‘What do you mean?’
‘Did she tell you about the time she killed a dog?’
‘Terry. She said it was her first schizophrenic episode.’
‘Not exactly. Ms Glass wasn't hallucinating: she killed her own dog. She says she's schizophrenic because it's easier than confronting the truth.’
‘So the things she told me were . . .’
‘A hundred per cent true. Her way of living with the past is to hide behind an imaginary illness. She won't face up to the terrible things she's done. Do you see what we're dealing with?’
‘Yes.’
The story about Charlotte, her nocturnal appearance in his house, the trip to Hamburg, the poisoning – it was all true. . .
‘Did you give her my address?’
‘Surely you know me better than that? Ms Glass wasn't welcome in my practice and I wouldn't dream of referring her to a friend. Besides, you made it perfectly clear that you weren't seeing any patients! No, the fact is that Anna Glass missed her last appointment. Strangely enough, it was the day of the break-in – and if you ask me, she was involved.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘She mentioned your name on numerous occasions. She said you had “unfinished business”; those were her words. During our last few sessions she even talked about poisoning you.’
Viktor swallowed and realized that his throat felt normal for the first time in days.
‘Poisoning me? But why? I don't even know who she is.’
‘She seems to know you.’
Viktor was reminded of what Isabell had said a few moments earlier. Everyone seemed to think he was connected to Anna Glass.
‘She talked about you all the time. I blame myself for not taking her seriously. I think she might be dangerous; in fact, I'm certain of it. She told me the most dreadful things. She's hurt people before, you know. I can't bear to think about what happened to that innocent little girl.’
‘Charlotte?’
‘I think that's what she called her. I feel terrible, Dr Larenz, really terrible. I should have followed my instincts and sent her somewhere else. She needs twenty-four-hour supervision.’
‘Surely you could have found a suitable institution?’
‘My dear Larenz, you know perfectly well that I . . .’ The professor broke off, suddenly embarrassed.
‘What?’
‘I couldn't just get rid of her.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because of what I promised your wife. I gave her my word.’
‘My wife?’ Viktor felt himself swaying and steadied himself on the fridge.
‘Yes, Isabell asked me to treat her. I couldn't let her down. Not when she and Anna are so close.’
42
Isabell. Anna. Josy. The pieces of the jigsaw were falling into place. At last he was beginning to see how Isabell had managed to keep her cool when Josy vanished. She had coped with the news much better than he had, returning to work without a second thought. Viktor, who had sold his practice and never recovered from the shock, used to admire her for her strength, but now he saw that she was simply callous.
His thoughts drifted to and fro. Looking back on her behaviour, he realized that Isabell had never grieved for her only child – not in the way that he had. He wondered whether she had found Sindbad by chance, as she had claimed, or whether she had picked him up from a rescue centre to replace their little girl. What sort of a person was Isabell? And why wouldn't she support him through this, the most stressful period of his life?
Isabell had sent Anna to Professor van Druisen.
And someone had withdrawn the savings from their account.
Viktor sat down at his desk and booted up his laptop. He needed to check his balance online. It didn't seem possible that Isabell had cleaned out their joint account. Was she in league with Anna? Together they seemed determined to torment him.
After scanning his desktop vainly for the Internet Explorer icon, he dragged the mouse to the bottom of the screen. He stared at the computer in confusion.
The task bar was empty and the icons had gone.
He decided to try the start menu instead. The shortcuts had been deleted. Worse still, there was no sign of the programs. The hard drive had been wiped clean.
Someone had been through his laptop systematically and deleted his personal documents, case notes and folders, including the half-finished interview. Even the recycle bin, which usually contained copies of recently deleted data, was empty.
Viktor stood up so abruptly that the leather chair flew back, tipped over and came to rest beside the bookcase. He was past caring. The time for phone calls was over. Even his missing savings could wait.
He took out the pistol that Halberstaedt had given him, released the safety catch, and tucked it into the inside pocket of his Gore-tex jacket. It was just as well he had brought his waterproofs.
Don't delay.
He steeled himself to fight his way through the storm to the village in search of two things:
Anna Glass and the truth.
43
People feel the cold in different ways. Some are kept awake when their toes refuse to warm up even after vigorous jiggling under the bedclothes. Others are cursed with sensitive noses.
Viktor's weak spot was his ears. In winter they seemed to hurt from the moment he left the house. But the discomfort of frozen ears was nothing compared to the agony of letting them thaw. As soon as he returned to the warmth, the earache migrated across the back of his skull, starting at the base and spreading upwards in a wave of pain that no amount of aspirin or ibuprofen could conquer. As a child, he had learnt the hard way to take care of his ears, and now, as he trudged towards the village, he saw to it that the drawstrings were pulled as tight as possible on his hood. He didn't especially mind the rain; his priority was to keep out the cold.
And so it was that his hood blocked out the tinny melody barely audible amid the howling wind swirling around him, whipping up the sand and leaves. In fact, if he hadn't left the hopelessly flooded track to shelter under the eaves of Parkum's old customhouse, he might never have heard the ringing in his jacket pocket. He wasn't expecting any calls: there were no mobile-phone masts on the island, and he saw little point in checking his phone. And yet, as he realized as soon as he pushed back his hood, someone was calling him.
He glanced at the screen. The number looked familiar.
‘Hello?’
He held the phone to his right ear and stuck a finger in the other because of the deafening wind. There didn't seem to be anyone on the line.
‘Hello? Can you hear me?’
The wind dropped for a moment and Viktor thought he heard a sob.
‘Anna? Is that you?’
‘I'm sorry, Dr Larenz, I . . .’
At precisely that moment a heavy branch gave in to the storm and crashed on to the roof overhead. Viktor missed the end of her sentence.
‘Anna, where are you?’
‘I'm . . . Anchor . . .’
The snippets of information didn't add up to much, but he was determined to keep her on the line.
‘Listen, Anna, I know you're not staying at the Anchor. Patrick Halberstaedt told me so. Why don't you text me your exact location? I'll be there in a few minutes and we can talk face to face. It's much better than on the—’
‘She's back!’
Anna screamed the last sentence just as the hurricane granted the battered island a brief respite. A moment later the wind returned with devastating fury.
‘Who's back?’
‘Charlotte . . . She's on the . . .’
Viktor didn't need to hear anymore. He knew exactly what she was trying to tell him. Anna was having another schizophrenic episode. Charlotte had come alive.
Viktor was so absorbed in his thoughts that it took a couple of minutes for him to realize that the line had gone dead. He stared uncomprehendingly at the screen: no reception. And yet the beep-beep of his Nokia handset heralded the arrival of a
text:
‘Don't try looking for me. I'LL GET TO YOU!’
44
The real reason why most drivers hate sitting in traffic is because it makes them feel powerless to decide their fate. The natural reaction to seeing a queue of stationary lights is to look for a means of escape. For some people, the thought of getting stuck is so distressing that turning off and picking their way through unknown back roads seems better than waiting for the traffic to clear.
Viktor had reached a stage where he could either join the Friday afternoon rush hour or take the next exit and strike out alone. Like most people, he couldn't bear the thought of waiting passively, so he decided to act. Anna had warned him not to look for her, but he wasn't prepared to hang around while she called the shots. He needed to find her while he still had the chance.
And so, hood pulled up and leaning into the wind, he set off towards the village. He cheated the storm by keeping as low as possible and weaving around the puddles that pitted the sandy track.
He had long since passed the island's solitary restaurant and was only five hundred metres from the marina when he stopped abruptly and scanned his surroundings. He could have sworn there was someone up ahead.
He wiped away the raindrops and shielded his eyes with his hand.
There.
It was just as he had thought. Twenty or so metres away, a figure in a blue raincoat was battling through the storm and dragging something behind them on a leash.
At first he wasn't able to tell the person's gender – or whether they were walking towards him or away. Even at close range it was almost impossible to see anything because of the rain. A flash of lightning seared over the waves, lighting up the track. By the time the thunder followed, Viktor knew who was approaching and what was on the lead.
‘Michael, is that you?’ he shouted to the ferryman when he was only a couple of paces away. The wind was howling so furiously that neither could hear the other until they were close enough to touch.
Michael Burg was seventy-one years old and looked every day of it, although it was difficult to tell because of the pouring rain. The wind and salt had left deep furrows in his leathery skin, but in spite of his weathered face he had the robust look of someone who had spent a lifetime outdoors in the bracing sea air.
He held out his left hand. In his right he was holding the end of a leash to which a drenched and shivering schnauzer was attached.
‘My wife reckoned he needed a walk,’ he bellowed into the wind, shaking his head as if to say that only a woman could come up with such a stupid idea. Viktor thought of Sindbad and winced.
‘And you? What are you doing out in this weather?’ asked Burg.
Lightning blazed across the sky and for a brief moment Viktor had a clear view of the ferryman who was looking at him with undisguised suspicion.
He decided to tell the truth, not because he felt an obligation to be honest, but because he couldn't think why else he would be risking his life by walking across the island in the middle of a furious storm.
‘I'm looking for someone. Perhaps you can help me.’
‘I'll do my best. Who is it?’
‘Anna. Anna Glass. Small, blonde, mid-thirties. She got here three days ago. You ferried her over from Sylt.’
‘Three days ago? I don't know where you got your information, but you must have heard wrong.’
From the ferryman's tone, Viktor could tell that he shared his bemusement. He wondered how many times he had felt the same mixture of disbelief and foreboding during the past few hours.
Burg's black schnauzer was already straining at the leash. It was shivering more wretchedly than before and seemed to share its owner's dim view of the weather, especially now they were standing still.
‘What do you mean?’ It seemed to Viktor that he was obliged to shout louder and louder to make himself heard.
‘I haven't had the boat out in three weeks.’ He shrugged. ‘Business is quiet at this time of year – no one visits Parkum in winter. The last person I ferried over was you.’ He seemed anxious to leave.
‘Then how the hell did she get here?’ demanded Viktor.
‘On another boat, I guess, although normally I'd hear about it. What did you say she was called again?’
‘Glass. Anna Glass.’
Burg shook his head. ‘Never heard of her. Sorry, Dr Larenz, but we'll catch our death in this weather.’
As if to underscore his words, a deep rumbling sounded from the north of the island. Part of Viktor wondered why he hadn't seen the lightning, while the other grappled with the next piece of the jigsaw. How had Anna arrived on Parkum? And why had she lied?
Viktor's thoughts were interrupted by the old ferryman who had taken a couple of steps, then stopped.
‘Err, Dr Larenz, I know it's none of my business, but what do you want with her?’
Burg didn't need to articulate the full question; Viktor could feel its oppressive presence in the stormy air. Why would a married man be searching for a young woman in the driving rain?
He shrugged and walked away. I want to know what happened to my daughter.
45
The Anchor was everything that visitors expected from a boarding house on a quiet North Sea island. With the exception of the lighthouse at Struder Point, the charming three-storeyed timber building was one of the tallest on Parkum and the front windows looked out over the marina. Trudi had run the business single-handed since her husband's death and her modest pension, together with the takings from the handful of summer tourists, allowed her to keep the place afloat. As far as the islanders were concerned, the Anchor was an institution, and their commitment to its survival was absolute. Most of them would have moved in with their belongings rather than lose the hub of village life. The best days were during sailing regattas when the Anchor would accommodate up to twenty guests. And when it was sunny enough, which wasn't that often, Trudi would move the dining tables into the garden and serve homemade lemonade and iced coffee to tourists and friends. As soon as autumn came, the older islanders would gather in the lobby and swap sailors’ yarns around the wrought-iron stove while Trudi fed them cake – unless she decided to escape the Parkum winter and stay with relatives until the spring. And that, as Viktor had gathered from his strange conversation with Halberstaedt, was exactly what she had done. Walking slowly towards the building, he saw without surprise that the shutters were down and the chimney was out of action.
He looked around for signs of Anna. I should have saved myself the trouble, he thought grimly.
For a moment he was tempted to call her name in case she had broken into the Anchor and was playing another of her games.
Just then his mobile rang. This time it was the ringtone for family and friends.
‘Hello?’
‘Is this your idea of a joke?’
‘Kai? Has something happened?’ Viktor left the boarding house and headed down the track in an easterly direction. He was taken aback by the PI's tone.
‘You've got a sick sense of humour.’
‘I don't know what you mean.’
‘The fax, Viktor, the fax.’
‘Oh, I tried to call you. It was blank.’
‘Then fax yourself another one. I'm not as stupid as you think.’
‘I don't think you're stupid. Kai, what's going on?’
A sudden gust drove a flurry of raindrops into Viktor's face. He swivelled round and looked back at the Anchor. From this angle, the empty boarding house looked like a cardboard facade on a film set.
‘I traced the fax. I mean, who the hell would send me a picture of a cat?’
Josy's cat. Nepomuk.
‘Well?’
‘It was you. The picture was sent from your number. You faxed it from your house.’
That's impossible, thought Viktor.
‘Listen, Kai, I don't know what to—’ He heard a series of beeps and realized that the line was dead. An automated voice told him to hang up and try again later.
&nbs
p; ‘Damn.’ Viktor checked his mobile and cursed his bad luck. Without a signal, he could forget about calling the mainland. He whirled round and stood with his back to the Anchor, surveying the land ahead. He finished up by staring at the sky, as if the solution were written in the ominous black clouds.
Who would help him now? Was there anyone left to trust? A plump raindrop hit him straight in the eye. Blinking frantically, he was reminded of sitting in the bath and screwing up his eyes to get rid of the shampoo. He ran a hand over his face and was surprised to find that he could see more clearly. Everything looked much sharper, as if the optician had chosen the right lens and brought the bottom row of letters into focus. Or maybe it was merely coincidence that a moment later he knew exactly what to do.
46
Just as Viktor had expected, the lights were still on in the mayor's cottage. He ran up the steps to the porch and held down the doorbell.
He could hear a dog, probably the ferryman's schnauzer, barking in the distance, and something – either a gate or a shutter – was banging in the wind. But he couldn't say for certain whether the bell had actually rung. He gave it another minute in case Halberstaedt was already on the way to the door.
When the second ring produced no reaction, he dispensed with politeness and banged the hefty knocker impatiently against the cedar door. Halberstaedt's wife had left him two years earlier for a rich guy from Munich, and now he lived alone.
Still no response.
Bloody wind. I don't suppose he can hear me, thought Viktor as he circled the house. It was situated in a prime location, right next to the Anchor and overlooking the marina, but it didn't have a jetty or beach access, and Halberstaedt had to cross the narrow coast road in order to get to the sea. Of course, it didn't much matter on a tiny island like Parkum, but Viktor was of the opinion that seaside houses should be located directly on the beach. Otherwise he would rather save himself the trouble and stay on the mainland near a lake.
The wind was battering the island from the sea, and it came as a relief to Viktor when he rounded the corner and found himself sheltered by the house.