her family. She’d obviously survived chemo and was glad to be alive. Congratulations are in order, thought Henry, feeling moved.

He stopped and turned around. His gaze wandered up the façade to the open window on the fourth floor. Fasch waved to him from his bed. Henry waved back. You can buy silence; but you can’t buy goodwill. No one knew that better than Henry.

He took the Maserati to Car Wash Royale to have the congealed blood removed from the seat leather. A troop of cleaners in silly paper caps hurled themselves at the job. Henry explained to the suspicious boss’s son that a wounded deer was responsible.

While the troop set to work, Henry sauntered out of pure curiosity into the nearest multistory parking garage, where he rummaged through the trash can next to the ticket machine for the red telephone. He ignored the camera diagonally above him; after all, he wasn’t doing anything illegal. The phone was of course long gone — crushed to pulp when the can was emptied, or in Africa.

An hour later the car was sparkling clean and the interior once more smelled of leather. The boss’s son came running out from his little glass cabin where his father had sat before him for forty years. He didn’t like the way Henry was distributing generous tips to the cleaning slaves, but he couldn’t do anything about it. Henry saw his suspenders straining over his belly.

“Mr. Hayden,” he murmured in respectfully low tones, “I didn’t recognize you straightaway, but I saw your book in the trunk. My wife is a big fan of yours and I wanted to ask you…”

“Would you like an autograph?”

“My wife would be delighted, and so would I, of course.”

Henry took the book out of the trunk and thumbed the pages. “It’s a little the worse for wear, but of course I’ll sign it for you. Was it you who came up with the name ‘Car Wash Royale’?”

The boss’s son already had a pen to hand. “Oh no, that was my father.” He watched, curious what Henry would write.

“What’s your wife’s name?”

“Sarah. She’s… um, yes. Sarah with an ‘h.’ ”

He wrote Best wishes to Sarah from Henry Hayden .

“May I ask you another thing?” the boss’s son blurted out as Henry gave him the book. “My wife writes, you see.”

“How funny,” Henry replied. “So does mine.”

“Just to amuse herself — for the drawer, you know, but she’s gifted. I’m not just saying that because she’s my… um, yes. Well now, I’m to ask you what’s the most important thing a writer should remember.”

“That’s a complicated question to spring on someone in the afternoon. The most important thing”—Henry scratched himself under his right eyebrow with a little finger—“the most important thing is to write only about things you know.”

“Things you know. Ah-ha.”

“And to allow plenty of time for leaving things out. Leaving things out makes for more work than anything else.”

“Leaving things out?”

“Everything you don’t write, everything you leave out on purpose or delete — that’s what gives you the most trouble and takes the longest. Don’t tell anyone you got that from me.”

Then Henry drove to his favorite fast-food stand behind the station and ate a meatball. It was time for a good plan. And it was here he had the best ideas.

Where to begin? That amiable idiot, Detective Jenssen, wasn’t a threat just yet, because he believed in Martha’s swimming accident. The homicide squad wouldn’t stir themselves while the corpse hadn’t surfaced. But that was just the point. The corpse could surface — in every sense — at any moment. It’s well known that it takes ages for human bones to disintegrate in seawater. Algae hinder the process; unfavorable temperatures slow decomposition; the low concentration of oxygen also plays a part. Only depth is any help. The deep sea is a gratifyingly uncharted place.

Then there was Betty. She was so angry and disappointed, she would leave him in peace for a little while. But sooner or later the baby would be born. Henry wasn’t sure whether the explanatory lecture in the Oyster Bar on the topic of What Really Happened on the Cliffs would prevent her from running to the police and blurting it all out. She was afraid. Fear is a truth drug. You should never frighten anyone who could snitch on you — Henry knew that. One word from Betty about their meeting place on the cliffs, and even the most useless policeman would put two and two together.

And then there was Sonja. He didn’t want to disappoint her . Henry had searched his heart and decided that his desire for her was as physical as it was spiritual, a stroke of pure luck at his age. During their dramatic encounter on the beach and later on the millstone in his garden, they hadn’t touched once, but the invisible current of libido between them and the union of their shadows had been sheer magic. And she liked his dog. It was all going swimmingly. Which took Henry back to point number two: Betty. He had to compensate her in some way, placate her, reassure her — in other words, she must be gotten rid of.

He opened the glove compartment and took out the receipt for a certain Surveillance Manual , which he had found in Fasch’s brown briefcase. “Office” had been noted on the receipt in red pen, presumably for tax purposes. Next to his address was the date of purchase. Fasch had bought this undoubtedly useful book on May third of the previous year. Just look at that, Henry thought — my birthday.

His GPS took him straight to the right street. Cobbled and with a slight downhill slope, it ran parallel to a busy main road. The noise of the traffic splashed over the roofs and broke between the house walls. Henry turned off and parked the gleaming Maserati on a side street. It stood out in this neighborhood among all the small cars, but he needed only a quarter of an hour.

The crumbling façade and front door were smeared with graffiti. The door was open. FASCH was scrawled in pen on the little nameplate next to the bell. Henry put on disposable gloves and rang the bell — you never know. Then he stepped into the dark hallway. Fasch’s mailbox was overflowing with mail. Henry went up to the third floor.