Blum’s head; she is afraid to close her eyes. Everything is spinning, and however hard she tries to keep her eyelids open she can’t. They are too heavy, the devils push them down. Everything goes black.
sixteen
Blum parks outside the District Criminal Investigation Office. Since waking up she has thought of nothing else but the fact she needs help; the situation is too much for her. She must talk to Massimo, confide in him. Since she opened her eyes, she has been thinking she must tell him what she knows. She can’t and won’t be alone with it; she will put the matter in his hands. She wants to withdraw, look after her children, look after Dunya, help her apply for asylum, maybe find her a job.
It was still dark when she opened her eyes. Hackspiel must have fallen off his chair while he was carving. He was lying on the floor with his limbs outstretched, snoring. The rattle of his snores had woken Blum, roused her from her dreams. She was grateful, because the dreams were terrible. Waking up beside Hackspiel had been a relief. She got up quietly, put two hundred euros on Hackspiel’s chest, and went out into the tail end of the night. It was only five in the morning and the streets were empty. Blum had the autobahn to herself. Her decision became more and more concrete the closer she came to Innsbruck. Looking for the photographer on her own was dangerous; she knew what these men were capable of. Dunya was probably right to assume the worst, believing that they wouldn’t hesitate to kill again. Blum wanted to go home to her children, she didn’t want to endanger them. She must protect them, and Karl, and Reza, the people who were closest to her. If the story was true she must stop snooping around. She must go to Massimo, quickly, she thinks, as she rides at two hundred kph and with a headache through west Tyrol.
She asks for Massimo at reception. Blum knows he is on night duty; she phoned him yesterday just before setting off for Sölden. He asked how she was. She knows that Massimo would do anything for her, drop whatever he was doing, everything. His wife, his life so far. When he looks at her and touches her, Blum knows. And she is glad he is there, with his strong shoulders, when she feels wounded and small. Blum goes upstairs to the second floor; she knows her way around, she has often been here to collect Mark. Sliding down the banisters with Mark, laughing, chasing her down the steps. Blum opens the door of Massimo’s office and takes him by surprise. How glad she is to see his radiant expression, to feel his embrace.
You must help me
, she says.
It doesn’t take her long to persuade him to go to a café around the corner. He is pleased to see her, he drives away the devils in her mind, the images that Dunya has planted there. He takes her hand, because she is trembling. She lets him, and pushes the hair back from her face with her other hand. She wonders where to begin. What to say to him. Serve him the whole story for breakfast? Her head hurts. She must drink water, tell him all about it, now. She begins, cautiously, in Mark’s study, how she was tidying up his things, how she found the recordings, the woman’s strange voice. Massimo listens. At first he says nothing, listens intently, lets Blum talk. He doesn’t know what she is getting at yet, what is making her so incoherent. Until the moment she mentions Dunya’s name he just listens. Then he interrupts her lovingly and soothes her fears. Blum doesn’t get round to telling him what’s in the recordings on Mark’s mobile. Or that she found Dunya and has talked to her, that she is in Blum’s house waiting for her return. She doesn’t get round to saying that she has been to Sölden and suspects the photographer Edwin Schönborn of being one of the men who tortured Dunya. Or that Mark’s death may not have been an accident, but murder. She says none of that because Massimo turns everything upside down, brings bright colour to what was dark
sixteen
Blum parks outside the District Criminal Investigation Office. Since waking up she has thought of nothing else but the fact she needs help; the situation is too much for her. She must talk to Massimo, confide in him. Since she opened her eyes, she has been thinking she must tell him what she knows. She can’t and won’t be alone with it; she will put the matter in his hands. She wants to withdraw, look after her children, look after Dunya, help her apply for asylum, maybe find her a job.
It was still dark when she opened her eyes. Hackspiel must have fallen off his chair while he was carving. He was lying on the floor with his limbs outstretched, snoring. The rattle of his snores had woken Blum, roused her from her dreams. She was grateful, because the dreams were terrible. Waking up beside Hackspiel had been a relief. She got up quietly, put two hundred euros on Hackspiel’s chest, and went out into the tail end of the night. It was only five in the morning and the streets were empty. Blum had the autobahn to herself. Her decision became more and more concrete the closer she came to Innsbruck. Looking for the photographer on her own was dangerous; she knew what these men were capable of. Dunya was probably right to assume the worst, believing that they wouldn’t hesitate to kill again. Blum wanted to go home to her children, she didn’t want to endanger them. She must protect them, and Karl, and Reza, the people who were closest to her. If the story was true she must stop snooping around. She must go to Massimo, quickly, she thinks, as she rides at two hundred kph and with a headache through west Tyrol.
She asks for Massimo at reception. Blum knows he is on night duty; she phoned him yesterday just before setting off for Sölden. He asked how she was. She knows that Massimo would do anything for her, drop whatever he was doing, everything. His wife, his life so far. When he looks at her and touches her, Blum knows. And she is glad he is there, with his strong shoulders, when she feels wounded and small. Blum goes upstairs to the second floor; she knows her way around, she has often been here to collect Mark. Sliding down the banisters with Mark, laughing, chasing her down the steps. Blum opens the door of Massimo’s office and takes him by surprise. How glad she is to see his radiant expression, to feel his embrace.
You must help me
, she says.
It doesn’t take her long to persuade him to go to a café around the corner. He is pleased to see her, he drives away the devils in her mind, the images that Dunya has planted there. He takes her hand, because she is trembling. She lets him, and pushes the hair back from her face with her other hand. She wonders where to begin. What to say to him. Serve him the whole story for breakfast? Her head hurts. She must drink water, tell him all about it, now. She begins, cautiously, in Mark’s study, how she was tidying up his things, how she found the recordings, the woman’s strange voice. Massimo listens. At first he says nothing, listens intently, lets Blum talk. He doesn’t know what she is getting at yet, what is making her so incoherent. Until the moment she mentions Dunya’s name he just listens. Then he interrupts her lovingly and soothes her fears. Blum doesn’t get round to telling him what’s in the recordings on Mark’s mobile. Or that she found Dunya and has talked to her, that she is in Blum’s house waiting for her return. She doesn’t get round to saying that she has been to Sölden and suspects the photographer Edwin Schönborn of being one of the men who tortured Dunya. Or that Mark’s death may not have been an accident, but murder. She says none of that because Massimo turns everything upside down, brings bright colour to what was dark
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