The Sinner (17 page)

"I may do that," he said, "if you tell me what this hallway looked
like."

"It wasn't a hallway as such," she muttered. She put the coffee
mug down, working her shoulders to and fro as if to relieve the
tension in her neck and bit her lower lip before continuing. "It
was a huge lobby," she went on, "all done up in white except for some little green squares between the white flagstones. And there
was a painting on the wall beside the stairs leading to the cellar. I
remember it because Johnny pinned me up against the opposite
wall and kissed me while the others were going downstairs. That
was when I caught sight of the picture. I was surprised anyone
would want such a thing on their wall. It was nothing you could
recognize -just splashes of paint."

It had been such a good story. Till now! Although she hadn't
liked it when the chief asked some more questions, she'd had a
few more answers up her sleeve. A silver Golf GTI and a licence
plate beginning with B. Or possibly BN. She'd almost said BM,
but at the last moment she remembered that Gereon's licence
plate began with BM. The chief would have been bound to spot
the lie.

She hadn't had to think for long where the car was concerned. It
was a typical young man's car. Gereon had also owned a silver Golf
when she first met him, but not for long - it was an old banger. She
seemed to recall thatJohnny's fat little friend had driven a Golf, but
she wasn't sure. It didn't matter anyway. She'd never had anything
to do with the other two.

And the house - some house or other in Hamburg. You only
needed a bit of logic. A detached house, naturally. If there was
a music room installed in the basement, there had to be a bit of
space around the house, or the neighbours would complain of the
noise. And a big detached house in Hamburg could only belong to
wealthy people. And wealthy people hung paintings on their walls.
She couldn't imagine, with the best will in the world, how she'd
dreamed up a picture composed of splashes of paint. But that was
just as unimportant as the car.

The chief broke in on her thoughts. "What did you mean by `the
others'?" he asked. `Just now you said that the third member of the
group was already down below when you got there. Who else was
on the stairs, apart from the fat boy?"

The others? She wasn't aware of having said that. She knuckled
her forehead and tried to remember exactly what she'd said when
she introduced the subject of the splashy painting. The chief
was waiting for an answer - a logical one. A picture made up of
splashes of paint wasn't logical. Wealthy people liked their art to
be dignified.

"I don't know," she said in a strained voice. "It was a girl. The fat
boy had brought a girl along." She nodded contentedly to herself.
"That was it! I wouldn't have come otherwise - I didn't trust him.
I'd forgotten - it's only just occurred to me. There was another girl
with us."

She gave the chief an apologetic smile. "Now please don't ask
me her name; I really couldn't tell you. I'd never seen her before;
it was her first visit to the house. I don't think she came from
Buchholz. The girls from Buchholz had become chary of Johnny
and his friend; none of them would have come with us. It was a
girl I didn't know, and she left with Fatso and the other one. I don't
know where they went. Perhaps they drove off."

"How did you get home?"

`Johnny drove me home in the Golf. It was parked outside when
we left the house."

"Then the others couldn't have driven off in it."

She sighed. "I said perhaps," she retorted irritably. "They may
still have been inside. I didn't go on a tour of the house."

The chief gave a thoughtful nod. `And you didn't notice what
the outside of the house looked like before you left? You didn't
register your route on the return journey?"

"No, I was rather squiffy. I fell asleep in the car."

He nodded again, then: "How far gone were you when you lost
the baby?"

She had to think. What had she said? That she'd had sex with
Johnny in August? Had she mentioned August? She couldn't
remember. All she could recall was mentioning that she'd noticed
her bump in October ...

That was a bit quick. No one developed a noticeable bump in
two months. Was the chief aware of that? She mustn't make a mistake. "Not that again, please," she said, shaking her head. "I
can't talk about it - I never could."

Grovian had no wish to press her unduly. He confined himself to
pointing out, mildly, that he would be compelled to consult some
other people if she didn't cooperate.

"How old are your parents, Fran Bender?"

"My mother is sixty-five, my father ten years older," she replied
mechanically.

Werner Hoss cut in. "Why did you tell me your parents were
dead?"

She looked puzzled for a moment, then glared at him and said
harshly: "Because they are, as far as I'm concerned, and the dead
should be left in peace. Or don't you agree?"

"No, I don't," said Hoss. "They're still alive, and when I notice
that someone has lied to me about one thing, I become suspicious
of any other statements they make."

Grovian's immediate inclination had been to cut Hoss short.
Instead, he let him run on, curious to know where it would lead.

"You've told us a good deal," said Hoss, "and some of it strikes
me as odd. For instance, that a drummer should call himself Johnny
Guitar and a big, strong youngster should call himself Horsti."

She shrugged. "I didn't think it was odd, just silly. Who knows why
anyone calls himself anything. He must have had his reasons."

"Maybe," Hoss conceded, "and we probably won't learn any
more about them. So let's revert to your reasons. Why did you
want us to think your parents were dead? Because they might tell
us a different story?"

Her lips curled in the semblance of a smile. "My mother would
quote you something from the Bible. She's crazy."

"But your father isn't," said Grovian, taking up the reins again.
"He's a very nice man, you said. Or was that another lie?"

She shook her head mutely.

"Why does it upset you when I say I'd like a word with him?"

She heaved a tremulous sigh. "Because I don't want him
upset. He knows nothing aboutJohnny. He asked me a couple of
times, but I didn't tell him a thing. It wasn't easy for him when I came home. He reproached himself. `We should have gone
away years ago, the two of us,' lie said once. `Then it wouldn't
have happened.' But my father always was a conscientious man.
He didn't want to leave my mother alone with the Saviour and
Magdalena."

The name meant nothing to Rudolf Grovian. He saw her wince as
if in pain. She picked up the coffee mug and put it quickly to her
lips, but she didn't drink, just put it back on the desk.

"Could you add a little water, please? Coffee this strong makes
me feel queasy."

"There's only cold water."

"That doesn't matter, it's too hot anyway."

The indiscretion had jolted her brain like an electric shock.
Magdalena! But all was well. The chief didn't react, and the other
man didn't follow it up by asking if her "only child" story had
been another lie. She stroked her forehead and tweaked a lock of
hair over the scar, gingerly fingered the scab over her right eye,
massaged the back of her neck and worked her head to and fro.

"May I get up and walk around for a bit? I'm stiff from sitting
for so long."

"Of course," said Grovian.

She went to the window and stared out into the darkness. `Are
we going to be much longer?" she asked with her back to him.

"No. Just a few more questions."

Grovian saw her nod and heard her mutter: "I thought as
much." In a louder, more resolute tone she said: `All right, let's go
on. Have you turned that thing on again? I don't want to have to
repeat everything tomorrow morning." She was regaining her old,
brusque manner. To call it aggressive, as he had at first, now struck
him as exaggerated. She was showing no signs of fatigue, still less
of mental confusion, which was all that mattered. Next question:
what was the name of the establishment where she had met Georg
Frankenberg, alias Horsti or Johnny Guitar?

She hesitated before replying. "The Aladdin. We called it that
because of all the coloured lamps. It didn't really have a name - I
mean, not from Monday to Friday. During the week it functioned
as an old folks' community centre, but on Saturdays it became the
Aladdin. It was my usual haunt because you could dance there."

That could be checked if necessary. Precisely when had she
tried to take her own life? This time her reply was preceded by a
long sigh: "I already told you: in October. I don't recall the exact
date."

And in what hospital had she received treatment? She answered
with her back still turned. "It wasn't a hospital," she said hoarsely.
"The man who ran me over was a doctor - he took me to his
surgery. I wasn't badly hurt, as I told you. Besides, he'd had a drink
or two. He was scared he'd lose his licence and was grateful to me
for keeping the police out of it. He put me up at his place for a few
weeks. Until the middle of November."

"What was this doctor's name and where did he live?"

She turned around, shaking her head emphatically. "No! Please
drop it. I won't tell you about the doctor, I can't. He helped me. He
said I must ... He was very nice to me. He said I must ..." She
shook her head more vigorously still, clasped her hands together
and kneaded them hard before making a third attempt. "He said
I must ..."

She managed to complete the sentence after a pause and several
audible breaths. "He said I must go home. But my mother. . ."

She hunched her shoulders at the memory. Mother standing
inside the front door. Her suspicious gaze. She saw herself wearing
a new dress and an overcoat, likewise new And the shoes, the
underwear Grit Adigar had so admired, black lace underwear and
silk stockings, all of them new All paid for by a man who had felt
obliged to help her. A doctor! That was no lie.

And in the middle of November he'd put her aboard a train
and sent her home, although she still wasn't well. On the contrary,
she was very ill. The journey home was just a blur. She had no
recollection of where she'd changed trains or how she'd got there.
Only of standing outside the door with legs like jelly and a head filled with lead - with lead and the desire to go to bed and sleep,
just sleep. She heard her own voice and its note of entreaty: "It's
me, Mother. Cora."

And Mother's voice, uncaring and indifferent: "Cora is dead."

That, more or less, was how she had felt in November five years
ago. And how she felt again now She oughtn't to have mentioned
her mother, still less the doctor.

Her fingers were almost dislocated, she was kneading them
so hard. Seeing this, Grovian ascribed her defensiveness to the
reference to her mother. `All right, Frau Bender, no need to tell
us again, we already have it on tape. But we definitely need the
doctor's name. We mean him no harm. He won't be prosecuted
for having driven a car under the influence of alcohol, not after
five years. We merely need to interview him as a witness. He
could corroborate the story of your pregnancy and attempted
suicide."

"No!" she said tensely, clutching the windowsill behind her back
with both hands. "You can forget it as far as I'm concerned. Yes,
forget it. Let's simply say I had an affair with the man I stabbed
to death. He abandoned me. I bore him a grudge, so I killed him
when I saw him again today."

Grovian spoke with due emphasis. "Frau Bender, this just won't
do. You can't make a statement, only to stonewall whenever we try
to elicit something that would enable us to check its veracity. If you
do, I'm bound to assume, like my colleague, that you aren't telling
the truth."

She turned to face the window again. There was a finality about
the movement, and her tone underlined this. "I said forget it! I
wasn't gagging to tell you anything. You threatened me, don't
forget, but now you must stop. I can't go on, I don't feel well. You
said I should tell you if I wasn't feeling well, then we'd stop."