Malzius pressed the remote control and pointed to an attractive wooden building on the water's edge.
‘By this stage he had persuaded himself that Isabell intended to harm them, so he told his daughter to keep quiet and hide. Josephine was understandably alarmed and started to scream. Larenz responded by putting his hand over her mouth and pushing her under the water. Unfortunately, she drowned.’
Malzius looked up and saw the two lawyers whispering and muttering. He could make out isolated words such as ‘paragraph 20’ and ‘psychiatric care’.
‘If I could have your attention for a moment,’ he interrupted them. ‘As you know, I'm not a lawyer, but I understand the verdict will hinge on whether Larenz intended to kill his daughter.’
‘To some extent, yes.’
‘The question of intent can be settled with reference to one obvious fact: Larenz loved his daughter with all his heart. As soon as he realized what he had done, he experienced a second psychotic episode. He desperately wanted to undo the damage: to make his daughter well again, to bring her back to life. In his delusional state, he believed that she was still with him. He bundled her into the car and went to see an allergist. The clinic was so busy that no one noticed he was alone. There was no record of an appointment, but the mix-up was blamed on the new receptionist who was struggling to learn the ropes. After a while, Larenz left the waiting room to fetch a glass of water, came back and started claiming that Josephine had been abducted. Dr Grohlke, the allergist, was a family friend, and neither he nor the police had any reason to doubt Larenz's story. Before he could leave the clinic, Larenz broke down and was admitted to our care. For four years, he failed to respond to treatment. Naturally we assumed that the illness had been prompted by the stress of Josephine's disappearance, and we medicated him accordingly. Contrary to our expectations, the regimen didn't work. In fact, it had the opposite effect: with every day, the likelihood of a recovery seemed more remote. Of course, had we known that Larenz had killed his daughter, we would have handled the matter quite differently. As it was, we treated him for depression, and the medication made him worse. For most of his time here, he was in a state of catatonic paralysis, unable to speak or move. Unknown to us, he was living in a make-believe world on the island of Parkum, surrounded by imaginary characters including a dog named Sindbad, a mayor named Halberstaedt and a ferryman called Burg. He believed he was working on an interview. Needless to say, it was a delusion.’
‘What makes you think that he's fit to stand trial?’ demanded Freymann, worried that they were running out of time. He glanced at his pocket watch. ‘Larenz was seriously ill. For four years he lived in an imaginary world. You said on the phone that he was well enough to talk to us. What changed?’
‘I'm glad you asked,’ said Malzius. ‘Let's take a look at these slides.’ He inserted a new cartridge into the projector.
‘Consider the progression of his illness. Here he is on the day he was admitted. As you can see, he's confused, but he's looking at the camera. From then on he deteriorated.’ The images changed in quick succession. ‘During the final stages he broke down completely. Here you see him lying in his room, drooling and staring blankly at the walls.’
Malzius cleared his throat. ‘Even as laymen, I'm sure you can see that our attempts to treat him were making him worse. The medication, the attempts at therapy – nothing seemed to work. Then one of our young psychiatrists, Dr Martin Roth, suggested a new approach to the case. Frankly, the idea was somewhat unorthodox, but we gave it a go. We stopped Larenz's meds.’
‘Aha,’ said Lahnen excitedly. ‘And once he was off the drugs—’
‘—the self-healing process could begin,’ continued Malzius, cutting him off. ‘His delusions continued, but this time they centred around an imaginary therapist: Anna Glass.’
Lahnen gave a low whistle and was reprimanded with a glare from his colleague. They were both big shots in the legal world, but Freymann was obviously the senior of the two.
‘Larenz initially mistook Anna for a patient, but he eventually learned the truth: he was the patient and she was his analyst. The clue was in her name: like a looking glass, she reflected his behaviour and showed him what he had done. At last he was able to come to terms with the death of his daughter, which makes him the first schizophrenic patient to treat his own disorder with the help of his delusions.’
The lights went on. The lecture, as the lawyers realized to their relief, was finally at an end. They were an hour behind schedule and a written report would have done just as well. But the time hadn't been entirely wasted: they had gleaned a number of useful details that would help with their client's defence.
‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ enquired the professor, unlocking the doors and ushering his listeners into the foyer.
‘Actually, there is,’ said Freymann, while Lahnen nodded vigorously in the background.
‘Your report was most interesting, but . . .’
‘But what?’ snapped Professor Malzius, raising his eyebrows in disapproval. He hadn't reckoned with anything but praise.
‘Our present understanding of events derives from information provided by the patient after he recovered from his catatonic state. Isn't that so?’
Malzius nodded. ‘More or less. He hasn't been especially forthcoming. We had to piece together the facts.’
The professor had told them over the phone that Larenz had been particularly guarded over the past few days, refusing to speak to anyone apart from Dr Roth. Not surprisingly, it was impossible to say for certain what had been running through Larenz's head on the day that Josephine died.
Freymann wasn't satisfied. ‘You said yourself that Dr Larenz is a pathological liar. What makes you think that his latest story isn't a fabrication?’
Malzius, who considered the question a waste of his time, looked from his watch to the digital clock on the wall and back to his watch. ‘I don't think you understand the nature of psychiatry,’ he said tetchily. ‘When can we ever be sure? But in my considered opinion, it's highly unlikely that a Munchausen patient would simulate a schizophrenic episode lasting four years in order to lend credence to a lie. Now if there's nothing else, I suggest you—’
‘No!’ snapped Freymann, raising his voice ever so slightly. His tone wasn't exactly rude, but it was enough to stop Malzius in his tracks.
‘Is there a problem?’ asked the professor, visibly annoyed.
‘Just one last question.’
Malzius frowned and shifted his gaze from Freymann to Lahnen and back again.
‘What?’ he demanded. ‘Wasn't my briefing sufficiently thorough?’
‘You didn't answer the real question. The question that brings us here.’ Freymann smiled innocently. ‘Where's the corpse?’
60
‘Bravo!’ said Viktor, clapping his frail hands. ‘An obvious question, but well done for asking all the same.’
‘So where is it, then?’ persisted Dr Roth. ‘What did you do with the body?’
Viktor stopped clapping, rubbed his wrists and stared at the floor. The strip lighting gave the brown linoleum a greenish tinge. ‘Very well,’ he sighed. ‘But I want to make a deal.’
‘You tell me the end of the story, and I'll give you your freedom?’
‘Yes.’
‘I'm sorry but I can't!’
Viktor expelled a long breath of air. ‘I know I deserve to be punished. I did the worst thing a father could do. I loved my daughter more than anything in the world, and I killed her. I killed my own child. But I wasn't well; I'm still not well, and I never will be. What will happen if they put me on trial? The media will have a field day, I'll be locked away for the rest of my life, or sectioned if I'm lucky, but will the world be any better for my imprisonment?’
Dr Roth shrugged.
‘My point is: how would society benefit? Yes, I committed a murder, but I'm not a violent man. You could release me right now in the knowledge that I'd never hurt anyone again. Why?
Because I could never love anyone as much as I loved Josy. Don't you think I've been punished enough? Putting me on trial won't be in anyone's interest.’
Roth shook his head. ‘Perhaps not, but what do you expect me to do? I'd be breaking the law.’
‘Good heavens, Dr Roth, I'm not asking you to unlock the door. You don't have to worry about me escaping in the literal sense. Just give me my meds and I'll go back to Parkum.’
‘To Parkum? After everything you've told me about the place? Parkum was a nightmare!’
‘Parkum only became a nightmare when you stopped my medication. Before that, it was the island of my dreams.’ Viktor chuckled at his own choice of words. ‘The sun was out, Halberstaedt took care of the generator, Michael brought me fresh fish, Sindbad dozed at my feet, and my wife called every day – she was hoping to join me as soon as she could. But best of all, Josy was with me. Everything was perfect. The storm gathered later.’
Deep down, Roth wanted to help him. He reached into his pocket and wrapped his fingers around the bottle of pills. ‘I don't know. It wouldn't be ethical.’
‘OK,’ said Viktor, sitting up in bed. ‘Here's your incentive. I'll answer your question, but on one condition – you give me my tablets first.’
‘No,’ replied Roth, smoothing the hair nervously over his temples. ‘You tell me what happened to her body, and I'll give you the meds.’
‘Don't I deserve a bit of trust? I told you my story without the promise of anything in return. Now it's your turn. Give me the tablets and I'll tell you where to look. You won't notice any change for a couple of minutes. You'll have more than enough time to find out what you want to know.’
Dr Roth hovered uncertainly at his bedside. What he was doing contradicted everything he stood for as a doctor. But he couldn't help himself; he simply had to know.
He withdrew his hand from his pocket and took out a small plastic bottle of pills containing the medication that Viktor had received in the form of an injection every day throughout his stay at the clinic – with the exception of the last three weeks.
‘Thank you.’ Viktor immediately counted out eight tablets and placed them on the palm of his unnaturally pallid hand. Roth watched impassively, but as soon as the pills were in Viktor's mouth, he was seized with an urge to take them back. But it was already too late; Viktor had swallowed them.
‘Relax, Dr Roth, I intend to keep my promise. You made the right choice. And, anyway, it's been exactly three weeks – isn't it time I had a relapse? No one will think to do a blood test – and my lawyers will see to it that no one tries. It's their job to keep me out of the dock. Professor Malzius will find me staring blankly at the ceiling, and he'll lose his confidence in my powers of self-healing. He wasn't comfortable about stopping the meds in the first place – he'll go back to pumping me full of drugs.’
‘What if he decides to have your stomach pumped?’
‘That's a risk I'm prepared to live, or die, with.’ Viktor fell back against his pillows. He had doubled his standard dosage and the effects were evident in his laboured breathing and stilted speech. He raised a weary hand and beckoned for Dr Roth to approach. The psychiatrist bent down so that Viktor could whisper in his ear.
It came as a shock to see his patient's unsteady gaze. Fearing that he was about to lose the answer to his question, he took Viktor by the shoulders and gave him a shake. ‘Where's Josy?’ he demanded. ‘What did you do with her body?’
Viktor's eyelids flickered, then he focused and looked the psychiatrist in the eye. When he spoke, his voice was steady and determined.
‘Listen carefully,’ he said.
Dr Roth bent even closer, as close as he could get.
‘Pay attention to what I tell you. It will make your career.’
Epilogue
Six months later, Côte d'Azur
Suite 910 of the Vista Palace Hotel in Roquebrune commanded spectacular views of Cape Martin and Monaco, but that was only part of its appeal. In addition to three bedrooms and two bathrooms, the luxury apartment came with a private pool to save its well-to-do inhabitants the indignity of swimming with the riff-raff who could only afford an executive room.
Isabell Larenz was relaxing on a lounger by the pool. Rather than eat in the restaurant, she had availed herself of the twenty-four-hour room service and ordered a fillet steak with Italian potatoes and a glass of champagne. A white-liveried waiter had brought the meal on a silver platter and was serving it on a porcelain plate. A second waiter had gone inside to find a chair to match the teak dining table. Isabell had no intention of making do with ordinary garden furniture.
‘Madam, someone is at the door.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Annoyed at the interruption, Isabell put down the latest edition of InStyle magazine and shaded her eyes with her hand.
‘Madam, there's a gentleman to see you. Would you like me to show him in?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said, standing up and signalling impatiently for him to get on with it. She was hungry, the waiters had outstayed their welcome, and she was looking forward to her lunch. While she waited, she dipped her big toe into the pool and looked critically at her nails: it was time for the hotel's beauty therapist to pay another visit to her suite. Yesterday's choice of nail varnish would look dreadful with the outfit she was planning to wear tonight.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Larenz.’
Groaning inwardly, Isabell turned round and saw a stranger standing in the sliding doors to the lounge. He was of medium height, his hair was tousled and he was neatly, but not expensively, dressed.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded, wondering where the waiters had gone. They usually hung around for a tip, but this time they had disappeared without dishing up the vegetables. She tutted in displeasure.
‘My name is Roth, Dr Martin Roth. I'm your husband's doctor.’
‘I see,’ said Isabell. She couldn't sit down and start eating without asking her visitor to join her, so she hovered uncertainly by the pool.
‘I'm here with an important message, something your husband told me before he suffered his last relapse.’
‘Why the urgency? Surely you haven't flown here from Berlin to pass on a message? Couldn't you have called?’
‘It's something we should probably discuss in person.’
‘Very well, Dr Roth. It seems like a fuss about nothing, but if you insist.’ She gestured to the chair with feigned politeness. ‘Would you like to take a seat?’
‘No thanks, it won't take long.’ Dr Roth strolled across the patio, stopped in the middle of the lawn, and positioned himself in the sun. ‘Beautiful apartment.’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you stayed here before?’
‘I haven't visited Europe in over four years . . . Look, I know you've come a long way, but could we get this over with quickly? My lunch is getting cold.’
‘You moved to Buenos Aires, didn't you?’ persisted Roth as if he hadn't heard. ‘You left Berlin after Josy passed away.’
‘I needed to get away. Anyone with children would understand.’
‘Indeed.’ He looked at her intently. ‘Mrs Larenz, your husband confessed to inducing an allergic reaction in your daughter over a period of eleven months. He also admitted to drowning her accidentally.’
‘The lawyers I hired acquainted me with the facts.’
‘In that case, they probably told you that his confession triggered a serious relapse.’
‘Yes, he hasn't shown any sign of recovery, as far as I'm aware.’
‘But I don't suppose they mentioned the subject of our last conversation. In the final moments before Viktor returned to his state of catatonic paralysis, he agreed to tell me what happened to the body.’
Isabell showed no visible sign of emotion. She reached for the Gucci sunglasses perching on her head and lowered them over her eyes.
‘Well?’ she said steadily. ‘What did he say?’
‘We know where she is.’
 
; ‘Where?’ she asked.
Roth, who had been studying her face intently, detected the first sign of emotion. Her lower lip was trembling. He crossed the lawn and leant over the railings. The hotel was situated at the top of a bluff, several hundred metres above the sea.
‘Come and join me,’ he said encouragingly.
‘Why?’
‘Please, Mrs Larenz, this isn't easy for me. I'd rather tell you here.’
Isabell hesitated, then joined him at the railings.
‘Do you see the main pool?’ asked Roth, pointing to the terrace diagonally below them.
‘Yes.’
‘Why don't you swim there?’
‘For heaven's sake, Dr Roth, I've got my own pool. And quite frankly, I'd rather we stuck to the matter at hand.’
‘Of course,’ he murmured without looking up. He seemed to be staring at the people in the pool. ‘The thing is, I've been trying to work out what that gentleman is doing there.’ He pointed to a well-toned figure in red-and-white trunks. The man, who must have been in his early forties, was dragging his lounger into the shade.
‘How should I know? We've never met.’
‘He lives in the suite next door. Like me, he's a member of the medical profession, and like you, he paid for an apartment with a pool . . . But he never seems to use it.’
‘I'm beginning to lose my patience, Dr Roth. I thought you wanted to tell me what happened to my daughter, not to cast aspersions on the bathing habits of people who needn't concern us.’
‘Absolutely. I apologize. It's just . . .’
‘What?’ snapped Isabell, removing her sunglasses and glaring at him with her jet-black eyes.
‘Well, maybe he prefers the main pool because it gives him a chance to eye up the girls. He seems to like the look of that pretty teenager. Blonde hair, three loungers to the left, not far from the shower.’
‘That's it,’ snapped Isabell. ‘I've got no interest whatsoever in your—’