The Trap

By the time Charlotte shows up in the early morning and starts to unpack my shopping, I have already put in several hours of hard work. I have watched the surveillance technicians with their impassive faces remove the microphones and cameras from my house. I have cleaned up. I have eliminated all traces of Victor Lenzen. I have seen the videos of the crazy author and the bewildered reporter. I have kept my anger in check—no more rooms laid to waste, no more bloody fists. Instead, I have prepared myself.

Now all that remains is to get Charlotte on board, but it’s not that easy. We’re standing in the kitchen. Charlotte is putting fruit and vegetables and milk and cheese in the fridge, and gives me a suspicious look. I can sympathise; my request must seem odd to her.

‘How long do you want me to keep Bukowski?’ she asks.

‘A week? Would that be all right?’

Charlotte scrutinises me, then nods.

‘Sure—why not? Love to. My son will go wild. He adores dogs; he’d like one of his own.’

She hesitates, casting a stolen glance at the bandage on my right hand—the hand I smashed against my study wall like a madwoman and injured so badly that I had to ask my GP to come and attend to it. I know there’s something else Charlotte wants to say: that she’s worried about this peculiar employer of hers, who never sets foot outside, has been through at least one depressive crisis recently, and is now asking her to take care of her dog. It sounds as if I’m planning my suicide and want to make sure that somebody will take care of my beloved pet when I’m dead. Of course it does—normal people don’t give their pets to other people to look after unless they’re going on holiday, and the idea that I might have plans to travel is absurd.

‘Frau Conrads,’ she says falteringly, ‘are you all right?’

I feel such immense fondness for Charlotte that I can barely stop myself from hugging her, which would surely unsettle her even more.

‘Everything’s fine—really it is. I know I’ve been strange these last weeks and months, maybe even depressed, but I’m better now. I just have an awful lot to get done in the next few days and Bukowski needs so much attention at the moment…’

I pause. I know I sound ridiculous, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

‘It would be really great if you could take him for a few days. I’ll pay you, of course.’

Charlotte nods, nervously scratching her tattooed lower arm.

‘Okay.’

I can no longer restrain myself and I fling my arms round her neck. Earlier today, I had asked her whether the journalist who had interviewed me had been in touch with her and she said no. In any case, I don’t believe that Lenzen would harm Charlotte. He’s not stupid.

Charlotte suffers my embrace. I hold her tight for a few seconds, then let her go.

‘Er, thanks,’ Charlotte mumbles, embarrassed. ‘I’ll go and pack the dog’s things then.’ And she takes herself off upstairs.

I’m immensely relieved, almost cheerful even. I’m about to go in my study when I stop in the hall and stare in amazement at the little orchid I fetched in from my conservatory a few months ago. I’ve tended it with care, fed it fertiliser, watered it once a week, given it frequent attention. But it is only now that I see the new stem it’s put out. The buds on it are tiny, unspectacular and tight, but already they hold the lush splendour of exotic blooms. It seems a miracle. I decide to entrust the plant to Charlotte’s care as well. I wouldn’t want it dying while I’m away.

The rest of the day I’ve spent at my laptop in my study, reading. I’ve discovered that orchids can survive practically anywhere—in soil, on rocks and stones, on other plants. They can, in theory, continue to grow indefinitely, but almost nothing is known about how long they can live.

At some point, Charlotte left. Bukowski made a scene when she put him in her car, as if he feared that something awful was in store. He knows Charlotte’s car because she’s the one who drives him to the vet, but he was still distraught. I stroked him a bit and ruffled his fur, but only a little. I didn’t want him to think we were parting for good.

Hope to see you again, mate.

After Charlotte and Bukowski had left, I went into the conservatory and watered my plants. When I’d finished, I made myself some coffee. Then, cup in hand, I wandered into my library, breathed in its soothing smell and looked out of the window for a while, until my coffee began to grow cold and the world outside began to grow dark.

It is night. There’s nothing left to do. I am ready.

EPILOGUE

SOPHIE

She had bumped into him quite by chance. She had gone to a pub she’d never been to before and, although it was pretty full, had spotted him at once.

He was sitting at the bar on his own, a drink in front of him. Sophie could hardly believe it. Then it occurred to her that he might think she was stalking him, and was on the point of walking out again when he turned and spotted her. She gave an embarrassed smile and went over.

‘Are you following me?’ Jonas Weber asked.

‘Pure coincidence, honest,’ Sophie replied.

‘I’ve never seen you here before,’ he said. ‘Do you come here often?’

‘I often walk this way, but today’s the first time I’ve been inside.’

Sophie swung herself onto an empty barstool.

‘What are you drinking?’ she asked.

‘Whisky.’

‘Okay,’ said Sophie and turned to the barman. ‘I’ll have what he’s having.’

The landlord poured her a glass and set it in front of her.

‘Thanks.’

Sophie contemplated the clear brown liquid, making it slosh back and forth a little in the glass.

‘What shall we drink to?’ she asked at last.

‘I’m drinking to the official failure of my marriage,’ said Jonas. ‘How about you?’

Sophie hesitated, unable to digest what she’d heard. She wondered whether she should comment but decided against it.

‘I always used to say: to world peace,’ she said. ‘But the world isn’t peaceful and isn’t ever going to be.’

‘No toast then,’ said Jonas.

They looked into each other’s eyes, clinked their glasses together and knocked back the whisky.

Sophie dug a banknote out of her trouser pocket and placed it on the bar.

‘Keep the change,’ she said to the barman.

She turned to Jonas. He looked at her with his strange eyes.

‘You’re leaving already?’ he asked.

‘I have to.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. I have someone waiting for me at home,’ said Sophie.

‘Oh. You and your fiancé are…back together?’

His voice was neutral.

‘No, I’ve found somebody else and I don’t want to leave him on his own for long. Would you like to see him?’

Before Jonas could reply, Sophie had pulled her mobile from her jeans pocket. She made a few hasty taps on the display and then thrust a photo of a tousled pup under his nose.

‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’ she asked.

Jonas had to smile.

‘What’s he called?’

‘I’m thinking of calling him after one of my favourite authors. Maybe Kafka.’

‘Hm.’

‘You’re not convinced?’

‘Kafka’s definitely a good name. But he somehow doesn’t look like a Kafka.’

‘What does he look like then? And don’t come with any of your poets; I’m not calling him Rilke.’

‘I think he looks like a Bukowski.’

‘Like a Bukowski?’ Sophie asked, indignant. ‘Wasted and boozy?’

‘No, unkempt. And kind of cool.’

Jonas shrugged. He was about to say something when his phone rang. He didn’t answer, and a brief buzz announced the arrival of a voicemail.

‘You need to call back,’ Sophie said. ‘A new case.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I have to be going anyway.’

Sophie got down off the barstool. She looked Jonas in the eyes.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘What for? You’re the one who caught him.’

Sophie shrugged.

‘Thanks all the same,’ she said. She planted a kiss on Jonas’s cheek and disappeared.