Your Perfect Year(38)
The name Simon Klamm rang a faint bell. But why? Did he know the man? No, he’d remember if he did; he was blessed with an excellent memory. He had probably read articles by him, as he seemed to belong to the Hamburg News staff, and Jonathan had been a subscriber for years.
Before he could brood on it any more, the doorbell made him jump. He glanced at his watch. It was already ten o’clock, and as he so often did, he had forgotten that his housecleaner, Henriette Jansen, came at this time every Wednesday to ensure that his bachelor pad was clean and tidy.
He leapt up, ran downstairs to the dining room, and with a clatter gathered his breakfast dishes, hurrying to the kitchen and shoving them hastily into the dishwasher. The bell rang a second time and he skidded to the front door, tearing it open with a cheerful “Happy New Year!”
“To you, too, Herr Grief.” The compact woman, as broad as she was tall, marched in purposefully, laid a fresh bouquet of amaryllis on the telephone table in the hall, and began to untie her head scarf, revealing her blue-rinsed perm. “Well? Have you dashed around clearing up again? I can see the kitchen door swinging.” She gave him a cheerful wink, a million crow’s-feet forming around her eyes.
“Of course not. That’s what you’re here for!”
“Precisely.” She shook her head in amusement, removed her boots, and reached into the hall closet for a pair of sturdy sandals that lay next to the felt slippers he kept for guests. “Anything in particular today?”
“No, everything as usual.”
“I’ll get started.”
“I’ll be out of your way in a minute.”
As Henriette Jansen disappeared into the kitchen, Jonathan went upstairs to grab a good book from his study.
He intended to go to a café and read for the five hours it would take his cleaner to whirl through his house. This had been their arrangement for years; Frau Jansen hated people looking over her shoulder as she worked.
She had told Jonathan more than once that he could give her a key to the house so he didn’t have to wait and let her in, but he had never been keen on the idea. It wasn’t that he suspected his cleaner of doing anything wrong, truly not—Henriette Jansen had worked for him since the days when he and Tina had still been together in the villa, and she was above all suspicion. It was just . . . just that he didn’t feel quite comfortable with it.
Jonathan stood in front of the large bookshelf in his study, browsing the generous array of books. What did he feel like reading? Poetry? Not really. Nonfiction? Definitely not. A novel? Not quite right for today; he found himself somehow unable to concentrate. His eyes jumped from spine to spine, with nothing drawing him in.
He could print out one of the constant supply of manuscripts the editors sent him to review, but since that fell into the unappealing category of “publishing house and its finances,” he really wasn’t in the mood. So today he’d go for a little walk instead of concerning himself with literature.
He broke into a sweat as he recalled that the documents Bode had given him were lying open on his desk, and much as Henriette Jansen might have his complete trust, the economic position of Grief & Son Books was no concern of hers.
He went to his study, picked up the pile of papers that included the figures, and shoved it between the pages of the Hamburg News. He hesitated a moment before slipping the newspaper right at the bottom of the recycling bin by his desk. Better safe than sorry.
With some relief, he went back down to the ground floor, put on a winter jacket, and poked his head around the kitchen door to say goodbye to Henriette Jansen.
“I’m off,” he said.
“Okay,” she replied without looking up from the counter she was busy wiping.
“Oh, one thing: you don’t have to empty the recycling today. The bins outside are overflowing. There’s no room for anything more.”
“So I saw. No problem.”
“Good. Till next Wednesday, then!”
His hand was on the doorknob when his eyes fell on the bag hanging from a hook in the entrance hall, previously hidden by his jacket.
The bag with the diary.
Ah, now he knew how he’d spend his time until Henriette Jansen finished her work. He’d go to the lost-and-found in Altona and hand in the Filofax.
Hadn’t he done everything he could to track down the owner? From now on, fate would decide what happened to it. Yes, fate.
Sarasvati Schulz had said as much herself.
18
Hannah
Fifteen days before:
Tuesday, December 19, 7:56 p.m.
When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore . . .
Dean Martin was belting out his hymn to love at full volume as they entered the Italian restaurant Da Riccardo on Mansteinstrasse. Hannah was more excited than she’d ever been in her life—drunk with anticipation that fluttered around her stomach like a wild cloud of butterflies.
As arranged, Simon had come to collect her at precisely half past seven. Like a true gentleman, he had offered her his arm, led her to the car, opened the passenger door, and closed it once she was comfortably seated.
Now, in the cozy light of the little restaurant, he helped her out of her coat, looked at her appreciatively, and said, “You look wonderful!”
“Thank you very much.” Naturally, she had taken great care getting ready for her unexpected date. She’d spent half an hour with the straighteners working on her red hair, which usually reminded her of an exploded cushion, but which now fell over her shoulders in soft waves. (With a bit of luck, it would stay that way for at least ten minutes.)