The Sinner (42 page)

When her lawyer appeared, this chaotic jumble spewed out bits
of the Cora who had defied her father-in-law and extracted an
office, a salary and, finally, a house from him. Except that these
fragments disappeared while Brauning was seated across the table
from her.

She found herself seated once more at Magdalena's bedside and
down at the lake with Frankie. She dipped her face in his blood.
The next moment, Johnny was smiling at her from the front seat of a car, even though she knew full well it couldn't have happened
that way. It was as unreal as God the Father bending over her
at night, when she thought she was asleep, and speaking of his
guiltless son.

She badly needed someone to help her clear away the biggest
fragments, but it would have to be a very special person. Someone
who understood and, if need be, believed in miracles and desires
that turned into mental images. You had to believe in them when
there was no alternative. But no such special person appeared, so
she made a lone attempt to create a little order, a somewhat tidier
impression.

She realized that the other beds weren't a ploy soon after the
day of her attorney's visit. How long after, she couldn't have said
one day resembled another - but that was unimportant. She had
no contact with the other women. Unlike her, they lived in relative
freedom. She left the ward only when another session with the
professor was due. Her fear of him was soon a thing of the past.
She got on well with him and quickly discovered what he wanted to
hear. She even ended by telling him about Magdalena because she
assumed that he would hear about her from the chief in any case.

And Frankie was to blame for Magdalena's death. She had
eventually discussed this with her attorney. The professor didn't
believe her at first because Frankie's father was a colleague of his
and a professor like himself. He said a handsome young man of
good family had no need to go pimping.

She'd thought the same at one time, but what she'd thought
had ceased to matter. All that mattered now was to marshal her
thoughts like a flock of frightened lambs and prevent them from
stampeding. They usually did that when wolves were chasing them
but not during her conversations about Frankie the pimp. Then the
flock stood firm, and the wolves kept their distance.

Why shouldn't Frankie have been a pimp? He thought it chic to
have a girl who danced to his tune. He'd never spoken about it to
his father, of course. Nobody knew, but it was true! He'd accosted
her that night in August and insisted on her having sex with two
men at the same time.

Frankie had expected a lot of her - too much, in fact. And when
Magdalena was dead-when she needed him badly- he'd grown tired
of her and found himself a new girlfriend. And, because she wouldn't
go away of her own accord, he'd told his friends to teach her a lesson.
They'd beaten her up while he and his new girlfriend watched.

Her attorney would have been proud of her if he could have
heard her. Although the professor was the expert, it was as easy to lie
to him as it had been to Mother. She spent a total of three sessions
drumming the pimp scenario into his head. She went into detail,
adding the occasional embellishment and coming out with every
enormity the human brain could devise. The little demons with redhot pincers provided excellent models for the perverted clients she
described.

The professor had her taken back to the ward when he'd heard
enough. There she was a madwoman who could let herself go, and
she did. When no one else was around it didn't matter where she
was or whether she herself was present. Plenty of other people were
there. Mother and Father, Magdalena and Johnny, Billy-Goat and
Tiger, Frankie and a doctor. Not to mention her fear and shame
and guilt.

Members of the nursing staff came in periodically, but since they
entered by the door she knew exactly how to behave. She spoke
normally to them, confining herself to trivialities for fear of making
a mistake. "What's for lunch today?" she would ask. "It smells nice."
Or she would look at the mush on her plate and say: "I wish I had a
better appetite, but I've never been a great eater."

Sometimes she would also ask: "Do you think I could have a really
decent cup of coffee? I'm always so tired. Some coffee would do me
good, I'm sure."

She wasn't anything like as tired as she made out. That was
because she only took her prescribed medication at night. Then she
went straight to sleep and didn't have to cope with the other women,
one of whom might have asked why she was there. But the pills
on her tray in the morning she got rid of. The nursing staff were
careless, and she herself was very convincing.

She had the situation under better control without medication. She could ask Father's forgiveness, enthuse to Mother about
communing with God in the open air and tell Magdalena about her
randy boyfriends and their forthcoming flight to America. Frankie
and the other young men were the only ones she didn't say a word
to. Her throat seized up when Frankie gave her his forgiving look.
He must have known he'd been born a sacrificial lamb destined to
wash away her sins with his blood. What else could have accounted
for the look on his face?

Perhaps Mother's preachifying hadn't been so crazy after all. If
the Saviour had ascended into heaven two thousand years ago,
who or what was there to prevent him from returning to help and
redeem people once more? To enable her to experience a few
minutes' absolute freedom? Perhaps he had brought that platinum
blonde to the lake for one reason alone: to demonstrate to her that
Magdalena had been a dirty beast. Perhaps he wanted her to fight,
not for her outward freedom but only for the inward sense of being
redeemed by him.

She would have liked to discuss this with her lawyer, but she
didn't see him again for the time being. The chief paid her another
visit and wanted to talk about irrelevancies with her, but she shook
her head, and he left it at that. He hadn't come as a policeman, just
as an ordinary visitor.

And, like anyone visiting the sick, lie came bearing gifts. A newspaper, a bottle of shampoo and some fruit. Three apples. Golden
Delicious. No knife. He looked rather sheepish as he deposited the
paper bag on the table.

"I hope you'll enjoy them, even if you can't cut them up first,"
he said.

His embarrassment rendered him harmless and human. So did
his first few questions. Had she had any visitors?

"My attorney came one day."

"No one else?"

Who, for instance? She knew what he was getting at: Gereon.
But that chapter was closed. It was almost as if she'd invented her
years with him. Family, job, a child, a house, a nice life. It was over.
Her stories only had a dramatic ending, never a sequel.

The chief had had another word with Margret. He'd gone to
the trouble of driving all the way to Buchholz again to ask after
her father, because he thought she might be interested. Of course
she was interested, and it almost moved her to tears that an enemy
should display such a generous human emotion.

Margret was still with her father. She sent her love and said how
dismayed she was to hear that Cora had been transferred to a
psychiatric ward. He repeated what Margret had said, word for
word: "For God's sake get her out of there before she really loses
her mind. Have you any idea what you're doing to her?"

The chief spoke of this quite openly. He was straight with her
too. Unfortunately, he said, he had no influence in this respect. It
all depended on her, on how well she cooperated with Professor
Burthe. Had she now told him about Magdalena?

"Yes, of course," she assured him.

Rudolf Grovian wagged his head at her. Her smile spoke
volumes. She might just as well have said: "I told him a pack of
lies." He injected a hint of fatherly reproof into his voice.

"You must tell him the truth, Frau Bender, so that lie can form
an accurate impression. You'll only harm yourself if you lie to him.
Your future depends on his report."

She gave a low laugh. "I don't want a future. I've enough of a
past to last me for a century. Please give Margret my love and tell
her she's wrong; it's like being on vacation. You don't get a tan, but
everything else is fine. The service here is no worse than in a cheap
hotel, and the staff are nice. No one complains, no one expects a
tip. During the day I even have a room to myself, as you see. I'll
tell you something: if the word gets around, they'll be run off their
feet. Some day you'll be happy to be able to keep me company in
here. It's restful, I can guarantee you that. Now and then you have
a civilized conversation with an educated man, but the rest of the
time you can devote yourself to your own thoughts."

"What thoughts do you devote yourself to, Frau Bender?"

She shrugged. "Oh, it varies. My favourite thought is that I killed
Frankie's wife instead of Frankie himself, and that I only tried to
take the knife away from her. To be honest, I'd have preferred it if the little demons had concerned themselves with my sins at a later
stage. I'm not Pontius Pilate."

Grovian nodded. He'd had a row at home, the first real row for
twelve or fifteen years. He couldn't even have said how long ago
it was since Mechthild had lost her temper. She'd made a hell of
a scene when he casually asked her at breakfast if he could take
the spare bottle of shampoo from the bathroom and maybe a
newspaper or something else to read.

She'd stared at him with a mixture of surprise and suspicion.
"Why, planning to give Hoss a shampoo and read to him, or have
you something else in mind? Rudi, don't tell me you're ..."

Of course he was, he had to. He'd learned a lot on his second
visit to Buchholz - far more than he'd dared to hope - but it still
wasn't enough to complete the puzzle. For that lie needed another
few pieces, and they were buried in her head. He'd tried to explain
this to Mechthild.

That had started it. It ended with: `All right, go! Go and see her
if you can't leave well alone. She can keep you, for all I care!"

Then Mechthild had rushed into the living room, snatched the
apples from the fruit bowl and slammed them down on the table in
front of him. "Here, you'd better take these too. You can use them
to reconstruct the course of events."

She was barking up the wrong tree. What he wanted to reconstruct
had nothing to do with apples.

He proceeded to chat in a casual, innocuous way. Her father was
genuinely a little better. The doctors said lie was over the worst.
Margret wanted to find him a good nursing home. She was also
thinking of returning to Cologne in the course of next week. Then
he asked Cora whether she was allowed to talk to him at all. Private
visit or not, her lawyer might have advised her to keep her mouth
shut.

This made her smile again. "No, he looked as if he could use
some good advice himself. He reminded me of Horsti in a way.
Not that he's a weedy little runt, but he's just as shy and just as
easily impressed."

Grovian had really wanted to spend a little longer talking about her attorney. Eberhard Brauning ... The DA had mentioned the
name, but it didn't mean anything to him. He would have liked
to know if Brauning was a tough customer. The court-appointed
attorneys included one or two tough customers who did their best
for their clients.

Mechthildwas of the opinion that Cora Bender needed a really
tough attorney whose first concern would be to keep a certain
policeman away from his client because the said policeman
was on the verge of insanity himself. That was, perhaps, the
favourable aspect of the aggro at home: that Mechthild was
concerned about him. "You're wearing yourself out, Rudi. Just
look at yourself! My God, you aren't twenty-five any more - you
need your sleep."

And he hadn't had much sleep in the last few nights. Too many
thoughts racing around in his head. He would gladly have given
a few away - to her lawyer, for instance. It was understandable
that she should deny him, a policeman, access to her last line of
defence. He had been her assailant from the outset, whereas an
efficient defence counsel would be quick to convince Cora Bender
that he was on her side.

What she had just said did not smack of efficiency or powers of
persuasion, and Horsti was the second item on Grovian's agenda.
He seized upon the subject, grateful not to have to rack his brains
for a way of bringing her round to it.

He hadn't undertaken yet another long drive to Buchholz to talk
to Margret or enquire about her brother's condition. There was
nothing more to enquire about. Wilhelm Rosch was dead, and
Margret was looking for a nursing home for her sister-in-law, who
couldn't be left in the neighbour's care indefinitely. But Grovian
couldn't have brought himself to break this news, even if Professor
Burthe hadn't specifically advised against it: "Frau Bender couldn't
cope with it." Of course not! So Horsti had been approved as a
harmless topic of conversation.

It hadn't taken him much of an effort, just a few questions, to
locate Cora's first boyfriend. Grit Adigar's daughter Melanie,
now back from Denmark, had recalled that Horsti's surname was Cremer and knew where to find him: at Asendorf, a small village
not far from Buchholz. But that wasn't all Melanie knew