Your Perfect Year(76)

She had wanted to dash over there at three in the morning to grab a copy of the late edition, but after sharing a bottle of red wine with her, Lisa had talked her out of getting behind the wheel of her Twingo. She had been forceful, taking the keys from Hannah’s hand and sternly instructing her to “go get at least six hours’ sleep!”

Despite her friend’s orders, Hannah had spent the night awake, tossing and turning in Simon’s bed, her mind filled with dark thoughts, while her friend enjoyed the sleep of the just on the living-room sofa. Hannah had got up and, unwashed and bedraggled as she was, hurried out to the Hansa Bakery.

Here she was, scruffy as a stray cat, resisting the temptation to rattle the metal shutters and yell at the top of her voice for them to let her in.

It was 6:56. The gas station? But even Hannah could see that it wasn’t worth the effort and expense for four minutes, and that if she left her vigil by the door now, it might actually take longer to get her hands on the Hamburg News. She hoped the bakery had already received its deliveries. If not, she’d collapse in a fit of hysterical tears on the spot.

At 6:59 she heard the longed-for rattling of a key turning inside, and a few seconds later the shutter was rolled up. The elderly lady behind the door looked quite indignant at the way Hannah stormed into the shop the moment she opened, demanded a copy of the Hamburg News without so much as a “Good morning,” marched over to the counter, and picked up a copy from the pile there.

“You’ve forgotten your change!” the lady called dutifully as she looked at the five-euro bill in her hand. But Hannah was already out on the street.

Breathing heavily, Hannah stopped and unfolded her newspaper. She was relieved to see the editors had kept their word. The missing-person notice about Simon was in a visible place at the bottom of the front page, with a large photo of her boyfriend and even a picture of the diary. If anyone had seen Simon by the Alster on New Year’s morning, or if anyone had the Filofax, this article would be sure to help her find them. Guaranteed. Anything else was inconceivable.





35

Jonathan

Friday, January 5, 6:15 a.m.

The alarm ringing caused Jonathan to sit up in bed with a jolt, as he did every morning. It took him three seconds to realize there was no reason to be startled awake; on the contrary, the time had come for him to slow down his routine, as his daily predawn run was now history.

Tennis was the new jogging, so Jonathan silenced his radio alarm with a well-aimed thump and sank back onto his pillow, pulled the duvet up over his nose, and sighed with pleasure. Wonderful! He could stay here for as long as he wanted to.

And he did want to, very much. Apart from his company’s unpleasant financial situation, and the fear that Markus Bode wouldn’t let it go, he felt better than he had for a long time. He couldn’t really say why, as nothing had actually happened. But there it was.

He woke for the second time at half past eight. Jonathan N. Grief grinned boldly as he peered at his alarm clock. Half past eight on a weekday—that was more like the right time for a man of the world, a bon vivant, as he was going to consider himself from that day forward. He could even get rid of his alarm clock altogether; he had no reason at all to be harassed out of bed at some ungodly hour every day.

He sat up, slipped into the felt slippers he kept by the side of the bed, picked up his robe from the rocking chair. Now for a cup of good coffee, a freshly baked croissant, and the newspaper. That was the way to start the day!

As he went downstairs to the kitchen, he found it hard to believe that he had always spent this first part of the day in running gear, usually tired and sullen. What had got into him for all those years? And why, for goodness’ sake, had he gone off jogging in the middle of the night, when he, a man of independent means, had absolutely no reason to indulge in such madness?

It must have been force of habit. He had gone on a morning run for years, since he was first a student, and over time this ritual had got so deeply under his skin that he’d never questioned it. He silently thanked the diary; without its prompt he would probably have tormented himself on the banks of the Alster morning after morning until he had to be pushed along the route by a paid caregiver.

After switching on the coffee machine and placing a croissant on a baking sheet in the oven, Jonathan went to fetch the Hamburg News from the tube by the front door and laid the paper on the dining table, ready to be unfolded and read at leisure. The coffee was not yet ready, so he hurried back up to his study to fetch the diary. He’d begin with that, before reading the paper.

He intended to make it a new daily ritual to read the day’s entry every morning, taking care not to look ahead, however great the temptation. He had already skimmed some of the entries, but that didn’t count—he’d been given no choice if he wanted to trace the owner.

But from now on he wanted to think of the Filofax—which no one missed, it seemed, or which had been gifted to him by fate, yes, fate!—as something like an Advent calendar: only one door at a time could be opened, otherwise you’d earn yourself a rap on the knuckles. This way, he’d start each day with a pleasant surprise. With his personal grab bag, his morning oracle, his . . . well, yes, his secret variety show.

Ten minutes later, he was sitting at the large table in the dining room, at peace with himself and the world. He took a hearty bite of the warm, delicious croissant, opened the diary at January 5, and began to read.