‘Oh really?’ Dr Roth put two fingers in his mouth and let out a shrill whistle.
The noise attracted the attention of a number of people around the pool, including the fair-haired girl. She put down her book. On seeing Dr Roth waving, she returned the greeting.
‘Hola?’ she called hesitantly, getting up and taking a few steps back from the lounger to get a better look.
Isabell froze as the girl stared first at Dr Roth, then at her.
‘Hola. Qué pasa?’ she shouted in Spanish. ‘Quién es el hombre, mami?’
Isabell, as predicted by Dr Roth, immediately tried to flee. She got as far as the patio doors before a man burst into the apartment.
‘Isabell Larenz, I'm arresting you on suspicion of perverting the course of justice, and for criminal negligence,’ said the French official.
‘That's ridiculous,’ she protested.
The handcuffs snapped shut.
‘You'll regret this!’
The policeman muttered something into his walkie-talkie and seconds later a helicopter thudded into view, approaching the hotel from a distance of a hundred or so metres.
‘No one could fault your ingenuity, Mrs Larenz,’ said Roth, following the policeman outside. Isabell kept walking but he knew she was listening.
‘Josy didn't drown. She was unconscious when you found her. You smuggled her out of Berlin and put her on a boat to South America. Viktor's schizophrenia made him suggestible, and you encouraged him to believe that Josy was dead. Naturally, he broke down when he thought he had killed her. After that, you had power of attorney and could claim his fortune for yourself. Your lawyers took care of the paperwork, and there was enough money in the bank to silence the rumours about the psychiatrist's wife and her little girl – that's the advantage of Argentina, I suppose. It worked nicely for four years, but you made a mistake. You were wrong to bring Josy back to Europe. After Viktor's confession, you thought you were safe.’
The police officer frogmarched Isabell up the stairs to the fifth floor and escorted her on to the roof of the Vista Palace Hotel. The helicopter pad had been intended for use by affluent guests, but it was currently occupied by a military chopper belonging to the French police. Isabell maintained a stony silence and paid no attention to the questions shouted after her by Dr Roth.
‘What did you tell Josy? Did you persuade her that she'd be better off in Buenos Aires without the media watching her every move? How did she like her new identity? Does she ask to see her father?’
Isabell didn't reply. She showed no interest in answering his questions – or in asking any of her own. Most people would have demanded a lawyer or begged for the right to say goodbye to the teenager who was being comforted by a policewoman on the poolside below. Isabell said nothing and was marched away without a fight.
‘Your husband was ill,’ shouted Dr Roth, hoping that his voice wasn't being drowned out by the helicopter blades. ‘But you . . . you're just mercenary.’
At last Isabell stopped and turned. The policeman immediately drew his gun. Isabell seemed to be saying something, but Roth couldn't hear what. He took a step closer.
‘How did Viktor find out?’
The words reached him loud and clear.
‘How did my husband find out?’
Oh he knew straightaway, thought Roth without replying. Viktor had known as soon as his head cleared and he was able to think. He had known long before Roth asked him about the body. The police had discovered no evidence of Josy's corpse in the boathouse, and so Viktor had concluded that his daughter wasn't dead. And if Josy wasn't dead, someone must have spirited her away. It wasn't hard to do the maths.
Viktor's insistence on returning to Parkum had puzzled Roth at first. But then he realized that his patient had wanted to retreat from reality precisely because his daughter was alive. He was afraid. Horribly afraid. Afraid of what he might do to his daughter. He had hurt her, almost killed her. His illness was incurable, and as a psychiatrist, he was well aware of that. And so he had chosen the only place where Josy would be safe from him: Parkum.
‘How did Viktor find out?’ repeated Isabell, struggling to make herself heard above the din of the thudding blades.
‘She told him,’ shouted Roth. For a moment he was surprised to hear himself saying exactly what Viktor would have wanted his wife to hear.
‘Told him? Who told him?’
‘Anna.’
‘Anna?’
The policeman gave Isabell a little shove and ordered her to keep moving. She stumbled forward but kept looking back. She wanted to talk to Dr Roth, to ask a final question. But she was moving away from him and he couldn't make out the words. He didn't need to. He could read her question from the movement of her lips.
‘Who the hell is Anna?’
Her uncomprehending expression, the helplessness in her eyes as the helicopter took off, was the last that Martin Roth saw of her. It was an image he never forgot.
Slowly, he turned and headed for the stairs. As he made his way down, he knew that the real challenge lay ahead. In the coming months he would face the first true test of his ability as a therapist. A new patient was waiting for him and it was his job to break the truth to her. He had given her father his word.
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I'd like to thank you, the reader. Not because I have to, but because I think we share a certain solidarity. Reading and writing are solitary and intensely personal activities, and I'm honoured to be the recipient of the most valuable gift in the world: your time. Especially if you've made it all the way through to these acknowledgements.
Maybe you'd like to tell me what you thought of the book. You can contact me via my website: www.sebastianfitzek.de
Or send me an email:
[email protected] Next I'd like to thank all the people who had a hand in ‘creating’ me, for example:
My literary agent, Roman Hocke, who treated me like one of his many bestselling authors and never made me feel like a novice.
My UK agent Tanja Howarth who opened the doors to Pan Macmillan where I was given the warmest of welcomes by Stefanie Bierwerth and Daniela Rapp, my editors in London and New York. Thank you for all your hard work in making a dream come true and getting a first-time novelist from Berlin published in the language of his literary heroes, the world's greatest thriller writers.
My translator, Sally-Ann Spencer, who did such a thorough and wonderful job with the English edition that I like the book even better than before.
My German editor, Dr Andrea M. Müller, who ‘discovered’ me and played a significant role in shaping the novel.
My friend Peter Prange, who unselfishly shared the lessons learnt from years of writing bestselling novels, and his wife, Serpil Prange, who offered excellent guidance and comments. They were very generous with their time, and I hope I managed to follow their advice.
Clemens, my brother, who helped with the medical content. It can never hurt to have an expert on neuroradiology in the family, and it's a relief to our parents that one of us is working in a sensible profession. To ensure that Clemens doesn't get blamed for my mistakes, I should point out that he didn't check my drafts.
Every book represents the culmination of a long journey, and mine began with my parents, Christa and Freimut Fitzek. I thank them for their love and unstinting support.
Stories are only worth telling if you've got someone to tell them to. Gerlinde deserves recognition for listening to Therapy in its entirety at least six times and giving each new version her enthusiastic approval. Of course, her objectivity may be somewhat in doubt.
Then there are all the people whose names I don't know but without whom this book wouldn't exist in its current form: the designers who came up with the brilliant cover, the typesetters, the printers, the booksellers who put the novel on the shelves.
And I couldn't finish these acknowledgements without thanking you, Viktor Larenz. Wherever you may be . . .
Sebastian Fitzek,
the sunniest day of the year,
Parkum
Sebastian Fitzek, Therapy
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