The Lie (10 page)

“Almost every day,” she said - truthfully this time.

Nadia nodded. “Great.”

Thanks to Johannes Herzog's thorough training, she got there sooner than expected. It was only a few minutes past five when she reached the narrow country lane with the young trees. Far ahead of her the luxuriant greenery appeared through the summer haze, rapidly growing larger. She found Marienweg immediately and drove past the Kogler's house with its open, well-tended garden. Joachim Kogler was in the front
garden, doing something with a reel of cable. She recognized him from the photos, his wife too. She was standing in the doorway and waved to her.

She ignored her, concentrating on the middle house. It wasn't as grand as the photos suggested, but it was a snow-white villa. Beside the wide drive leading to the double garage was a narrower one which must belong to the Blastings' property. A low fence separated the two.

She stopped in front of the garage door. She didn't even attempt to open it with the complicated remote control. For such a short stay it wasn't worth rushing round to reach the alarm in the hall in time. And neither Nadia's important papers nor her laptop were in the car at the moment. She got out, locked the car by pressing the key, put the key in her handbag, took out the house keys and went round the front.

Lilo Kogler was about twenty yards away and giving her a suspicious look. She must have been feeling offended because she hadn't responded to her friendly wave. Joachim Kogler had straightened up and was also looking across at her. She raised her arm and sketched a wave, smiled and nodded casually then hurried on to the front door. She was getting palpitations from the fear that they might speak to her and she would have to answer, the higher tone of her voice revealing her as a cheap imitation.

Strange that Nadia hadn't been concerned about that at all. She must have noticed the difference in their voices as well. On the other hand, since she was to respond to everything Michael Trenkler said to her with icy silence or a scornful laugh, the risk was slight.

There were seven keys on the ring, each with a different colour marking. Since Nadia had told her to go in via the garage, she'd forgotten to explain which key fitted the front door. She tried the red one. It wouldn't go in. And now Lilo Kogler was on the lawn, with her husband. They were whispering to each other and staring in her direction. They had probably realized something wasn't quite right.

She tried the green key. It went in, but she had no opportunity to find out whether it would have turned in the lock. The door was opened from inside, a hand grabbed her arm and jerked her into the hall.

 

Her response to the initial shock was to close her eyes. When nothing else happened and she opened her eyes again, she found she was looking at
the face of the blond man. Michael Trenkler, who else? He was wearing jeans with a sloppy polo shirt and looked so ordinary that the sight of him offset the grandeur of the imposing residence. The only thing she found disturbing about him was the fact that he should have long since set off for the lab.

He closed the front door and, with an exaggerated gesture of invitation, said, “Do come in.” She didn't move, she could feel the pulse of her heartbeat in her throat, her fingertips and toes. With a swift movement, she threw her head back and tucked her hair in behind her left ear. It was a gesture she'd often observed in Nadia. It showed off the studs. Fortunately it didn't show their effect on her. She'd had her ears pierced too recently and her lobes were already starting throb.

The blond man leaned back against the door and fixed her with a stare she couldn't quite interpret. It could have been mocking; it could have been absolutely furious. “That was quick. Did Mr Moneybags stand you up?”

He obviously took her for Nadia. She sketched a nod and looked round. The walls were white, the floor was white, all the doors were white and the lattice windows beside the front door had white frames. It was so bright it hurt her eyes.

“Great,” he said. “And why didn't you put the car in the garage? Have you got to go out again?”

She shook her head and rubbed her aching wrist. He gave a mocking grin. “Do forgive me, I didn't mean to grab you like that. But I didn't want to run the risk of you stopping for a lengthy chat with the neighbours. As you can well imagine, I haven't got that much time at my disposal.”

His voice was oozing sarcasm. She turned away and ran over the ground-floor plan of the house in her mind: hall, lavatory, closet, living room, dining room, drawing room, kitchen. It had sounded large and spacious. It was.

The kitchen was on the right. On the left was a gently curving staircase going both up and down to the basement. Before it was an open space with a six-foot-tall palm standing sentry outside the coat closet. In the closet was the aforementioned leather jacket on a coat-hanger. She heard Nadia's voice telling her the alarm was always on. Not a word about what happened when the door was opened from the inside. By now at least eighteen seconds must have passed. Even though it meant she had
to pass close to Michael Trenkler, she set off, keeping her eyes fixed on the green palm leaves.

He made no move to stop her - or do something worse - he just gave a puzzled frown when she carefully moved the jacket to one side. On the wall underneath it was the box Nadia had told her about. But she didn't get the chance to have a closer look and certainly not to key in the combination since he pushed himself off the wall and was beside her with a couple of steps. “Did you take a vow of silence while you were out?” he asked.

Quickly she put her handbag and key ring down on the chest underneath the coat-rack and slipped past him back into the hall. Let him deal with the black box, if it was necessary. With one more step he was beside her again. “You don't have to speak, it's enough if you nod or shake your head.”

His head on one side, he looked her in the eye. Just ignore him, she told herself, and headed quickly for the living room.

“Stop playing the drama queen,” he said. “I don't need money to burn. I thought the matter was closed.”

The furnishings of the room, into which her flat would have fitted four times over, were vaguely familiar from the photos. An elegant three-piece suite in a contemporary style, with a low table on a large rug by the open French windows. Outside them a few well-cushioned chairs gleamed in the afternoon sun.

“Christ, Nadia,” he said, “be reasonable. We're doing fine and I just want to stop anything changing that.”

Her heartbeat had gradually returned to its normal rhythm. What he was saying seemed to be nothing more than the usual kind of stuff after an argument between husband and wife. The “Nadia” from his lips sent waves of relief though her brain and sharpened her eye for detail. On the wall over the three-piece suite was something that might be the Beckmann. It looked like a sheet of paper painted black in which a child had made holes. The holes had been sprayed with gold paint. This work of art had a thin metal frame, which must have cost a fortune itself.

Behind her she heard his hesitant footsteps and equally hesitant voice trying to formulate an apology, which he obviously didn't think he owed Nadia. “Sorry I got so worked up. We'll discuss this calmly when I've
more time. I have to go now. You know how much depends on this new series. If I leave Kemmerling to play around with Olaf by himself we'll have all sorts of results in the morning, but nothing that's any use.” Just ignore him, she thought. Go into another room. Easier said than done. He was standing in the doorway out into the hall. To his left, also on a rug, was a grand piano. There were some sheets of music on the rest. Behind the glass front of the rustic-style dresser she saw some glasses - and bottles! A little tot of schnapps to calm her down! Her father had sworn by it. It had helped before her second interview with the bank and she certainly hadn't been more nervous then than she was now.

She went over to the dresser, opened one of the doors, took out a glass and examined the bottles. They contained a wide range of expensive brands of alcohol. She looked in vain for the simple schnapps her father had recommended for medicinal purposes. But vodka would do in an emergency. As she picked up the bottle, she heard Michael Trenkler say, “What are you playing at?”

It was a sharp reprimand and she presumed it referred to her silence until she felt him grasp her wrist again. It was impossible to ignore him any more. His grip was extremely painful and the sharp tone contained an unmistakable threat. “If you're really serious, then I might as well just pack my bags and leave.”

He took the bottle from her, squeezing her wrist as he did so, as if he were trying to break it. He put the bottle back, closed the cupboard and dragged her out into the hall.

“You're hurting me, Michael!” Her wrist felt as if it were stuck in a vice. The words were out before she could stop them. She was just glad that his name came out naturally with them.

He dragged her into the kitchen, pushed her to the fridge, pulled open the door and pointed to a veritable battery of bottles of fruit juice, mineral water, lemonade and ketchup. “If you need a drink, help yourself.”

At last he let go. She took a bottle of Diet Coke out of the fridge. Leaning back against the worktop, his arms crossed, impassive, he watched her pour the drink. As she took her first sip, he asked, “Do I have to take the bottles with me, or are you going to be sensible?”

It gradually dawned on her. Nadia must have a little problem with spirits. And her husband didn't like it. She just had to think of Heller to remember how much she hated drunks herself.

“I wasn't going to get drunk,” she said softly, assuming a muted voice was less likely to give her away. “I just wanted a little pick-me-up because…”

For twenty seconds or so she rattled off something about the Mr Moneybags he'd mentioned who'd stood her up and really pissed her off. She hadn't intended to say so much, but it appeared to be exactly what Michael Trenkler expected. He certainly didn't look surprised. When she finally stopped, he just gave a snort of contempt. Then he turned back into the hall, leaving her standing by the open fridge with her Diet Coke.

Hearing him go upstairs, she examined her surroundings: luxury wherever she looked. Even a TV in the kitchen. There was a small set fixed to the wall above the fridge. Not very practical, she thought, you'd have to stand on a chair to switch it on. Presumably there was a remote control.

After a few seconds she heard steps on the stairs again and Michael Trenkler reappeared in the doorway, a light jacket over his arm. “If you feel the need to get drunk, then don't let me stop you. But I tell you, I'm not going through all that again.”

“Don't worry,” she murmured, took a deep breath and held up her glass of Diet Coke, “I'll stick to this.”

Again he frowned. For a moment she wondered if he'd seen through her. Then she realized she'd picked the wrong bottle again. That should never have happened! Nadia had lugged gallons of mineral water up to her flat and just once the orange juice. She could have bet her bottom dollar Nadia never drank cola.

Without replying, Michael Trenkler turned round and went out. At first she was relieved, but then she started to wonder whether it was right just to let him go like that. Could her mistake with the vodka bottle have triggered off the very thing Nadia was trying to avoid at all costs? Pack his bags! That sounded like a separation. The front door was opened.

She put the glass down and hurried out into the hall. “Michael,” she cried, “I'm sorry.”

The door swung to. Once more he was leaning with his back against it, a car key in his hand, giving her a suspicious look. As well as the suspicion, she could see fear in his eyes, but didn't know how to interpret it. What lovely eyes he's got, she thought. She felt at a loss, she had no
idea what to say now. She could have kicked herself for having started to talk at all. Every further word increased the risk of discovery. Quietly, tremulously, she repeated, “I'm really sorry.”

Nothing changed in his strange look and tense posture. She desperately tried to think what was the best thing she could say to put his mind at rest before he went out. “I didn't want to make a scene,” she said. “I wasn't going to have a drink, either. I just thought…”

She tried to act casual, giving him the shrug of the shoulders and the mocking smile with the little pout. “I thought you might stay if I pretended I was going to. But off you go, I know how important the new series is and that you can't leave Kemmerling alone with Olaf. I won't touch the bottles, any of them.” To emphasize her promise, she said, “Cross my heart and hope to die.” It made her sound like a little girl and would presumably never have crossed Nadia's lips.

Michael Trenkler's only response was a rapid exhalation of breath, but it sounded disbelieving, derisive and very hurt. He gave a mechanical nod, turned round and opened the door. As he left, he said, “You've changed your tune! We'll talk tomorrow, OK?”

“OK,” she said, rubbing her wrist, which was still hurting. His grip had left red marks. When the door finally closed behind him, she took a deep breath and let the air out slowly in relief. Outside a car engine roared into noisy life. In all the excitement, she forgot that there hadn't been a car parked anywhere in the street when she arrived.

 

She went back into the kitchen, tipped the Coke down the sink and set out on her first expedition into Nadia's life. In the living room she picked out a few notes on the piano and looked at the music on the rest: Chopin,
Nocturne in G Minor
. It sounded very complicated and that was what it looked like, too. Under that were pieces by Wilhelm Friedemann, Bach, Tchaikovsky, Rubinstein, Saint-Saëns and Telemann. The last two names meant nothing to her. She wandered over to the couch and asked the black-and-gold wrapping paper if it was the Beckmann. No answer.