The Girl in the Fog Page 16

  From one corner of the living room, Clea was observing her husband, Monica clasped in her arms. She had been forced to get her daughter out of bed. They both looked very shaken. For the umpteenth time, Martini felt guilty.

  9 January

  Seventeen days after the disappearance

  They had picked the best forensics technician they could find to work on Martini’s car.

  He was a funny-looking little middle-aged man. The two things that made him especially odd were that, although he was almost bald, he wore his hair in a ponytail and that the skin visible under his white lab coat was totally covered in tattoos. His name was Kropp.

  ‘We’ve carried out all the available tests,’ he said, trying to justify himself to Vogel and Mayer. ‘That’s why it took so long.’

  The police had requisitioned a garage in Avechot to allow the team to work in the best conditions. Inside, the room had been entirely covered in plasticised tarpaulin. A large white waterproof sheet had been spread on the floor and the car had been positioned on an elevator. The technicians were still at work, taking the four-by-four apart piece by piece. The components were divided into various categories and passed through highly sophisticated machines.

  ‘So, anything?’ Vogel asked impatiently. ‘Yes or no?’

  But Kropp was in no hurry and explained everything very calmly. ‘The first thing I can tell you is that the car was recently cleaned, but only the interior.’

  Obviously, this was music to Vogel’s ears.

  ‘There are residues of detergent and solvent,’ Kropp continued, ‘which makes me think someone was trying to remove traces of something.’

  Vogel turned to Mayer. ‘Of course. I mean, why only clean the interior unless you have something to hide?’

  ‘Any blood or other bodily fluids?’ Mayer asked, clearly not satisfied with the findings.

  Kropp shook his head, and his ponytail fluttered between his shoulder blades.

  ‘So what you’re saying is that there’s nothing to prove that Anna Lou was in this car, right?’ Mayer said.

  ‘Were you really hoping we’d find blood?’ Vogel asked.

  ‘DNA. I expected there to be the girl’s DNA.’

  Vogel wanted to ask her where she got her pig-headedness from. Was she in earnest or was she just trying to upset him? ‘Can’t you see it’s a good thing we haven’t found anything?’

  ‘Why should that be? You’ll have to explain.’

  ‘Clues aren’t always tangible. An empty space, for example, is a clue: it means there was something in that space before that’s now gone. We need to ask Signor Martini why he decided to clean only the interior of his car.’

  ‘What you’re talking about isn’t a fact, it’s an opinion – your opinion, to be precise. There are a thousand reasons why a sensible person might decide not to wash the bodywork of his car, especially if he lives in the mountains and goes on frequent excursions. The mud, snow and rain would make the car dirty again within days. It makes more sense to clean the interior, because passengers travel in it.’

  Mayer was doing everything she could to get on his nerves, but Vogel had to admit that he did admire her stubbornness. What he couldn’t understand was why she was always trying to undermine the evidence. That was going against her own interests. That teacher was all they had so far. The investigation had already cost millions in taxpayers’ money, and people would soon be demanding that Mayer justify the expenditure. ‘The mechanism we’ve set in motion has to bring results, no matter what,’ Vogel tried to explain calmly. ‘Our job is not to judge evidence and clues, but to take them before a judge and a jury.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Mayer replied determinedly. ‘Our job is not to judge the evidence but to find it. I repeat: we need DNA.’

  Kropp, who had so far followed this exchange with a certain indifference, now decided to intervene. ‘Actually, we did find some DNA.’

  They turned towards him, wondering why he hadn’t said anything sooner.

  ‘There is something, something quite strange,’ he went on. ‘The DNA of a cat. Or rather, cat hairs.’

  ‘Cat hairs?’ Vogel echoed in disbelief.

  ‘From a tabby. Brown and ginger. There was quite a lot on the seats and the rugs.’

  ‘The Martinis don’t have a cat,’ Mayer said.

  Anna Lou loved cats, Vogel would have liked to say, but didn’t, because just then Borghi came into the garage, talking on his mobile and looking around for Vogel. He seemed worried about something.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Vogel said and walked towards the young officer.

  By the time he reached him, Borghi had finished his phone call. ‘We have a problem,’ he said in a low voice.

  Anna Lou’s mother, barefoot and in her nightdress, was busy collecting the notes and removing the dead flowers from the array of kittens people had left outside her house several days earlier. The pilgrimage had ground to a halt as soon as news had spread that there was a suspect. Pity had been replaced by morbid curiosity, and nobody really cared about the missing girl’s fate any more. Not even the media, who had vanished along with the public. When Vogel and Borghi arrived, there were only a handful of photographers still relentlessly shooting the scene.

  ‘Get rid of them,’ Vogel immediately ordered Borghi. He walked up to Anna Lou’s mother. ‘Signora Kastner, I’m Special Agent Vogel, remember me?’

  She turned and looked at him as if in a daze. The drizzle had soaked her nightdress, making it all too obvious that she wasn’t wearing anything else underneath it.

  Vogel took off his coat and put it over her shoulders. ‘It’s cold out here. Why don’t we go into the house?’

  ‘I must finish tidying up,’ she replied, as if it were the most important task in the world.

  Vogel showed her the little bead bracelet Anna Lou had made and which she had put on his wrist on Christmas Day, during his first visit to their house. ‘Do you remember the promise you asked me to make you? Well, I have some news for you … But why don’t we talk indoors?’

  Maria Kastner seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘That man, the teacher … Do you really think it was him? I mean, I don’t think he looks like the type. I think he’s innocent … Because if he was keeping Anna Lou prisoner, you’d have found out where my little girl is by now, wouldn’t you?’

  Vogel searched for an answer to this. The woman was obviously refusing to come to terms with reality. ‘He’s under surveillance,’ he said.

  ‘But the days are passing. Anna Lou might be hungry. If the man’s under constant surveillance, who’s taking her her food?’

  For the first time in his career and his life, Vogel was speechless. Luckily for him, Bruno Kastner arrived just then, apprised of what was happening outside his house. ‘I’m sorry, I was working,’ he said. He took his wife by the arm and led her to the front door. ‘It’s the sleeping pills her psychiatrist prescribed her.’

  ‘Signor Kastner, I need your wife to be as lucid as possible. Maybe the dosage should be reviewed.’ He was thinking the media might take advantage of the woman’s confused state of mind to attribute unfounded statements to her.

  ‘I’ll mention it to Dr Flores,’ Bruno Kastner assured him, his back already turned to Vogel.

  Vogel stood watching as the man tenderly led his wife into their house. Then he looked again at the little bead bracelet on his wrist.

  Stella Honer was in the living room of a modest but respectable house. The sofa on which she was sitting had had a faded cover flung over it, either to conceal the original, damaged upholstery or to protect it from wear and tear. As usual, Stella looked impeccable. Grey tailored suit, a red silk scarf round her neck. She had a microphone in her hand.

  The camera moved back to reveal the person sitting beside her.

  Priscilla wasn’t dressed in her usual fashion, but looked decidedly more sober. Well-pressed jeans with no tears, a white blouse. The three ear studs had disappeared, as had the black eyeliner that gave her such
a hard look. She wore no make-up and looked quite girlish. She was clutching a handkerchief.

  ‘So, Priscilla, can you tell us what happened?’ Stella asked gently.

  The girl nodded, trying to pluck up courage. ‘I was at the vigil outside the Kastners’ house. I’d brought a cuddly toy kitten for Anna Lou. I had some friends with me, we were all upset by what had happened. Suddenly, I noticed I had a text message … It was from Signor Martini.’ The girl broke off, unable to proceed.

  Stella realised that she had to help her along. ‘Why were you surprised?’

  ‘I … I had a lot of respect for Mr Martini, I thought he was an OK guy … but after what happened …’

  Stella let the silence last, in order to allow her viewers to fully process the girl’s words. She was good at creating suspense. ‘What did the text say?’

  Just as she had been instructed before the live broadcast, Priscilla took the mobile out of her jeans pocket and read the text, with trembling hand and voice. ‘“Do you fancy coming by my house tomorrow afternoon?”’

  There was another pause for effect, deliberately orchestrated by Stella, this time because she’d seen a tear form in the girl’s left eye, even though she was trying not to cry. Not yet. So, to give her a moment to pull herself together, she gently took the mobile from Priscilla’s hand and showed it to the camera. ‘We’re often accused of only telling half-truths, doctored in order to manipulate the public. But this is no journalistic invention. Look: this really happened.’ She gave the viewers enough time to read the message, then turned back to her guest. ‘And what did you think, Priscilla?’

  ‘Nothing at first. It was just weird, that’s all. But then when they said on television that Signor Martini was a suspect, I thought about Anna Lou. The same thing could have happened to me …’

  Stella nodded gravely and put her hand on Priscilla’s. As expected, her gesture triggered a reaction: Priscilla started to cry. Stella asked no more questions, but cleverly let the camera linger on the girl’s face.

  ‘It’s just the fantasies of a little girl who always wanted to be on television,’ Martini said, his voice cracking with desperation.

  But his wife was more angry than anything else. ‘And in the meantime, this little girl has cost you your job! What do you suggest we do now?’

  Two days after the end of the Christmas holidays and the start of the new term, the principal had called Martini to tell him he was suspended from teaching – and without pay.

  ‘How are we going to pay for your defence? We’re already riddled with debt and you start fooling around with a pupil? A child?’

  ‘I know Priscilla. That humble look, those clothes – they’re all an act!’

  Vogel was enjoying this exchange, sitting comfortably in his makeshift office in the school gym’s changing room. He was wearing headphones, had both feet up on the table, and was rocking in his chair, hands folded in his lap. Until now, bugging Martini’s house hadn’t yielded results, but it looked as if something might be happening at last. Vogel seemed entertained by the couple’s argument. He had been the one to persuade the school principal to take action against Martini before Stella Honer’s interview with Priscilla provoked the anger of parents and pupils alike – anger that would obviously be partly directed at the principal. Being the spineless bureaucrat he was, he had been all too easy to convince.

  ‘Why did you send her that message?’ Clea asked.

  ‘She’d asked me to give her acting lessons. Think about it – if I’d wanted to take advantage of her, I’d hardly have been stupid enough to invite her to our house, would I?’

  Clea fell silent. For a moment, she seemed to have been swayed. But then she resumed, and there was real pain in her voice. ‘I’ve known you half my life, so I know you’re a good man … but I’m not sure how innocent you are.’ Her words fell like a bombshell, and were followed by another brief pause. ‘You’re intelligent enough to understand the difference between the two things: even good people make mistakes sometimes … Wherever I go, I get hostile looks. I’m constantly afraid somebody might hurt you or us. Monica can’t leave the house, she’s lost the few friends she had and she can’t stand it any more.’

  Vogel knew what was about to happen. He’d wanted it, planned it.

  ‘Whatever mistakes you’ve made, big or small,’ Clea went on, ‘I’ll stand by you for the rest of my days. I promised that, and I will. But your daughter isn’t bound by any vows. So I’m going to take her far away from here.’

  Vogel felt like rejoicing, but contained himself.

  ‘You mean far away from me.’ Martini’s response wasn’t a question, more a bitter observation.

  Clea did not reply. There was silence, interrupted only by the sound of a door opening and closing. Vogel took his feet off the table and leaned forward, putting his hands tightly over his headphones to concentrate on the silence.

  Martini was still in the room. He could hear him breathing. The breathing of a hunted man. A man who couldn’t be thrown in jail yet but was already imprisoned by his own existence, unable to escape.

  Vogel had created a void around him. Now that even his wife and daughter had abandoned him, he would crumble. The man was finished.

  But then something happened that Vogel hadn’t anticipated. Something absurd, senseless.

  Martini started to sing.

  He sang softly, in a muted voice. Such cheerfulness definitely jarred with what had just transpired. Vogel listened, perplexed, to the surreal song. It was a nursery rhyme. He could only catch a few words.

  It was about little girls and kittens.

  10 January

  Eighteen days after the disappearance

  Levi had called him on the ‘secure’ phone he’d given him a few days earlier and asked to see him. Then he had sent his own driver to pick him up from his house. The reporters had immediately chased after the Mercedes, but had had to give up when Martini had got out of the car and walked through the gate of a private residence.

  The lawyer had rented it in order to keep a close watch on the case.

  When Martini stepped inside, he was faced with an unexpected scene. The living room had been turned into an office, where a small handful of colleagues were already hard at work. Some were studying law books and files, others were on the telephone, discussing defence strategies. They had even put up a noticeboard with the findings so far. They were so busy, they didn’t notice him.

  Levi was waiting for him in the kitchen.

  ‘Did you see how I’ve organised things?’ he boasted. ‘It’s all for your benefit.’

  Martini thought of what it would cost him and the fact that he no longer had a job. ‘Frankly, I’m losing hope.’

  ‘You shouldn’t,’ Levi said, motioning him to a chair. He himself remained standing. ‘I heard your wife and daughter left yesterday.’

  ‘They’re at my in-laws’.’

  ‘Honestly, it’s much better like that, trust me. There’s a tense atmosphere building up, and I think it’s going to get worse over the next few weeks.’

  Martini couldn’t suppress a bitter smile. ‘And you have the nerve to tell me not to lose hope?’

  ‘Of course. It’s what I expected.’

  ‘It’s that Vogel, isn’t it? He’s behind all this.’

  ‘Yes, he is, but that’s what makes him predictable. He’s simply following the usual script. The man’s incapable of any kind of inventiveness.’

  ‘And yet everybody listens to him.’

  Levi went to the refrigerator and took out a small bottle of mineral water. He unscrewed the top and offered it to Martini. ‘The only thing that can save you is to remain clear-headed and keep your nerve. So please stay calm and leave everything to me.’

  ‘That policeman has ruined my life.’

  ‘But you’re innocent, aren’t you?’

  Martini looked down at the bottle. ‘Sometimes even I have my doubts.’

  Levi laughed, although Martini hadn’t be
en joking. Then he put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Even Vogel has a weak point, and that’s exactly where we’ll hit him … And it’s going to hurt him – a lot.’

  Martini looked up at Levi with what might have been a glimmer of hope in his eyes.

  ‘Have you ever heard of the Derg case?’ the lawyer asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Martini replied.

  ‘It was a case that caused a big stir in the media, right up until about a year ago. But you might remember Derg better by the name the papers saddled him with: the Mutilator.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard of him … though I don’t usually take much interest in news stories about crime.’

  ‘Well, for a long time the police were hunting for this man who hid small explosive devices in the products on supermarket shelves: a box of cereal, a tube of mayonnaise, tinned food. A lot of people were injured when the devices went off. Some lost fingers, one his entire hand.’

  ‘My God. Did he ever kill anybody?’

  ‘No, but it would have happened sooner or later: the Mutilator would have got tired and tried something spectacular. That’s what everybody was expecting. If you remember, there was widespread panic. But before anybody could get killed, Vogel came up with a seemingly harmless bookkeeper who was fond of model-making and electronics: Signor Derg. As luck would have it, Derg had lost his right index finger as a child. At the time, everybody said it was just an ordinary domestic accident. What actually happened was that his mother had cut off his finger with poultry shears as a punishment. She was mentally ill and frequently mistreated her son.’

  ‘Oh, Lord …’ Martini said.

  Levi pointed at him. ‘You see, you’re thinking exactly what everybody else thought, that Derg was the perfect culprit.’