Your Perfect Year(71)

Bode. It really was high time that he made contact with his CEO, who was probably waiting for his call.

But first he wanted to work on his enjoyment list a little more—and telephone conversations with Markus Bode on the future of the publishing house definitely weren’t on the list. So, tennis.

He wrote it down: Playing tennis.

He immediately scribbled below it: Singing. He had completely forgotten about that! As a small boy, Jonathan had really enjoyed singing, warbling along to the Neapolitan folk songs his mother had often given full, passionate voice to.

Huh. His father had naturally thought his son should concentrate far more on chasing after a small ball than singing, so Jonathan’s musical ambitions had come to an end with Sofia’s departure. After his voice broke, he had even stopped singing in the shower.

Jonathan took a deep breath and composed himself.

Guarda, guarda, stu giardino

Siente, siesti scuranante . . .

He broke off abruptly. It sounded hideous! If he didn’t stop immediately, Daphne, the poodle next door, would soon be howling with wild abandon. And he was having difficulty remembering the lyrics. Which pained him, as he could clearly remember knowing every word of “Torna a Surriento” as a boy.

Lost and buried, like so much else.

Tennis and singing. What else? Deep in thought, he tapped on the paper with the tip of his pen, mentally spurring himself to action. Surely he could think of more than these two pitiful examples!

Nothing.

So—to the list of things he didn’t enjoy doing. Jogging? Yes? No? Yes?

His phone rang.

The display showed Markus Bode.

Coincidence? Or a reminder—as clear as a smack on the head with a golf club—of the things he hated? He picked up.

“Jonathan Grief,” he said.

“Hello, Mr. Grief. Markus Bode here.”

“Mr. Bode! How lovely to hear from you! I was about to call you.”

“Have you been thinking about what I said? Had any ideas?”

“Quite a few,” Jonathan replied.

“Shall we meet at the office?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.” Jonathan grinned. “I’ve been doing some serious thinking. And I’ve been wondering whether you play tennis, my friend.”

“Tennis?”





32

Hannah

The same day:

Thursday, January 4, 4:14 p.m.

Although an unpleasant sleet had set in, covering everything in a cold, wet, icy blanket, Hannah was sitting on a bench by the Krugkoppel Bridge, clutching the last of her printouts. She had kept one back from her poster campaign so that she could thrust it under the noses of passersby. Except that this weather meant hardly anyone was out walking, and the sheet of paper, which she could only half protect beneath her coat, was already in a very sorry state. She should have put the posters into plastic pockets, but she’d been in such a hurry to implement her plan.

She would come back and put up new, protected posters tomorrow; after all, she had nothing else to do. And she’d stay on her bench for the rest of that day. She’d sit there for as long as it took to find someone who could help her, who might have seen something. Or until she froze. She suspected the latter might happen first.

She had covered miles of the Alster’s banks pinning up her posters, until she had only this one left. Along the way she had met two police officers who said they’d keep an eye out for Simon. At least something was happening!

Of course, the officers had both suggested she go home, and after looking at Hannah’s posters, they’d said with a hint of offense that they would do their job, she had no need to worry about that. But Hannah Marx wouldn’t be Hannah Marx if . . . if she wasn’t Hannah Marx.

Her cell phone rang. With stiff fingers she fumbled it from her coat pocket and answered.

“Hey, you’re not still out there in the cold?” Lisa had already phoned her three times. She had liked Hannah’s idea of the missing-person posters but believed that her friend should now go home, because in this crap weather she’d be more likely to catch her death than find Simon.

“I want to wait till it gets dark.”

“Just look up at the sky! It’s happening as we speak.”

“The paths are well lit. I’ll be fine.”

“Hannah!”

“Please stop it. I know what I’m doing—really I do.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not so sure of that. It’s not going to help Simon if you catch pneumonia.”

“And what if I leave now and two minutes later someone comes along who’s seen him?”

“Who do you think would be out for a riverside stroll in these freezing temperatures in the sleet?”

“I’m only going to stay another half hour, I promise!”

“Where are you, exactly?”

“By the Krugkoppel Bridge.”

“At least go indoors somewhere. There’s the Red Dog around the corner, for instance. You can get a nice hot cup of tea there.”

“I don’t even know if they’re open.”

“Then go and look!” Lisa’s voice combined affection and impatience. It was the same tone she used when trying with amazing forbearance to persuade a child to please, please put their hat and gloves on.