* * *
When we get to the station, the two officers take me to a somberly furnished room and offer me a cup of coffee. Once a young man has set down the steaming cup in front of me and left again, they ask me to tell them, in sequence, what happened, and especially what I know about the bombing at Munich station.
I start with the evening when Joanna suddenly didn’t recognize me anymore. I do, however, understate the seriousness of the situation by quite a bit. My fear that Joanna could be shipped off to a mental institution is still there.
The two men constantly interrupt me with questions. Can I say any more about this or that; why don’t I take a moment and think again carefully. What part do I think Gabor played in the whole affair, and do I know who von Ritteck is. Whether I witnessed any part of the shootout in the warehouse. Did Gavin and his people open fire, or simply react to the shots the other men fired. From time to time, they exchange unreadable glances.
Once I’ve finished giving my account, they take turns asking even more questions. Why didn’t I contact the police earlier, and why did I fake my own death.
As I’m explaining our motivations, the door opens and Joanna comes in accompanied by a woman with black hair. The woman puts a folder on the table and leaves the room again.
Joanna, too, is given a mug of coffee, and right away she cups it with both hands. Just as she always does.
She must have had an opportunity to wash; her face doesn’t look as dirty as it did outside the warehouse.
The half-bald officer leafs through the folder with obvious interest. Pullmann. Now I remember. His name is Pullmann. After a while, he tosses the folder back onto the table in front of him and scrutinizes Joanna. “So, why don’t you tell me about when you saw Herr Thieben standing there in your house and you no longer recognized him.”
My folded hands clench up under the table. Hopefully Joanna will say the same thing I did.
“I don’t really remember in detail anymore,” she starts, giving me a quick glance. “It was very strange. But it subsided again fairly quickly.” Thank goodness.
They repeat a few of the questions which they’ve asked me, then they want to know about the Australians.
“Frau Berrigan, how are you and Herr Porter acquainted?” K?nig asks. I only realize who he’s talking about when Joanna answers.
“Gavin heads up my father’s security team.”
“In Australia?”
“Yes.”
“So why is he here?”
“Because I called my father and told him I was worried my life might be in danger.”
Pullmann leans forward and slams the palms of his hands down on the table. “And why the hell didn’t you inform the police if you were afraid for your life?”
“I did contact the police,” Joanna calmly responds. “But it didn’t get me anywhere.”
Pullmann snorts and waves his hand dismissively, but he leaves it at that.
“What about Gavin, then?” I press. “What’s going to happen to him and his people? They were the ones who contacted the police. They saved our lives.”
“We don’t know yet. They’re still being questioned at the moment. As are those other men.” K?nig abruptly pushes back his chair and turns to his colleague. “I think we’re done for the time being.” He gets up, reaches for the folder, and rolls it up.
“Someone’s going to take you home now. I would, however, ask that you remain available for questioning. We’re going to need to talk to you again once we’ve finished questioning the others.”
We both nod appreciatively. As we stand up next to each other, I feel Joanna’s hand groping for mine. I take her hand and hold it tightly.
During the drive home, we sit next to each other silently in the back seat of the police car. Maybe it’s because of the young policewoman and her colleague that we’re not talking about the things that I imagine are shaking up Joanna just as much as me. But maybe it’s also the thought of our house, the fear that maybe it can no longer be our house after everything that’s happened in the past few days, and especially in the past few hours. Maybe the place that’s always been our most private sanctuary has been ruined for us by Gabor’s men breaking in.
As we turn onto the driveway, it’s something else entirely that I notice first, something that makes my stomach clench. The missing cockatoo.
It’s a symbol of the last remaining secrets which stand between Joanna and me—the fact that she doesn’t remember me, her attempt to kill me, the disappearance from the house of all proof of my existence.
We thank the officers and get out. Wait until the vehicle’s disappeared. But even then, neither of us is able to move a muscle.
“It’s a strange feeling, isn’t it?” I ask, unable to tear my eyes away from the empty spot next to the rhododendrons.
“Yeah. For you probably even more than for me.” She moves closer to me, puts an arm around my waist. I do the same. “All right then, let’s see what happens.”
I couldn’t say what I expected, but as we look around the hall and then the kitchen and realize that barely anything has changed, I’m surprised. No closets have been torn open, no drawers are yanked out, and there are no items strewn over the floor. The living room, too—same as always. Then again, why would Gabor’s people have vandalized the house in the first place; they didn’t want valuables, they wanted us.
I sag down onto the couch, phone in hand. There’s only one thing left to do today, call Ela and tell her we’re OK. We keep the conversation brief; I don’t have the strength right now to explain how the dots fit together, but I promise her I’ll get in touch again tomorrow. The whole time I’ve been on the phone, I didn’t hear a peep from Joanna. I look around but she’s nowhere to be seen. My pulse quickens immediately. I exit the living room, walk through the kitchen, and abruptly stop in the entrance to the hall. The front door is open, and Joanna is standing on the doorstep. She’s holding the key to the mailbox in one hand and an envelope in the other, and it looks as though she’s afraid to open it.
51
My name is on the envelope, barely legible, in hastily scribbled letters. It’s very light, almost like it’s empty. I’d prefer to feel around before I open it, to try to figure out the contents, but I don’t dare. Who knows, maybe it contains another, final attempt from Gabor to get me out of the way. Using anthrax, for example.
Erik sees my hesitation and takes the envelope from my hand. He feels it carefully. “There’s something in it. But it’s definitely nothing explosive.”
Before I can protest, he goes into the kitchen and gets a knife from the block. No, not just a knife—the knife.
When he sees that I’ve followed him, he shakes his head. “Stay in the living room and shut the door behind you.”