Your Perfect Year(82)
Her eyes widened in shock and her hand flew to her mouth—she recognized this number, having dialed it more or less constantly in recent days. It was the policewoman who had told Hannah she could call her anytime.
Lisa noticed Hannah’s reaction and raised her eyebrows. “Who is it?”
“The police,” Hannah said, her voice faltering. She took the call and closed her eyes. “Marx.”
“Hello, Hannah.” She was right; it was the officer. “Where are you now?”
“At the Kampnagel,” she replied.
“Are you on your own?”
“No. I’ve got a friend with me.”
“Good.” She paused briefly. “Could you both please come to the station? The precinct on Wiesendamm is just around the corner.”
“What’s up?” Hannah’s voice shook.
“Please come; we’ll tell you then.”
“No!” She was shouting now. “Tell me right now!”
The policewoman said something that Hannah didn’t catch, because some girls nearby broke out in raucous laughter.
“Just a moment!” she yelled into the cell phone. “I can’t hear a thing; I’m just stepping outside.” She shoved through the waiting people, taking a direct line to the exit and ignoring the angry murmurs of those she barged into on her way. Lisa followed at her heels.
“What did you say?” Hannah yelled as soon as they were outside.
“I’m asking you to come to see us at the station,” the policewoman repeated.
“No,” Hannah insisted. “Please tell me right now what’s going on, or I’m not moving an inch. Have you found Simon?”
There was silence at the other end of the line.
“Hello?” Hannah shrieked. Her nerves were at the breaking point. “Have you found him?”
“Yes,” the police officer replied softly. “We’ve found him.”
Hannah closed her eyes again. She found it hard to breathe and felt as if her knees could give way at any moment. “Is he okay?” As soon as the words left her lips, she knew what the answer would be.
“No,” the policewoman said. “I’m sorry. Simon Klamm is dead. Some walkers discovered his body an hour ago.”
“Are you sure? Are you absolutely certain it’s him?”
“I’m afraid so. We were able to identify him by the ID card he had on his person. But in order to make it official we need to wait for him to be examined by the forensic pathologist.”
“So there could be a mistake?”
“Hannah, I really need you to come to the station.”
“Tell me first if it’s possible there’s been a mistake!”
The police officer sighed. “Theoretically, and only theoretically, there is. We really do think it’s him.”
“Where?” Hannah yelled. “Where was he found?”
“He was lying on an embankment by the Mühlenteich lake. It looks like he drowned.”
Hannah gasped, started to crumple, and was caught at the last moment by Lisa. “Fine,” she croaked into the telephone. “We’re on our way.”
41
Jonathan
Sunday, January 14, 6:50 p.m.
“Well, well. Who do we have here? So you’re going to a Fitzek reading? Now you really have surprised me!”
It wasn’t a stranger wanting his diary back, but Markus Bode. Clearly amused, he was grinning from ear to ear.
“Well”—Jonathan forced a laugh—“I thought I’d come check it out. Research, if you like. I need to get an overview of the market.” He had an unpleasant feeling of being caught out, having argued with his CEO not long ago that books like Fitzek’s spelled the end of cultural civilization as they knew it. It felt like Bode had spotted him in the act of entering a swingers’ club or porn shop. Except in this case, Bode was also there, putting the pair of them in a stalemate that ought to be embarrassing for both or neither of them. Bode had already admitted that, for financial reasons, he had recently taken quite an interest in swingers . . . wait, no, in popular fiction.
“You really don’t have to justify yourself to me,” Bode said. He sounded patronizing. “On the contrary, what a lucky coincidence! The reading’s completely sold out, and I’d hoped to grab a ticket at the door. It looks like I’m in luck.” He smiled. “At least, if you’d be so kind as to take me in with you.”
“Yes, um,” Jonathan replied. “True, what a coincidence! And of course you can have my second ticket.” He opened the envelope, took out the two tickets, and gave one of them to Markus Bode.
“Thank you very much,” he said, taking it with a nod. “What do I owe you?”
“Please!” Jonathan was appalled. “You’re my guest, of course.” Well, not mine, exactly, he added silently.
“Thanks again,” Bode replied. “Let’s go see what it’s all about.”
They allowed themselves to be swept along by the chattering crowd of people toward K6, stood waiting in line once again, and finally handed their tickets to the usher at the entrance. He tore them and let the two men into the auditorium.
“Wow!” Markus Bode exclaimed, standing rooted to the spot. It was a fitting description of the scene before them; everything about it was “Wow!” And it had nothing in common with any author talk that Jonathan had ever been to.