Never Trust a Callboy (10 page)

"No, Father knows nothing about it. I didn’t want to worry him." I'm almost red in the face telling this lie.

"Tamara. Call him and tell him that you’re canceling the wedding. He is your Father, and he has a right to know what goes on in your life."

This phone call is extremely exhausting. In some things, my mother never changes.

"And then come and see me this afternoon, and we will consider your next move in peace and quiet. Don't argue with me," she adds, but I’m not having it.

"That’s not possible. I’m flying to Spain at lunch time."

"Today? You still have to cancel the wedding, and organize the house sale? How can you leave now?"

I sigh. I’m almost 30 years old and still have to listen while my mother tells me how to live my life.

"I have an appointment with a broker there," I lie, and then realize that I haven’t told the truth much in this conversation. "And our broker here is handling the sale of the house. There’s not much for me to do at the moment. It’s the perfect time to relax."

Okay. There aren’t any brokers taking care of anything, neither in Spain nor in Germany, but that can change. So really, I haven’t exactly lied. Not properly anyway. The trouble is that I’m not sure if I’ve contradicted myself at some point. Luckily, my mother doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, she surprises me again: "If you think that’s best," she says.

I stare at the phone with a huge question mark hanging in my head. Was that my mother who just said those words? Without going on about what a stupid idea this trip is? Without at least half an hour trying to convince me?

"How long are you staying for?" she asks after a pause in which I'm not able to say a word.

"I'll be back in a week."

"Good. Then the first thing you do is come visit me, or better still, I’ll pick you up from the airport."

After I have assured her that I think that’s a wonderful idea and that we should talk about it in detail later, I'm easily able to end the conversation and hang up. For a conversation with my mother it wasn’t too bad. In fact, she still hasn’t questioned me on Nana's relationship, or rather on my task of talking to her about it.

M
y heart is pounding in my chest when I enter our house. It looks forgotten, as if it had stood empty for a long time. There are dark shadows in the hallway. Outside the rain drizzles down, just like on the day on which I... I would rather not think about.

I stop and listen. Trying to figure out whether I'm alone, or whether someone else is inside, although it’s stupid. Who would be here? Ron is at the office. Ghosts maybe? The hairs on my neck stand on end. To distract me from my fear, I take determined steps into the living room to carry on packing my things. The more I can do before the broker gets here, the better.

Surprisingly Ron was of the same opinion as I am. He also wants to sell the house as quickly as possible. Which is a shame, because he won’t get to enjoy my new living room decoration.

By the time the doorbell finally rings I've done a lot already. Several boxes are packed and waiting in the hallway.

"It's a pity. This is a great home you want to sell here. The sale shouldn’t be too difficult with the current low interest rates," the broker comments as soon as he’s over the threshold.

"Sell it. No matter what the cost." I can’t resist this afterthought. Just the idea of Ron's face when he makes a loss on the sale of the house would be worth it. Okay, I shouldn't be so vindictive.

"It's your money." The agent pulls out a camera and starts to photograph everything. If he continues like this, we’ll still be here tomorrow morning.

"I'm sorry," he says with a crooked grin as he notices my impatient look. "The more pictures we have, the better. Buyers want to know exactly what a house looks like before they make the effort to visit it."

"That's all right. Take as many pictures as you need. I'll be in the kitchen packing. Let me know when you're done."

It seems several hours have passed by the time the broker finally says goodbye. Anything else he’ll have to discuss with Ron, because I won't be here.

With a relieved sigh I watch as the man gets into his car. At last! I can get out of here. In my haste I almost stumble coming down the stairs. The atmosphere in these rooms is becoming depressing. I think I hear a whisper in the shadows, but it’s just in my head. It’s my guilty conscience weighing down on me. Cold sweat trickles down my back.

If there are such things as ghosts, then I'm sure there’s one in this house now, and it’s furious that I buried it’s body in the garden. I have to find out who killed him. Who is responsible for his death. Just so he can find peace. Stop! I have to stop, otherwise I'm going to go crazy. There are no ghosts. And no dead man who is mad at me. Nevertheless, I am guilty. I must do something!

This decision reassures me a little. Even though I still don't know what to do, at least I’m sure that I will be able to do it. I just have to consider what my next steps should be. But I need rest. I have to go back to the hotel, because I’m too nervous here. I find myself distracted by the shadows on the walls and the drizzle outside, which reminds so much of that night.

Just as I’m about to close the front door behind me with a relieved sigh I remember that I forgot my silk sweater. I could really use it in this weather.

Where is the damn thing?

I rummage through the cabinet, yanking everything out until a mountain of clothing has piled up on the floor. But I can't find it. I'm sure that I gave it to Mrs. Bernecke for cleaning. She usually then puts everything back in the drawer. So why is it nowhere to be found?

Annoyed, I go into the bathroom and pull one piece of clothing after another out of the laundry basket. Of course it’s overflowing again with Ron's shirts, which he just stuffed in here after his business trip. There’s the expensive one with the light blue stripes, the two made of Egyptian cotton and then my sweater is here at last. A dark, red spot stops me in my tracks. It looks like blood.

There’s a noise from the front door, then someone starts ringing wildly. With great effort I push myself up and stuff everything back in the laundry basket, pop the lid on, and pray it’s not the police visiting again.

With quiet steps I make my way to the front door. I try not to make a sound, because I just want to find out who's waiting on the other side. If it's the police, I’ll act as if I'm not at home. Damn, my car is in the driveway. Okay. If it's the police, I'll pretend to be the unsuspecting cleaning lady. A cleaning lady who drives a Mercedes. A look through the spy hole shows me I can open the door. It’s the broker. Idiot! Did he have to scare me like that?!

"I'm terribly sorry, Miss Hartwig, but I forgot to get the keys from you. Without them I can’t show anyone your beautiful property."

"Wait here," I hiss at him gruffly. I go off to Ron's office and shortly after press the keys into his hand. Then I slam the door. I have to get out of here. This beautiful property, as he called it, is driving me crazy. I race to the first floor, stuff the sweater in a plastic bag, and hurry back down the stairs.

B
oy was that a busy day! I lie in bed exhausted. The discovery that I made in our house has drained all my energy. Not only that but I’m feeling frightened again, and have therefore escaped into the bed. I’m hoping to escape my thoughts by crawling under the soft blanket. So far it’s not working, because images of the blood-stained garment keep popping up in my head.

I get a horrible cold feeling when I think about what would have happened if I had let the police into our house. How they would have found the body, and then my sweater soaked with blood. Someone wants to frame me for murder. A name pops into my head. Ron.

But Ron wouldn't do such a thing, I contradict myself. He may have deceived me, but he is not a murderer!

I wish I could talk to someone about it. Hear a different opinion, let someone tell me what to do. What the right thing is. But I don't know who.

I can’t possibly discuss the whole thing with my mother, and I would hate to burden Nana. Reinhard is on holiday with his family in the Seychelles. It’s their first holiday in years. It would be unthinkable to bother him there in order to burden him with my problems. In any case... I like my half-brother, love him almost as my own brother, but since my father has favored him, my feelings are a bit more ambivalent.

It probably comes across to others that I resent him, I don’t, but I am jealous. All my life I’ve fought for my father’s recognition, and Reinhard didn’t have to do anything. There never was a serious altercation between him and my father. There is hardly a conversation in which father doesn’t express how appreciative he is of my stepbrother. I wish he would say something positive about me, just once.

No. I can't ask Reinhard for help.

I run through a list of my friends in my head and realize for the first time that I don't have a good girlfriend. Not since Anna emigrated to Ibiza.

I think back longingly on the time that we spent together. Anna was the only person who could really understand why I suffered because of the fact that my parents are wealthy. Just like me, she comes from a rich family, and just like me she had to fight against the prejudices that go along with that. When she first came to our school it didn't take long before we became inseparable. United in the fight against the envy of others. Not only that, we also had the same interests; we were both fanatical athletes. She as a rider and I as a figure skater.

Then there were our infamous Saturday evenings when we got older, when we no longer lived at home, but shared an apartment in Frankfurt. All that stopped when I met Ron and began to spend more and more time with him.

It was of course not the first time that one of us had a boyfriend, but with Ron it was different than before. It was Intense. Initially it seemed to me that every hour I didn’t spend with him was lost time. Ron was my hero, my knight in shining armor who wasn’t intimidated by my wealth. The intelligent, brilliant social climber who won his laurels himself, without my family's support.

Ron was the reason why my relationship with Anna got gradually weaker and weaker. After only a year I moved in with him, half a year later Anna moved for an indefinite period to Ibiza. Since then, our contact has been almost nonexistent. We rarely write an email or call each other.

I’m overcome with sadness as I realize that I've allowed this alienation to happen. I should visit her, rekindle the friendship and apologize to her. I feel a sense of hope as I imagine how we would meet. How happy we both would be about being able to spend a few days with each other.

With new courage, I snuggle into the pillow. I like the idea of leaving the city and escaping all my problems. In Ibiza I’ll have the necessary time and rest to get my life back under control, and to answer the question as to how I go about getting justice.

I'll book a flight right now! The thought has hardly taken shape before I’m on my laptop searching for flights. The prospect of being able to speak with someone about everything and being able to escape the oppressive atmosphere that has haunted me here at the same time, is the best thing that has happened to me in the last few days. With fiery zeal I rummage through the various offers, and only a little later end the search disappointed. There is no free space in any airplane in the next four weeks. Not if I want to be there in less than ten hours.

A heavy feeling of disappointment starts to sink in. A few minutes ago the idea of speaking to Anna and enjoying a few days in Ibiza had lightened my mood. But now I feel like a dark curtain has spread before my soul. I don’t want to be alone. I need company. I want to talk to someone.

Without knowing how it got into my hands, I suddenly find myself holding the note which Christian left me, reading his number and then dialing. I've earned a few nice hours!

Not long after I am again faced with the same dilemma as prior to his first visit: what should I wear? I don’t want to greet him dressed in a bathrobe this time.

Looking for something that can be easily taken off, looks good and is comfortable, I find a negligee that I have never worn. It’s deep red, and cut like a mini dress with thin spaghetti straps. Sexy. I don't put anything on underneath, the short little skirt just covers my butt. Good. He should be here soon. Soon I will know what I missed last night, or have at least forgotten. I'm nervous. Maybe a sip of champagne to calm my nerves. Just a little bit.

Suddenly there’s a knock on the door. He’s much earlier than I expected. I open it with a smile. I really am looking forward to seeing him again. My excitement doesn’t last long however, because standing in front of my door is something that kills my smile. Two men, two big, muscular men with expressionless faces and cold eyes stand before me.

Unable to say anything I quickly take a step back and try to slam the door, but they are faster. I'm sweating. I can smell the pungent smell of fear on me. My throat has dried out. I’m sure my face has gone pale. Nausea quickly joins the long list of my discomforts.

They don’t say anything. The larger one, who looks like a younger version of Rambo, blocks the door as I try to slam it. The other, whose hair looks like he had it bleached, passes me and enters the suite, behaving as though he owns the place. The door closes with a click. I don't dare move, but instead stand still, frozen to the spot. Then I feel hands on my shoulders and am rudely pushed forward.

"Nice place you have here, Miss Hartwig."

Although Blondie speaks with a quiet voice, a cold shudder runs down my back. His tone sounds threatening, as though it wouldn’t bother him if he had to commit a little murder during his lunch break. My legs suddenly feel as if they were made of rubber. I sink into a chair and try to control the jitters that have taken over my whole body.

"Stand, I liked the view." Obediently, I get up again. Hopefully I won’t throw up. Hopefully...

"We don’t like what you’ve driven us to..........."

Bile rises up in my throat. I swallow hard trying to get my stomach under control.