I lie in the dark, thinking about the blackest day of my life. I remember that I couldn’t grieve when my sister was carried to her grave—not straight away. My head and body were bursting with one thought. Why? There was only room for one question: Why did she have to die?
I had the feeling that my parents were asking me this question—my parents, the other mourners, Anna’s friends and colleagues, practically everyone—because, after all, I’d been there; I must have seen something. What, for heaven’s sake, happened? Why did Anna have to die?
I remember the mourners crying, throwing flowers on the coffin, leaning on each other, blowing their noses. It all felt so unreal to me, so strangely warped—the sounds, the colours, even the feelings. A vicar who spoke in a strangely drawling voice. People moving in slow motion. Flower arrangements with roses and lilies—all monochrome.
Oh damn, the flowers! Thinking of the flowers catapults me back to the present. I sit up in bed. I forgot to ask Charlotte to water the flowers in the conservatory, and she’ll have left by now. Charlotte knows how much I love my flowers and she knows I usually look after them myself, so it’s unlikely she’ll have given them water. There’s nothing for it but to do it myself.
I get up, groaning. The floor is cool beneath my bare feet. I force myself to place one foot in front of the other, to walk along the hallway towards the stairs, go down to the ground floor, and cross the big sitting room and the dining room. I open the door to my conservatory and enter the jungle.
My house is dominated by empty spaces and dead objects—not counting Bukowski. But here in my conservatory, with its lush and rampant greenery, it’s life that reigns. Palms, ferns, passionflowers, birds of paradise, flamingo flowers and, above all, orchids. I love exotic plants.
The steamy heat of the conservatory, which I think of as my own little hothouse, brings out the sweat on my forehead almost immediately, and the long baggy T-shirt I wear as a nightie clings to me. I love this green jungle. I don’t want orderliness; I want chaos, life. I want the twigs and leaves to brush against me as if I were in a forest. I want to smell the scent of the flowers; I want to get drunk on it. I want to soak up the colours.
I look about me. I know that the sight of my plants should give me pleasure, but today I feel nothing. My conservatory is brightly lit, but outside it is night. Indifferent stars twinkle through the glass roof above my head. As if on autopilot, I carry out the tasks that usually give me so much satisfaction. I water the flowers. I touch the soil with my fingers, feeling if it’s dry and crumbly and needs water, or clings to my hands.
I clear a path for myself to the back of the greenhouse. This is where I have my own private orchid garden. The plants with their extravagant blooms are crammed onto shelves, or hang in pots from the ceiling. My favourite is here—my favourite and my problem child. It’s a small orchid, altogether unassuming alongside its lavishly flowering sisters, and almost ugly. It has only two or three dull, dark-green leaves and dry grey roots, no flowers, not for a long time now, not so much as a stalk. It’s the only plant I didn’t buy especially for the conservatory. I brought it with me from my old life, from the real world, many, many years ago. I know that it will never flower, but I can’t bring myself to get rid of it. I give it some water. Then I turn my attention to a particularly beautiful orchid with heavy white flowers. I let my hand glide over the leaves, finger its velvety flowers. The buds are firm to the touch. They are bursting with life. Not long now until they come out. I think how nice it would be to cut a few of these flowering stems and put them in a vase in the house. And, while I’m thinking all this, I’m reminded of Anna again. Even in here, I can’t get her out of my head.
When we were little, she didn’t like picking flowers as much as I did, or as much as the other children. She thought it was mean to break off their beautiful heads. A smile steals over my lips as I think of it now. Anna’s quirks. I see my sister before me quite clearly—her blonde hair, her cornflower-blue eyes, her tiny nose, her enormous mouth, the furrow between her pale eyebrows that would appear whenever she got cross. The small moles that formed a perfect triangle on her left cheek. The blonde down only visible if the summer sun lit up her face at the right angle. I see her quite plainly. And I hear her voice, clear as a bell, and her dirty, boyish laugh that contrasted so starkly with her feminine nature. I see her before me, laughing, and it’s like being punched in the stomach.
I think back to one of the first sessions with my therapist, shortly after Anna’s death. The police had no clues, and the identikit picture they’d assembled with my help was useless. Even I didn’t think it looked much like the man I’d seen. But, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t do any better. I remember saying to the therapist that I had to know why this had happened—that the uncertainty was a torment to me. I remember her telling me that it was normal, that not knowing was always the worst thing for the relatives. She recommended a self-help group to me. A self-help group—it was almost laughable. I remember that I said I’d do anything, if I could find out the reason. That much at least I owed to my sister. That much at least.
Why? Why? Why?
‘You’re obsessed with that question, Frau Conrads. It’s no good. You have to let go, live your life.’
I try to shake off Anna’s image and all thoughts of her. I don’t want to think about her because I know where that leads me; back then I almost went mad, knowing that Anna was dead, and that her murderer was still somewhere out there.
Not being able to do anything was the worst. It was better to stop thinking about it altogether. Distract myself. Forget about Anna.
I try to do the same now, but it doesn’t work this time. Why?
Then the news reporter’s face flashes across my mind, and something in my head goes click. I realise that I’ve spent the past hours in shock.
And at last it’s clear to me. The man on television I was so distressed by was real.
It wasn’t a nightmare; it was reality.
I’ve seen my sister’s murderer. It may be twelve years ago, but I remember every detail. It is compellingly clear to me what that means.
I drop the watering can. It lands with a clatter, and the water spills out over my bare feet. I turn around, leave the conservatory, stub my toe on the way into the house, ignore the pain, and hurry on.
Swiftly, I cross the ground floor, take the stairs to the first, skid along the hallway, and arrive in my bedroom out of breath. My laptop is lying on the bed, vaguely menacing. I hesitate, then sit down and pull it towards me, my fingers trembling. I’m almost afraid to open it, as if someone might be watching me through the screen.
I open Google and enter the name of the news channel where I saw the man. I’m nervous and keep hitting the wrong keys; it’s not until the third try that I get it right. I bring up the homepage and click my way through to Reporters. I’m on the verge of thinking that the whole thing was just a figment of my imagination after all—that the man doesn’t exist, that I dreamt him.
But then I find him; it only takes a few clicks. The monster. Instinctively, I hold my left hand in front of the screen to cover his photo. I can’t look at him—not yet. The walls are starting to shake again, my heart is racing.
I concentrate on breathing, close my eyes. Nice and calm, that’s the way. I open my eyes again and read his name, his profile. I see that he’s won prizes—that he has a family and leads a successful, fulfilled life. Something inside me snaps. I feel something I haven’t felt for years, and it’s red hot. Slowly, I take down my hand from the screen.
I look at him.
I look into the face of the man who murdered my sister.
I am choked with fury, and I can think only one thing: I’m going to get you.
I clap my laptop shut, put it away, get up. My thoughts are racing. My heart is pounding.
The incredible thing is, he lives very close by! For any normal person, it would be no trouble to track him down.
But I’m trapped in my house. And the police—the police didn’t even believe me at the time. Not really.
If I want to speak to him—if I want to confront him, to call him to account in some way—then I have to get him to come to me. How can I lure him here?
The conversation with my therapist flashes through my mind again.
‘But why? Why did Anna have to die?’
‘You have to accept the possibility that you’re never going to get an answer to that question, Linda.’
‘I can’t accept that. Never.’
‘You’ll learn.’
Never.
I think it over, feverishly. He’s a journalist. And I am a famous author, notoriously withdrawn, who’s had all the big magazines and TV channels clamouring for an interview for years now. Especially when a new book’s out.
I remember what my therapist said: ‘You’re only tormenting yourself, Linda.’
‘I can’t stop thinking about it.’
‘If you need a reason, invent one. Or write a book. Flush it out of your system. And then you must let go. Live your life.’
Every hair on my neck is standing on end. My God, that’s it!
Gooseflesh spreads over my body.
It’s so obvious.
I’ll write a new book. The events from back then in the form of a crime novel. Bait for the murderer and therapy for me.
All the heaviness has left my body. I leave my bedroom; my limbs are obeying me again. I go into the bathroom and have a shower. I dry and dress myself, go into my study, boot up my computer again and begin to write.
FROM BLOOD SISTERS BY LINDA CONRADS
1
JONAS
He hit her with all his strength. The woman crashed to the floor. She managed to struggle halfway to her feet, and tried frantically to escape, but didn’t have a chance in hell. The man was so much faster. He thrust her to the ground again, knelt on her back, grabbed her long hair and started to beat her head against the floor with full force, over and over again. The woman’s screams turned to a whimper, and then she was silent. The man released his hold. Only a few moments before, his features had been contorted with blind hatred; now he was incredulous. Frowning, he considered his blood-smeared hands, while behind him the full moon rose, vast and silver. The fairies giggled and hurried up to the woman who was lying there as if dead. They dipped their slender fingers in her blood and began to smear it on their pale faces like war paint.
Jonas sighed. He hadn’t been to the theatre for ages and he certainly wouldn’t have come up with the idea himself. It was Mia who’d wanted to see a play again; it would make a change from the cinema. One of her girlfriends had recommended the new production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and Mia had immediately booked tickets for them. Jonas had been looking forward to the evening. He had, however, been expecting a lighthearted comedy, and here he was instead watching nightmarish sprites, satanic fairies, and lovers, who—with intense physical effort and an inordinate quantity of fake blood—were tearing each other limb from limb in the dark woods. He glanced across at his wife, who was watching the action with shining eyes. The rest of the audience, too, was spellbound. Jonas felt shut out. He was evidently the only one in the theatre getting no pleasure out of the violent display.
Maybe he had once been like them. Maybe he had once found horror and violence fascinating and entertaining. He couldn’t remember; it was probably too long ago.
His thoughts began to wander to the case he was working on. Mia would have given him a discreet nudge in the ribs if she had known that he was sitting in the darkness of the auditorium thinking about work again—but that’s the way it was. He thought of the scene of the crime, and ran over in his mind the hundreds of different pieces of the puzzle, painstakingly gathered by him and his colleagues, which would most likely lead to the speedy arrest of the victim’s husband…
Jonas gave a start as the theatre was plunged into darkness, and then flooded with light and filled with applause.
When the audience around him rose in ovation, as if by some secret agreement of which he alone had not been informed, Superintendent Jonas Weber felt like the loneliest person on the planet.
Mia didn’t say a word as he drove home along the dark streets. She had got her enthusiasm for the performance off her chest in the cloakroom queue and on the way to the car park. Now she was listening to the music coming from the radio with a cheerful smile that wasn’t meant for him.
Jonas flicked on the indicator and turned into the driveway. In the beam of the headlamps, their house emerged in grainy black and white. He cut the motor and was putting on the handbrake when his mobile began to vibrate.
He took the call, expecting Mia to react—to grumble or sigh, or at least roll her eyes. But she didn’t. Her cherry-red lips formed a mute ‘Good night’ and she got out of the car. Jonas watched her go while his colleague’s voice spilled out of the phone. He sat and watched as his wife moved away from him, her long, honey-blonde hair, tight jeans and dark-green top fading to monochrome as she was enveloped by the darkness.
In the past, he and Mia had fought for every last minute of shared time and were always sorry when a call to duty interrupted the hours they spent together. Nowadays they cared less and less.
Jonas forced himself to focus on the call. His colleague was reading out an address; he tapped it into his sat nav. He said, ‘Yes, all right. I’m on my way.’
He hung up and breathed a sigh. It astonished him that he was already thinking of his barely four-year marriage in terms of ‘then’ and ‘now’.
Jonas averted his gaze from the door that had closed behind Mia, and started up the car.
