grip on myself. Charlotte is looking at me expectantly. In this brief moment of silence, the telephone starts to ring again. I do my best to ignore it.
‘I’ve finished getting everything ready,’ I say. ‘But you could make some coffee—that would be great.’
I have already made coffee; it’s in the thermal pot on the table. But no matter—I don’t know whether I can avoid an encounter between Charlotte and Lenzen, though I’ll try to at all costs.
‘Sure,’ says Charlotte. She glances in the direction of the living room, where the insistent ringing continues, but she passes no comment.
‘I’ll come and collect the pot in a minute,’ I call after her. ‘I’d like to be left undisturbed until then.’
Charlotte frowns again, because I’m not normally like that, but presumably puts it down to the unusual situation: I never have strangers to the house and certainly never give interviews. The telephone goes quiet. I toy with the idea of looking to see who the persistent caller was, but think better of it. Nothing can be as important as this.
I return to the dining room.
12
SOPHIE
From her car, Sophie watched a ginger and white cat lying on the lawn in front of the house giving itself a thorough wash. For a good ten minutes now, she’d been trying to psych herself up to enter the building where Britta had lived.
The day had got off to a bad start. When she had finally dropped off after a sleepless night, Sophie had been woken by a journalist wanting to speak about her sister. She had hung up, furious. Then she had rung Britta’s landlord to find out when she could collect Britta’s belongings from the flat, but couldn’t get hold of him. Instead, she had talked to his son, who had offered her his condolences and then plunged into a story about his brother, who had died in a car crash as a schoolboy—so, of course, he knew exactly what Sophie was going through.
Now she was sitting here, in the car. It was a hot day; the sun was beating down on the black roof. Sophie didn’t want to get out; she wanted to sit and watch the cat for a little while longer. But, as if the creature had guessed her thoughts and didn’t fancy being watched, it rose elegantly, casting a disdainful look in her direction, and marched off.
Sophie sighed, summoned all her energy and got out.
From somewhere nearby, maybe from behind the house, came the sound of children playing. There was no sign that anything terrible had ever happened here. All the same, Sophie had to force herself to take every step that brought her nearer the front door. When she finally stood at the door of the block of flats, she swallowed, scanning the names on the doorbell panel. Britta’s makeshift label was still there, written in her schoolgirl handwriting and stuck on with sticky tape. Sophie averted her eyes and, pressing her lips together, rang the bell of the elderly lady on the second floor. A crackle indicated that someone had activated the intercom.
‘Yes?’ came a faint voice. ‘Who is it?’
‘Hello, it’s Sophie Peters—Britta Peters’ sister.’
‘Oh. Ah ha. Come on up, Frau Peters.’
The door buzzed. Sophie gritted her teeth and found herself in the hallway. She hurried as quickly as she could past the door to Britta’s ground-floor flat and on towards the stairs. On the second floor she was met by an old lady with smartly cut short hair and a pearl necklace.
Sophie held out her hand.
‘Come on in,’ the woman said.
Sophie followed her along a passage into an old-fashioned living room. The pastel colours, the lace doilies, the antiquated wall unit and the lingering smell of boiled potatoes were improbably soothing.
‘Nice of you to come so quickly,’ the old lady said, after offering Sophie a seat on the sofa and a cup of tea.
‘But of course,’ Sophie replied. ‘I came as soon as I got your message.’
She blew on her tea and took a small sip.
‘The neighbours said you’d been asking whether anyone had
‘I’ve finished getting everything ready,’ I say. ‘But you could make some coffee—that would be great.’
I have already made coffee; it’s in the thermal pot on the table. But no matter—I don’t know whether I can avoid an encounter between Charlotte and Lenzen, though I’ll try to at all costs.
‘Sure,’ says Charlotte. She glances in the direction of the living room, where the insistent ringing continues, but she passes no comment.
‘I’ll come and collect the pot in a minute,’ I call after her. ‘I’d like to be left undisturbed until then.’
Charlotte frowns again, because I’m not normally like that, but presumably puts it down to the unusual situation: I never have strangers to the house and certainly never give interviews. The telephone goes quiet. I toy with the idea of looking to see who the persistent caller was, but think better of it. Nothing can be as important as this.
I return to the dining room.
12
SOPHIE
From her car, Sophie watched a ginger and white cat lying on the lawn in front of the house giving itself a thorough wash. For a good ten minutes now, she’d been trying to psych herself up to enter the building where Britta had lived.
The day had got off to a bad start. When she had finally dropped off after a sleepless night, Sophie had been woken by a journalist wanting to speak about her sister. She had hung up, furious. Then she had rung Britta’s landlord to find out when she could collect Britta’s belongings from the flat, but couldn’t get hold of him. Instead, she had talked to his son, who had offered her his condolences and then plunged into a story about his brother, who had died in a car crash as a schoolboy—so, of course, he knew exactly what Sophie was going through.
Now she was sitting here, in the car. It was a hot day; the sun was beating down on the black roof. Sophie didn’t want to get out; she wanted to sit and watch the cat for a little while longer. But, as if the creature had guessed her thoughts and didn’t fancy being watched, it rose elegantly, casting a disdainful look in her direction, and marched off.
Sophie sighed, summoned all her energy and got out.
From somewhere nearby, maybe from behind the house, came the sound of children playing. There was no sign that anything terrible had ever happened here. All the same, Sophie had to force herself to take every step that brought her nearer the front door. When she finally stood at the door of the block of flats, she swallowed, scanning the names on the doorbell panel. Britta’s makeshift label was still there, written in her schoolgirl handwriting and stuck on with sticky tape. Sophie averted her eyes and, pressing her lips together, rang the bell of the elderly lady on the second floor. A crackle indicated that someone had activated the intercom.
‘Yes?’ came a faint voice. ‘Who is it?’
‘Hello, it’s Sophie Peters—Britta Peters’ sister.’
‘Oh. Ah ha. Come on up, Frau Peters.’
The door buzzed. Sophie gritted her teeth and found herself in the hallway. She hurried as quickly as she could past the door to Britta’s ground-floor flat and on towards the stairs. On the second floor she was met by an old lady with smartly cut short hair and a pearl necklace.
Sophie held out her hand.
‘Come on in,’ the woman said.
Sophie followed her along a passage into an old-fashioned living room. The pastel colours, the lace doilies, the antiquated wall unit and the lingering smell of boiled potatoes were improbably soothing.
‘Nice of you to come so quickly,’ the old lady said, after offering Sophie a seat on the sofa and a cup of tea.
‘But of course,’ Sophie replied. ‘I came as soon as I got your message.’
She blew on her tea and took a small sip.
‘The neighbours said you’d been asking whether anyone had
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