‘Where’s Karin?’
The rope was tight around his throat, making it difficult to get the words out. He peered down at Rau. They were both much older now. Why was he doing this? Why not simply spend his remaining years in peace and quiet? After all, he had offered him that opportunity, Stiller thought to himself as a sweat formed on his brow. A highly unusual guarantee.
‘Of course,’ said Rau. ‘Karin. Good job you mentioned that. Danke.’
Stiller felt Rau placing something in his hands, which were tied behind his back, and his fingertips being pressed against some kind of handle.
‘I almost forgot to get your fingerprints on the knife. I must be getting old.’
Rau smiled, as if the mere thought of himself ageing was some kind of absurd joke. Stiller looked at him, unable to tear his gaze away. Grey hair, a deeply-furrowed face, just as old as he was but still so much more attractive. A real man. Stiller had never been that – not in his eyes, and barely in anyone else’s either. Rau’s posture divulged neither his age nor his tough ways. He was straight-backed and radiated energy and strength.
‘The knife?’ Stiller said quizzically, even though he sensed the truth. He merely wanted to retain hope until the last moment possible.
‘I’m thinking that you’ll throw it away in the panic,’ said Rau, flourishing a large knife and then casting it nonchalantly into a corner of the kitchen. A regular kitchen knife with a long blade – now covered in blood. Fiskars, if Stiller’s memory served. How ridiculous for the brand of the knife to crop up in his head now of all times! It was a knife they’d had for at least thirty years and it worked just fine. Why buy a new one? Bread, steaks, heads of cabbage, it had dealt with everything – no problem. And now . . .
‘Where’s Karin?’ Stiller said again, this time with panic in his voice.
‘Well, what is it you call it? The upper salon? I suppose it’s customary to give fancy names to dead spaces. A hall that it’s impossible to furnish. Well, she’s up there.’
‘Karin!’
‘Good. Shout. If anyone hears you, it will only serve to reinforce the official version.’
‘Of what? What have you done to her?’
‘Me?’ said Rau, sounding surprised. ‘I assume you simply lost it after your old spy pals were murdered. Perhaps you were afraid that you were next in line. And there must have been all sorts of feelings of guilt brought to life. You’ve been living under so much pressure for so long, ashamed of the past that’s finally caught up with you. What do I know? The police will be in a better position to figure it all out. You returned home from your early morning walk and then you began to argue, and, well . . .’
Rau paused, looking at Stiller standing there balanced on the tips of his toes on his own kitchen chair. A chair that probably belonged to the vicarage and had been there for several decades. Light pine, which didn’t really go very well with the dark-stained gateleg table and the woven table runners and small, bright yellow candles in their own holders. With the moss-green velvet light shade with brown tassels. the copper stove lid, the decades-old spice jar containing thyme, cinnamon and lemon pepper. Pinned on the wall was a supermarket-branded calendar, a wallchart of mushrooms and a couple of hangings featuring Christian messages. ‘My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God?’
Rau couldn’t understand how people lived like this without developing breathing difficulties. Well, actually, breathing difficulties were exactly what Stiller had right now.
‘Ah yes, props.’
He left the kitchen and Stiller stared up at the ceiling, as if hoping to see through it to Karin upstairs. Was she still alive? How badly had Rau hurt her? And what was he going to do with Stiller? Was this just a warning? He prayed with all his soul that it was.
Rau returned with a Bible.
‘Matthew, right? It has the best version.’
Rau fell silent, as if he were genuinely waiting for an answer. After a couple of seconds, he continued.
‘Chapter twenty-seven, isn’t it? Verses three to five? Oder?’ He looked searchingly at Stiller and then he smiled. ‘I Googled it. I’m afraid it’s not written very imaginatively, but I think it’ll do the job nonetheless.’
He opened the Bible to the relevant page and placed the holy scripture on the kitchen table. Then he turned towards Stiller.
‘Well, my friend, I have just a couple of questions for you. And how you answer will determine your fate.’
Stiller stared around wildly. The rope was cutting into his throat, and his neck ached from his head being held at an angle for so long. Every breath was a struggle.
‘The People’s Court versus Jürgen Stiller, who betrayed the revolutionary struggle by surrendering himself to petty bourgeois concerns and revisionist tendencies in order to seek personal gain at the expense of socialist orthodoxy.’
‘I confess,’ Stiller managed to splutter. His legs felt increasingly numb. He wouldn’t be able to hold his balance for much longer. ‘I confess . . .’
The smile disappeared from Rau’s lips.
‘Who have you spoken to?’
‘About what?’
‘About me.’
‘No one.’
Rau reached out with the tip of his shoe and prodded the kitchen chair. Stiller shuddered and tried to parry the movement, which instead made him tip over the other way. The rope pressed against his Adam’s apple and for a few endless seconds he was unable to take in any air. Rau watched his struggle with an indifferent look.
‘No one!’ Stiller shouted, hoping that someone would be passing by on the road outside and hear him. Perhaps he would be able to get out of this after all. He knew that mock executions were a common method used to break people. But at least you survived. ‘No one. I promise!’
Rau raised his foot again. He waggled it back and forth, teasingly.
‘Why would I?’ said Stiller. ‘Who would I talk to?!’
‘What do you know about Wahasha?’
‘About what?’
‘Operation Wahasha.’
‘Nothing.’
‘That’s a pity.’
‘Why?’ Stiller whimpered.
‘If you don’t know anything then you’re worthless to me. Leider.’
Rau placed his foot on the chair again.
‘Wait! Did you say Wahasha? I can find out. I know people. I can find out about it!’
‘Forget it.’
‘Please, I won’t tell anyone anything. I’m sorry that I . . .’
‘Shush . . .’ Rau said, going to the fridge and opening it. Herring, anchovies, caviar, yoghurt, Tupperware filled with leftovers, a blue teacup filled with what appeared to be dripping. No food fit for human consumption as far as the eye could see. Rau turned back to Stiller again with a grimace.
‘What have you told Sara Nowak?’
‘Who’s that?’ said Stiller.
‘The policewoman who exposed Geiger. Die Polnische. The one you’ve called.’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘You’ve written down her number without knowing who she was? It’s a coincidence?’
Rau held up the small black notebook he had found in Stiller’s study.
‘Notes for sermons, phone numbers for carpenters and the diocese in Linköping, and Sara Nowak’s . . .’
Rau looked up from the notebook. He wasn’t smiling any longer. Stiller gulped and sweat broke out on his brow again.
‘I . . . I was just going to find out how the Geiger case was going.’
‘Du lügst,’ Rau said, allowing the tip of his shoe to rest on the edge of the kitchen chair.
‘I didn’t manage to reach her! I swear! I haven’t talked to anyone!’
‘Vielleicht,’ said Rau, nudging the chair forward a couple of centimetres. ‘Vielleicht nicht.’
‘Bitte, Otto, ich habe sie nicht . . .’
‘Shush . . .’
Rau looked at him reproachfully, a finger to his lips.
‘I believe you.’
Stiller exhaled, insofar as that was possible.
Rau smiled at Stiller, turned around slowly and lifted his black bag onto the kitchen counter. Old cabinets, he thought to himself in irritation as he opened the bag. Probably from the 30s or 40s. Why not buy a modern kitchen, even if the house was old? These people lacked any aesthetic vision. Spirituality was just another name for a complete lack of style.
Through the window he caught a glimpse of the church a few hundred metres away on the far side of a field. The great Bishop Giertz, one of Sweden’s most renowned Christian leaders, had once worked there – as a simple pastor early in his career. Rau had naturally Googled Giertz too. Nowadays, all knowledge was to be found on your phone. If he had had time, he would have very much liked to look around the church properly, but things were the way they were. Perhaps he might return on another occasion.
He took what he needed out of the bag. A speaker – a Bang & Olufsen Beolit 17 – offering excellent sound for its size. An LED panel, small but luminescent. An extra lightweight stand to attach the light to. And the video camera. A Panasonic HC-VXF990. An old but faithful servant offering excellent image quality. Of course, he could have filmed the whole thing on his mobile, but then it wouldn’t have been possible to play music at the same time. And there was something special about a proper video camera – you couldn’t get away from that. He liked his modest kit.
He turned the light on Stiller and switched it on. He was once again impressed by the light the small red metallic box was able to produce. The vicar’s tear-filled eyes blinked in response to the unexpected strong glow. Good. That made him look even more afraid.
Then he got out his mobile and selected the music: Diamanda Galá’s The Litanies of Satan. Not music that he personally appreciated, but he liked the title and the effect the piece had on the people he played it to. As expected, Stiller also responded with great discomfort to the diabolical cries.
Once he had finished rigging it all up, he switched on the video camera and took a moment to admire the scene he had set. Then he went over and kicked the chair out from under Stiller’s feet.
It wasn’t such a long drop that the neck was broken. He wanted Stiller to slowly suffocate under his own bodyweight – extra torment provided by the twenty kilos he could have done with losing.
A protracted struggle to the death was what he wanted to capture.
Close-ups of the terror in the eyes of the condemned, the desperate attempts to gurgle entreaties for mercy as the neck was sealed by the strong rope.
And the rising panic in response to the irrevocable creep of death slowly taking over his senses.
Stiller was fighting for survival.
Good.
His legs floundered, searching for footing, something to support themselves on. But it was no use.
The choking sounds indicated that he had begun to lose his struggle while also suggesting that he was trying to produce a message, a cry for help.
Where’s your God now? Rau thought to himself, before realising that God was, of course, with them. Rau was exercising God’s will. That was the only logical conclusion for believers, of which the man jerking and shaking on the rope was one.
God’s will was just not what Stiller had been hoping for.