Philipp was no dream husband, or at least not by the apparent standard of the average woman’s dreams. He wasn’t a shining prince who called three times a day just to say ‘I love you’ before stopping on the way home at a florist’s, jeweller’s or lingerie boutique to pick up a small token to surprise his beloved, every day till their golden wedding anniversary and beyond. He wasn’t a husband who never argued, never glanced at other women, was always kind to his mother and loved nothing better than to cook for her friends.
He was, however, a reliable partner by her side.
Someone who voiced his opinions, a man with a mind of his own, which she found more important than being helped into her coat.
He gave her security and trust. In spite of all the difficulties that had marked the start of their relationship.
It had taken him months to disentangle himself from his ex, and he ended up two-timing Emma with ‘Kilian’ for weeks.
That wasn’t his ex-girlfriend’s real name, of course, but at the time Philipp had stored Franziska’s number on his mobile under the name of a football chum, so that Emma wouldn’t get suspicious if there was another call or text message. When she by chance discovered the truth, they had their first major row, which almost brought an end to their relationship. Finally, however, she believed Philipp that the ploy hadn’t been an attempt to keep something going with his ex. Because it wasn’t possible just to change his work number, Philipp couldn’t prevent Franziska’s wine-fuelled, sometimes hysterical calls. What he’d been trying to do was at least to protect Emma from unnecessary hurt, and himself from unnecessary arguments. In vain.
In the end the problem solved itself: Franziska found a new boyfriend and moved with him to Leipzig. There were no more calls from ‘Kilian’.
Otherwise he possessed the usual male quirks. Philipp enjoyed staying out late with friends without sending her a text to tell her they were moving on to yet another pub. He snored, flooded the bathroom and put his elbows on the table when they were eating. Once he forgot their wedding anniversary and, in a fit of rage, hurled a full cup of coffee at the wall (the stain was still visible), but he’d never, ever hit her.
But Emma had never given him such a compelling reason to do so before.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, a few minutes later. He’d helped her downstairs into the kitchen, where she’d sat at their square wooden table. In the past they loved having breakfast there at the weekends because it offered such a pretty view of the garden. The neighbouring one was totally overgrown, giving the impression that you were gazing into a forest.
Emma nodded and tried to say, ‘It’s okay,’ but her voice sank back down into her throat. She was clutching a bulbous cup of coffee, but wouldn’t take a sip. Philipp was leaning against the work surface by the sink. Keeping his distance.
Not because he wanted to, but because he knew this was what she needed right at the moment. For a few minutes at least, until the voice of terror in her head was screaming not quite so loudly.
‘Jesus, I’m really sorry,’ Philipp said, grinding his teeth and staring at his hands as if unable to comprehend what he’d done.
‘No.’ Emma shook her head, pleased to have found her voice again, even if it emerged from her mouth as little more than a croak. ‘What you did was absolutely right.’ The slap that was still burning her cheek had smothered the flames of panic. It was only afterwards that she’d stopped screaming and calmed down again.
‘I was completely off my rocker,’ she admitted, while thinking: So that’s how my patients feel when they confide in me.
Do they also realise how absurd their behaviour is in hindsight?
Emma had thought a stranger had slammed the bathroom door, but Philipp’s sudden return explained everything.
Having forgotten the papers for his lecture in the study, he’d turned off the motorway and headed back immediately. He’d even called Emma to let her know, but the call had gone straight to voicemail when she was lying unconscious in the living room.
‘I came straight upstairs when I heard you screaming.’
Her husband looked as if he’d aged several years, and Emma was worried that this wasn’t just an effect of the pendant light. His temples appeared grey, his hair slightly thinner and his brow furrowed. All this, she suspected, was less a result of his forty years than what had completely changed half a year ago: their life.
Emma wanted to stand up, put her hand out to Philipp, stroke his chin – hastily shaven early this morning – and say, ‘Don’t worry, everything’s fine now. Let’s go to Tegel and take the first plane to somewhere we’ve never been before. It’s just got to be far away. Let’s leave fate behind us.’
But she couldn’t. Emma wouldn’t make it to the front door. Christ, she couldn’t even move the kitchen stool. So all she said was, ‘I thought somebody had broken in.’
‘Who?’
‘No idea. Somebody.’
Philipp gave a sad sigh, like a young boy who’s been hoping that the toy he’s carefully mended will finally work again, only to discover when he tries it out that it’s still broken.
‘There’s nobody here, Emma. The bathroom door slammed when I opened up downstairs. You know how draughty it gets here.’
She nodded, but with a grimace. ‘That doesn’t explain the ringing.’
‘What sort of ringing?’
Emma turned to the voice behind her. Jorgo Kapsalos, Philipp’s best friend and partner at the Federal Criminal Police Office, was standing in the kitchen doorway. He was the second man she’d seen in the bedroom.
This morning when he’d come to pick Philipp up, Jorgo had stayed in the car. Now he’d come in and was gazing at her as he always did when they met: wistfully and with subliminal hope.
Philipp overlooked his partner’s secret looks, or misinterpreted them, but Emma guessed what was going on in Jorgo’s mind when he eyed her so melancholically. If Emma sometimes used Konrad to stir Philipp’s jealousy, she’d never abuse Jorgo’s feelings for such a purpose. For unlike the defence lawyer, her husband’s partner was anything but gay. The poor guy was hopelessly in love with her, something Emma had known even before her wedding day when a totally drunk Jorgo slurred into her ear as they danced that she’d married the wrong man, for heaven’s sake!
‘What sort of a ringing?’ he repeated.
‘No idea. An alarm clock or a mobile phone. I think it was coming from the attic.’
She hadn’t heard anything since the two men had broken down the bedroom door and rushed in to her.
‘Would you mind checking the rooms?’ Philipp asked his partner.
‘No, please don’t!’ In vain Emma racked her brain for words to explain that she’d been through all this once before.
Once before she’d searched a room and convinced herself that she was alone, only to be raped afterwards. Of course it was totally irrational and illogical, but Emma was worried that another search would summon the evil back and the horror would repeat itself. As if there were a times table of evil. An equation with an unknown by the name of ‘danger’ and a foregone conclusion: ‘pain’.
Emma knew better than anyone else that this reasoning was pathological. Which is also why she didn’t verbalise it to the two psychologically stable men, but just said, ‘You’ve got to go. I’ve detained you long enough.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Jorgo said with a dismissive wave of the hand. ‘It’s not a problem.’ He was incredibly well built, a compact, muscular man you’d be very glad to have at your side on a dark underground platform when a horde of drunks were coming your way. ‘We can miss the first seminar. It’s not that important anyway.’
Philipp nodded. ‘My lecture’s not indispensable either. Maybe it would be best if you went without me, Jorgo.’
‘If you say so.’ Jorgo shrugged, looking not particularly pleased. Emma guessed why. He would rather stay alone with her. Her husband’s best friend had sent her several emails offering her his help in the wake of her great misfortune. She’d deleted them all, the last few without even reading them.
‘Yes, I think it’s better if I stay here.’ Philipp nodded once more. ‘You can see how distraught she is.’
He pointed to Emma and spoke as if she weren’t in the room. Another of his non-dream-husband habits. ‘I can’t leave her here alone.’
‘Of course you can. It’s not a problem,’ Emma protested, even though ‘It’s not a problem’ expressed roughly the opposite of what she thought.
Philipp went over to her and took her hand. ‘Emma, Emma, what was it that upset you so much today?’
Good question.
The advertisement for the electric razor? Her fainting?
Salim’s farewell? The photo of the Hairdresser in the lift?
Or… wait, no…
‘What sort of a package?’ she heard Philipp say, realising that she’d thought out loud for the second time this morning.
‘The food crate in the hall?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m sorry, I haven’t unpacked it yet.’
The fact that she’d almost forgotten to tell her husband about the strange package on her desk made her aware of just how all over the place she was. Deep inside she sensed that she was overlooking something different, something crucial, but she couldn’t work out what for the moment. And the package was probably far more important.
‘Salim asked me to look after something for our neighbour.’
‘And?’ Jorgo and Philipp chorused in unison.
‘But I’ve never heard the name before,’ Emma added.
Bloody hell, what’s he called again? In her distress, Emma had actually forgotten, but then recalled the name. ‘Do you know an A. Palandt?’
Philipp shook his head.
‘There you go. Nor do I.’
‘Maybe he’s new to the area?’ Jorgo suggested.
‘We would know,’ Emma said, almost truculently.
‘And this is what worked you up?’ Philipp squeezed her hand more tightly. ‘A package for a neighbour?’
‘An unknown neighbour. Darling, I know I overreact…’
She ignored Philipp’s slight sigh.
‘… but we really do know everyone here, and—’
‘And maybe he’s subletting, perhaps he’s a son-in-law living with his fiancée’s parents for a while and having his post sent here,’ Philipp said. ‘There are hundreds of potentially innocent explanations.’
‘Yes, you’re probably right. But still I’d like you to take a look at the package. You must know that photograph from the security camera in the lift at—’
Philipp’s face darkened and he let go of her hand. ‘Have you been on the internet again?’
As if he’d given the magic word it happened again.
Two floors above them.
There was a beeping.
The sad look with which Jorgo, leaning against the doorframe, had listened to their conversation, vanished and was replaced by expression of hard concentration.
Philipp, too, had put on what Emma called his ‘policeman’s face’: narrowed eyes, knitted brow, head to one side, lips slightly open, tongue pressed against the upper incisors.
After a brief exchange of glances in the interval between two rings, the two men nodded to each other and Jorgo said, ‘I’ll take a look.’
Before Emma could object, Philipp’s partner disappeared into the hallway. He climbed the stairs with confident steps, his hand on the belt holding the holster of his service weapon.