The Nightwalker Page 11

  Leon tapped his thumb on the now-dead mobile display and asked, ‘Would I have phoned the police if I had done something that was against the law?’

  Kroeger laughed throatily and turned to leave. ‘You wouldn’t believe how stupid most of the criminals we deal with are.’

  Leon followed him into the hallway, becoming anxious when the policeman went in the wrong direction, towards the bedroom, the door of which stood ajar.

  ‘This is the way out,’ said Leon, a little too insistently. The detective stopped abruptly.

  ‘Are you trying to get rid of me?’

  ‘No. I just don’t want you to go the wrong way.’

  Kroeger looked Leon right in the eyes, frowning, then turned back.

  ‘OK then . . .’ he said in a threatening tone, reaching inside his coat. Leon felt sure Kroeger was about to pull out a pair of handcuffs or a weapon, but it was just a wallet.

  ‘For the moment you seem to have a clean record, Herr Nader. So see my visit as a warning. As of now, we have the special circumstances we need to take your missing person’s report seriously. And while we look for your wife, I’ll be keeping an eye on you.’

  He handed Leon his card.

  ‘Please do yourself a favour, and call me as soon as you have something to say.’

  23

  ‘Sven? Where are you? If you get this message, please call me back as soon as you can. I need your help.’ Leon cut the connection with his friend’s voicemail and turned his landline phone over in his hands thoughtfully. Before him on the desk in his office lay the discoveries from the shaft: Natalie’s blouse and mobile phone. The latter was charging before the battery died completely.

  The police detective had taken Leon’s mobile phone with him, saying that he wasn’t yet able to release it on account of the fact that it was potentially evidence. Leon wasn’t sure if that was legal, but he had only protested half-heartedly. An argument with Kroeger wouldn’t have gained him anything, and would only have made the policeman more suspicious.

  Damn it, Sven. Why aren’t you picking up?

  Normally his friend was always contactable, especially at times like these, when it was all or nothing in the final stages of a pitch.

  Leon sat at the desk and reached for Natalie’s phone. Since Kroeger left, he had already checked it. But with the exception of Dr Volwarth’s contact details, he hadn’t found any other entries, pictures or dates that seemed suspicious.

  Many of the names in her contacts were, admittedly, unknown to him, but that wasn’t surprising given that Natalie had friends from her student days saved there, many of whom Leon hadn’t met or only briefly, and to whose names he wouldn’t have been able to put a face.

  And yet he still had a strange feeling as he opened the list of missed calls and saw an unusually long number at the top.

  Who called Natalie while Kroeger was grilling me?

  Leon pressed to return the call. A large part of him wanted to hang up at the dial tone. But on the other hand, if someone on the other end had information about Natalie, he desperately wanted them to pick up.

  It was a while before he heard a noisy ringing, which sounded like the dial tone of a foreign line.

  ‘Hello?’ Leon heard a man answer. The voice sounded tired, but despite some interference from what sounded a little like a vacuum cleaner in the background, it was clear and easy to make out.

  ‘Hello?’ asked Leon hesitantly.

  ‘Yes, who am I speaking to?’

  Recognising the voice now, Leon jumped up from his seat as though he had been electrocuted.

  ‘Dr Volwarth?’ he asked in bewilderment.

  ‘Yes, speaking.’

  Leon’s first impulse was to hang up, but it was already too late for that, because the psychiatrist had recognised his voice too.

  ‘Leon? Leon, is that you?’

  ‘Yes,’ croaked Leon after a brief pause, in which he tried in vain to collect his wits. ‘Why are you, I mean, how . . .? I thought you were on your way to Tokyo?’ he stammered.

  ‘And that’s exactly where you’re reaching me right now. On my seat in the plane.’

  ‘You’ve been flying for over twenty-four hours?’

  ‘What’s this about, Leon? Don’t you watch the news? The snow closed all the airports and our departure was delayed until this morning.’

  Leon went over to the window and pulled the curtains apart. It was dark outside in the courtyard, but he could see thick peaks of snow on top of the rubbish bins.

  ‘How did you get this number?’ Volwarth asked.

  ‘I pressed redial.’

  ‘But how? I didn’t call you.’

  ‘Not me, no. You called my wife.’

  ‘What? No, that’s not possible. I don’t know your wife.’

  ‘Oh no?’ asked Leon, feeling rage surge within him. ‘So why is your name in her contacts list? And why did you try to call Natalie exactly twelve minutes ago on her mobile?’

  ‘Just a moment.’ Volwarth now sounded as confused as Leon had at the beginning of their conversation. ‘What did you say your wife’s name was?’

  ‘Natalie.’

  ‘My God . . .’

  ‘Why, what is it?’

  After a brief pause, in which the background noise from the aeroplane cabin became louder, Leon was able to hear the muffled sounds of the psychiatrist moving in his seat, then Volwarth spoke in a quiet but urgent tone: ‘Listen, that clears up a few things, Leon. But I have to end this call immediately.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘That I can’t help you any further.’

  ‘What? But you’re my doctor. I confided in you that my wife has disappeared and that I’m scared I have something to do with it, that my illness might have come back. And now even the police think I’m violent, and they showed me these horrific pictures they found on my mobile. Shot in our bedroom, a place where a void opens up, literally. Dr Volwarth, don’t you think that, as my psychiatrist, you’re duty-bound to help me in this situation?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. And I wish I could.’

  Could?

  ‘Who the hell is stopping you?’

  ‘Doctor-patient confidentiality.’

  Leon choked as if Volwarth’s last sentence had been forced down his throat. ‘Just a moment, are you implying that Natalie is your patient too?’

  ‘I really have to go now,’ said the psychiatrist evasively, but Leon wasn’t going to be shaken off that easily.

  ‘What are you treating her for?’

  ‘Please, I’ve already said too much.’

  ‘She introduced herself with a different name, didn’t she?’

  ‘Leon . . .’

  ‘I’d hazard a guess it was under Lene, her maiden name. Is that correct?’

  ‘We’re about to land, so we have to turn off all electronic devices. Goodbye.’

  ‘You bastard!’ bellowed Leon into the phone. ‘What do you know about my wife? What’s happened to her?’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Leon. But it was really lovely to see you again after such a long time. Once again, congratulations on your wonderful apartment.’

  What’s that supposed to mean?

  ‘I’m terrified that I’m losing my mind, and you spout this small talk? Please, Dr Volwarth, if you know something—’

  ‘I just hope your fireplace starts working again soon, especially as it gets so cold over New Year.’

  There was a crackle on the line, then the connection went dead.

  24

  Leon’s rage had subsided, and a tense, all-consuming anxiety had won back the upper hand in his emotions.

  He stood in the living room in front of the mantelpiece, in exactly the spot where the detective had stood searching in vain for photos of Natalie, and heard Volwarth’s words replay in his mind: I just hope your fireplace starts working again soon . . .

  Leon shook his head in a barely perceptible manner, like Ivana Helsing had don
e earlier while talking in her apartment. Then he kneeled on the protective brass fender in front of the fireplace. They hadn’t used the open fire once since they moved in, because the chimney didn’t work properly and there was a danger of carbon monoxide poisoning if they burned so much as a single log. It was an irritating problem that the building management had promised to deal with, but so far nothing had been done.

  As a temporary measure, Leon and Natalie had installed a smoke-free ethanol heater. Artificial, plastic logs lay over a fuel chamber, creating an astonishingly genuine-looking and even warming light play.

  ‘Our Las Vegas fireplace,’ Natalie had joked. Like Leon, she tended to prefer more natural materials. ‘Kitsch, but kind of cool.’

  Thinking back to that day made Leon sad. Only a few weeks later, Natalie’s laugh was just a memory of a time that was probably irrevocably lost.

  And now?

  After Volwarth had hung up, Leon had stood in his study as if nailed to the floor, wishing there were a lid on top of his skull so he could reach in and stop the carousel of his thoughts.

  How does Volwarth know the fire’s not working? was no longer the most burning question in his mind.

  Only Natalie could have told him, but that was of marginal importance right now. Much more decisive was the fact that the psychiatrist had rudely ended their conversation with this very refrain, and there could be only one explanation for that.

  Volwarth wanted to .give me a clue without damaging his professional integrity.

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Leon to himself.

  He removed the artificial pile of wood from the fireplace, then the pot with the fuel, and lit a match. The flame revealed the sooty, cracked inner wall of the fireplace, and as Leon poked his head into the opening, he couldn’t help but think about the fairy tale of Hansel and Gretel, when the evil witch burns in her own oven after Gretel deviously lures her in there. His nerves were stretched to breaking point, and he looked behind him to make sure he was alone and that no one was standing there watching him.

  It has eyes, you know. The house, I mean. He thought back to the cryptic words of the old Helsing woman, who was probably sat in front of her fireplace right this second, one storey down, talking to herself.

  Once the first, match had burned away between his fingers without him having seen anything, he lit another and tried to approach things in a more systematic way.

  Thick, grimy soot – harking back to the days when tenants were lucky enough to have an intact chimney – covered his finger as Leon fumbled his hand around the base, centimetre by centimetre, in the hope of finding some hollow, groove or other feature that would suggest a hiding place.

  Once he had checked the base and the walls of the fireplace, in vain, he moved to the chimney’s smoke flap, which sealed the vent and, strangely, he couldn’t open by hand.

  Leon had to use the tongs to open it from the inside, and almost as soon as he had, after considerable effort, the obstruction that had been blocking the vent fell to the floor.

  What in God’s name . . . ?

  He flinched back from the small package as though it were a venomous snake. After a moment of shock, he bent over to pick up the object, which was wrapped in a plastic bag. It felt like a heavy book. Old, grey soot rose up towards him. Once he had taken off the wrapping, he realised that Dr Volwarth had led him to probably the most intimate document that Natalie had ever created.

  Her diary wasn’t very big, containing at most a hundred pages which had been bound into a rigid book. She’d only written on some of the pages, as Leon had established after wiping the soot from his fingers and sitting on a chair to inspect his find.

  For the most part, the handwritten entries consisted of just one or two sentences, illustrated here and there with a drawing or photo.

  Leon felt even more guilt than he had when searching Natalie’s photography lab. By reading her diary entries, he was crossing yet another line, trespassing into forbidden territory.

  Should I leave him? Natalie had asked her diary. The entry, made in her familiar, florid handwriting, was dated 28 February, just two months after they moved in.

  I thought we were soul mates. But sometimes I don’t even recognise him. It’s almost as though he has two faces.

  Leon’s throat began to tighten and the tips of his fingers became numb. He flicked through a few insignificant entries about problems or successes in the gallery, and her father’s approaching birthday – the fact that she didn’t know what to buy him.

  Then, at the beginning of June, he found a photograph. There could be no doubt as to what it meant, but Leon spent several tortured seconds trying to find another explanation to the one that was so obvious. But all his efforts were in vain.

  The fact that he had never seen the ultrasound picture before was like a blow to the gut, and Natalie’s entry made it even worse.

  What should I do? I don’t want to keep it. I CAN’T keep it.

  ‘Tell me it isn’t true,’ said Leon, barely managing to get the words out. It felt like his throat had been sealed shut. He flicked further on, page by page, with every entry getting more nervous of finding the words he was expecting. Then he found them, dated two weeks later, just before the end of the first trimester.

  Leon’s eyes filled with tears.

  The appointment in the clinic was awful. I only hope that Leon never discovers the truth.

  ‘No!’

  Something shattered inside him, something that would never be whole again.

  ‘But why?’ he whispered.

  We wanted that baby so much.

  At that moment he wished Dr Volwarth had kept his oath of confidentiality. He would never have wanted to find out this truth. He had been hoping the psychiatrist had some information that could have brought Natalie back. But now Leon felt further away from her than ever before.

  It was the right decision not to tell him. Things are getting worse and worse with him, said an entry some weeks later. He felt just as agitated and shaky as Natalie’s handwriting.

  Her writing seemed rushed, fragile. No longer neat and artistic as he knew it to be from the notes she had so often left him on the fridge.

  But that had been before, and before was clearly over.

  I’m afraid, Natalie had written on one of the last pages, underlining the most terrible word in the sentence twice. He’s hurting me so much. It was all a terrible mistake. I have to leave him.

  ‘Our marriage? Me? The baby? Everything a mistake?’

  Leon closed first the diary and then his eyes.

  See nothing. Feel nothing. Forget everything.

  ‘Am I responsible for what’s happened to her?’

  From the abortion to her disappearance?

  Leon knew he was behaving oddly, sitting there having a conversation with the diary in his hand, but he couldn’t help it.

  ‘What did I do?’

  Almost as soon as he had spoken the words out loud, he felt unbelievably tired, and this made him realise two things: firstly, he didn’t have the strength for any more discoveries; he would lose his mind completely if he stayed in this apartment alone any longer, if in fact it hadn’t happened already.

  And he had asked the wrong question. The decisive factor was not what he had done in the past, but what he would do from now on that could damage himself or others.

  I can’t go to sleep, he thought, going into the bathroom to splash his face with cold water. Not until I know the whole truth.

  He made a decision, the start of which entailed checking the front door to make sure he had secured it properly after Kroeger’s departure. Normally he left the key in the lock when he was at home, but this time he took it out to keep on his person.

  Leon knew how laughable these security precautions were in a building with doors hidden behind wardrobes, but he still checked the windows and searched every single room before sitting down in his living room and calling for help.

  25

  ‘Where the hel
l have you been hiding?’ snarled Sven, his voice low and dangerous, as if he was only managing to hold back with a great deal of effort.

  ‘I wanted to ask you exactly the same thing, I’ve tried to get hold of you several times already.’

  ‘Well, you could have saved yourself the effort if you’d come to the party with me like we planned.’

  By the fact that Sven spoke haltingly, Leon could tell how worked up his friend and business partner was. He had only heard him stutter this much once in recent times, and that was the day his mother had died.

  ‘Which party?’ asked Leon.

  ‘Are you kidding me? Professor Adomeit? The executive director of the hospital consortium? The man with the sack of money and the golden fountain pen ready to sign our contract?’

  Oh Christ, the birthday celebration for Adomeit’s fiftieth.

  Leon’s hand rose to his forehead.

  ‘I drove the four hundred kilometres to his holiday home out by the lake completely by myself.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I totally forgot.’

  ‘So I noticed,’ said Sven, with a prolonged ‘n’. Alongside ‘d’, this was the consonant that gave him the most difficulties.

  ‘The idea with the tunnel connecting the hospital buildings was a hit, by the way!’

  Leon closed his eyes. He had completely forgotten the fact that the model had disappeared from his study.

  ‘Great, thank you. Why is it so quiet there?’ asked Leon, who couldn’t hear music, the clink of glasses, or any of the other usual sounds that accompany parties.

  ‘Because I’m freezing my arse off on the veranda by the lake. It’s too loud inside to take calls.’

  As proof, Leon suddenly heard the rhythmic sound of the bass, as though someone had just opened the door to a club. Just as quickly, it stopped again.

  ‘Where have you been? I tried your mobile a dozen times.’