Never Trust a Callboy (3 page)

Two meters.

The large bolt at the top of the door squeaks. Ron should have oiled that over a year ago.

One and a half meters.

Only the topmost lock is left. The sound is too quiet to hear it. I could have sworn that I perceived the quiet click nevertheless. Now she is inside.

One meter.

With a sharp jerk, I yank the tarp the last few centimeters and around the corner. Letting go of the end I sprint into the house. Almost skidding, I come to a standstill before my mother. She inspects me from top to bottom, eyes wide in disbelief. She starts to say something, opens her mouth ... then closes it again. Apparently she’s speechless. It’s a miracle.

"Tamara you look terrible!"

How disappointing, she’s recovered from her speechlessness. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with one hand and try to tie my hair up with the other. Somehow I get the impression that it’s pointless. I'm almost certain that discovering a corpse would have shocked my mother far less than my current appearance.

"I had something to do in the garden."

"But Ron always does that."

"He doesn’t come back until Wednesday and I wanted to get it done before then."

"Do you have to? You look... I don't even know how to put it. You look indescribable. I’ve never seen you looking so dreadful."

"It's hot and humid. How do you think someone should look after working in this weather? After dragging a cor.. trash around?"

"No need to be rude. You’d better go have a shower first and then I’ll show you the curtains."

"You were going to come by tomorrow!"

"I had to pass by your house anyway. There's no sense coming again tomorrow, just to pollute the environment."

Yeah, right. Of course! Our house is located in the middle of a residential area. My mother has no other reason to pass by here except to visit me.

"Now go shower." She wrinkles her nose. "You smell all sweaty."

Great. The idea of leaving my mother alone with a corpse hidden behind the garage just a few meters away fills me with dread. She has a sixth sense, a built-in radar, that can see everything I want to hide from her. Then my eyes fall on her shoes. Cream-colored stilettos. Maybe God is on my side.

"And shouldn’t your housekeeper be here by now? It looks..." My mother’s gaze falls on the stool that toppled over along with the body.

"And what is that?" She gestures towards the flower pot.

"That was the cat. Our neighbors cat. It must have snuck in overnight. I'm going to kill the damn thing."

"Tamara!" My mother looks at me shocked. Not because I want to kill the cat, but because I cursed. I never do normally... at least, not in her presence.

"Well, it's a bloody nightmare." Oops.

"I think you’d better go shower now. You’re talking nonsense."

I can't see her face, but I know exactly how she’s looking at me as I leave, shaking her head slightly. It doesn’t matter. I’ve exhausted all my energy; I’m not up for a confrontation. Actually the day was going better when it was just me and the dead body.

As I see myself in the mirror I can understand my mother’s horror. I look like a madwoman. Not too long ago, I still had such a thing as a hairstyle, but now my hair is standing out from my head in wild curls. Two black stripes run down my cheeks, complemented by two equally dark black circles under my eyes. It looks as if I was right when I opened the door to the officers and the thought hit me that I only had half my make up on. The good news is that this is the least of the problems, and hardly noticeable, in my current state.

With a sigh I begin to repair the damage. Then the doorbell rings. Not again. Nevertheless, I continue with my cleaning action. If anyone can get rid of unwanted visitors, it’s my mother.

"Tamara? There’s a man here. He says he’s here to install new door locks," my mother says as I arrive back downstairs.

A man in dark blue overalls is standing next to her.
Express key service
is emblazoned in red letters on his chest.

"I wasn’t expecting you for an hour?"

With a grin, he points to the company name. "We’re the fastest, and the best," he announces.

Wonderful. Today would have to be the first time ever that a handyman comes too soon. I can feel the quizzical look of my mother boring in to me. I know how her brain works. I will need a good explanation for this.

"All the locks on the front door need to be replaced. How long will it take?"

Thoughtfully he eyes what would probably be enough locks to secure a bank safe. I can't blame him, I found it somewhat excessive when Ron installed a safety lock, a bolt and an alarm system in addition to the existing door locks.

"Two hours. At least."

Two hours? "I’ll give you a hundred euros if you can do it in an hour."

He grins. “Okay. It’s as good as done."

"Tamara, are you crazy? Do you want to throw your money out the window?" Economical even in death. Even if it's not her own money. At least she’s distracted from the real issue.

"I have no time today. I already told you that. Where are the samples?"

She unpacks the curtain samples with a doubtful look and a shake of the head. I breathe a sigh of relief. I did it. The corpse is out of sight and my mother is now preoccupied with thoughts of her favorite subject, the reorganization and decoration of our house. Even if I don't know how I came up with the stupid idea to want to decorate the living room before our wedding.

"Don't you think that this delicate purple would fit wonderfully with your white couch?"

"Uh. Yes. No. We want to buy a black couch. Black, with a lot of chrome." This way the fingerprint powder won’t leave stains on the couch.

My mother looks at me dumbfounded. "Black and chrome? But you hate black and chrome!"

"I think our furniture is far too conservative. Black and chrome are in right now, and silver curtains would fit perfectly." With these words, I urge her towards door. "I'm sorry, I should have said earlier, that I changed my plans, but the thought didn’t occur to me until this morning." After I had found a dead body and the image of friendly police officers handcuffing me and dusting our furniture got stuck in my head. "You really have to go now. The florist will be here any minute, the caterer..." Who else? There’s someone I haven’t accounted for this morning.

"Good. But we’ll talk this evening. Something's wrong with you, Tamara. Are you sure you’re okay?"

"Yes, Yes. Everything is alright. I’m fine. Just a little stressed today. I’ll be glad when this week is behind me."

Finally. She's gone.

The locksmith is working like a mad man at our door. He should definitely be finished soon.

A
fter the locksmith has left as well, I make my way to the garden center where I buy a few square meters of turf, which I will spread over the grave that’s about to arise in our garden. Internally I pray, against all evidence to the contrary, that it will not happen. I hope for a gracious fate and a corpse that dissolves into thin air.

After I finish my purchase, I sit motionless in the car for almost a quarter of an hour. I have to go home, but it’s the last place I want to be right now. I usually visit Nana, my Grandmother, in crisis situations, but this crisis is too big to go to her for. And also... I'm just not ready to talk to anyone about it or to carry on with inconsequential small talk.

After a while I summon my courage. I'll go into the city and have a coffee in one of the many student cafés. Maybe I’ll even get something to eat.

"A glass of sparkling wine, breakfast number nine and a coffee with milk please," I order from the waiter, glad to have found a seat in the Albatross, a small cafe in Frankfurt’s student quarter. It doesn't take long before my order is standing on the table before me. My hands are still shaking, so I have to grasp my glass firmly with both hands and gently take a sip. Maybe the wine will help me to relax and quiet my mind. After all, I've done nothing decisive yet.

Gradually, the wine takes its effect. For the first time today I feel somewhat better. I carefully try the bread, hoping I can now actually eat something, without immediately regurgitating it. I take a further bite as it hits me just how hungry I am.

It's been forever since I've eaten something. My last meal was at some point last night. Today, the corpse in the kitchen stopped me... Okay, better think of something else.

To distract myself I leaf through a magazine. But I don’t succeed in understanding one word of what I read. The characters dance in front of my eyes and make no sense. With a sigh, I give up and instead look out of the large terrace window on to the small park outside. During my studies I used to sit in this Café garden under the gazebo for several hours at a time, drinking coffee, and excitedly discussing our latest exam or an unfair Professor with my friends. This is where I met Ron for the first time.

When I saw him, I never thought that he would be interested in me. He was so incredibly handsome, so manly and self-confident. Quite different from the men that I had previously dated. Ron knew exactly what he wanted and especially how to get it.

With a dreamy smile I let my gaze wander through the garden, and I remember a hot summer night, barely two weeks after we met. I was in Ron's penthouse, which provided breathtaking views of the entire city. But that was not what captured my attention. It was Ron himself. He held me with his gaze. Music was playing in the background, but I didn’t really notice it. Apart from Ron and me nothing else seemed to exist.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered finally. Without breaking eye contact he traced the contours of my face with his finger. I closed my eyes for a second and enjoyed the contact, which awoke all my nerve endings. Like a trail of lava.

And then I felt a gentle stroking on my lips, followed by the taste of the sea.

Salt.

His fingers moved further, stroked over my chin and down my neck, up to the neck line of my shirt. He skimmed his fingers along the thin fabric without touching my skin.

A sharp sweet scent appealed to my senses. I opened my eyes and saw Ron holding a lemon in his hand.

Delicately, he pulled a piece off with his teeth. He smiled as he leaned over to me and licked the salt from my lips. And then he kissed me.

Suddenly a deep longing spreads inside me. I wish he were here and could help me to cope with the crisis that my life has suddenly turned into. But he's away until Wednesday, and I don’t want to tell him what has happened over the phone. The newspapers are always reporting that phone conversations are being recorded, and besides, what would I say? I had a nice day until I found a corpse in the kitchen?

A quiet ringing tears me away from these deliberations. A text from Ron. As if he had read my mind and knew that I needed him now.

“Back to back meetings. How are you doing?”

How am I? Bad!

But I can't tell him that, obviously not. If I did he’d want to know what’s going on. And although I want more than anything to talk to him about everything, I answer with the blindingly obvious.
I’m at the Albatross having breakfast
, I send the text and stare rigidly ahead without noticing that outside gray clouds have amassed and it’s starting to rain. Tomorrow my life can go on again as usual. Or not?

Who was the dead man? Why was he in our house? And above all, how did he get in?

I wish I could stop thinking about it. Just turn my brain off and rest for a few hours. But I can't. The questions run on a merry-go-round in my head, driving me almost out of my mind. My thoughts come to an abrupt halt as it dawns on me: I could have answered one of the most important questions a long time ago. I’m an idiot. All I had to do was look in the dead man’s pockets. Maybe he has a wallet. If I’d done it earlier I would probably know who he was by now. The thought of rummaging around in the pockets of a dead man makes me feel a little queasy. Hastily I get up and pay my bill at the counter instead of waiting for the waiter. I’m starting to feel too confined, claustrophobic even. I have to get out of here.

It's raining as I come out of the café and make my way to the parking garage. It's pretty dark and scary down here, at least if you’ve had a day like I have. With my head bowed, I meander between the cars. I step out on to the narrow road which separates two rows of parked cars, as a squeaking sound draws my attention. Some idiot thinks this is the right place for a car race.

The sound is coming closer. I quickly cross the narrow street to get to my car. Hopefully before the would-be racer kills me with his car fumes. The engine noise is getting louder. I look around starting to feel anxious. I’m staring directly into the headlights of a black BMW that’s headed straight for me, and it isn’t reducing its speed.

Now I know why deer never move when they are caught in headlights.

W
ith a sharp jerk I’m yanked to one side. The BMW races past me so close that it almost scratches me.

"Bastard!"

Trembling I turn around. A handsome older gentleman smiles back at me. "You got lucky miss. Young people these days," He shakes his head, "they’ve hardly got their driving license, and they think they’re Sebastian Vettel."

"Thank you, thank you," I stammer, still in shock. Luckily he speaks without a dialect. Otherwise, I would probably not understand one word. Hysterical laughter starts to rise in my throat, but hastily I urge it back. If I start laughing now I won’t be able to stop. The hysteria will grab hold of me.

"No problem." With these words, he tips his hat and leaves.

I stand still next to my car and try to breathe deeply, although my chest feels constricted. It feels as if I’m wearing a steel corset. Again I try to take a deep breath. Better. Slowly it’s getting better. I’ve had some practice today.

The man must have been right. It must have been some young guy who wanted to play formula 1 driver and didn’t see me.

If I close my eyes, I can see the face of the driver in front of me. Dark hair, sunglasses, at least 35 years old. Not exactly young. Still, no one wants to kill me. Definitely not.