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“…I give the floor to Interior Minister Heinrichs,” a lady in a woman’s suit jacket announces.
The presidential-looking man in his mid-forties clears his throat. “First of all, I would like to express my deepest sympathy, also on behalf of the North Rhine-Westphalian state government, to the family and husband of Ms. Grosse-Garbe…”
A flowery summary of her career follows during which I actively listen away.
Then the camera is pointed at a man in his late fifties. The sign in front of him on the table identifies him as the Chief of Police. His expression is serious, his voice matter of fact. “Thanks to the resources we have been given, our teams of investigators have succeeded in solving the circumstances of the death in record time. The assumption, initially reported by the press after the discovery, that it was a suicide, has turned out to be wrong in this case…”
I feel Celine’s slender fingers groping for mine, and I allow her to grasp my hand.
“…the time of death was determined to be the late evening of Valentine’s Day or the following night, respectively, after analyzing the stomach contents…”
There is a whistling in my ears. Searching for support, I squeeze her hand, registering only by her hissing inhalation that I am crushing her fingers in the process. “Sorry…”
“No problem,” she bravely counters.
“…according to our investigations, the death by hanging in the Peace Forest was faked to distract from the third-party influence using strangulation…”
Strangulation…Involuntarily, my free hand jerks up to my throat.
“Are you OK, Philipp?” asks Celine, and I realize I’ve been gasping loudly.
“Just like in my nightmare,” I whisper.
“Did you dream that?” she asks. Not incredulously, more… wonderingly. “On your birthday? The night she…” Celine points to the screen. “…she died, according to the police?”
“Fucking hell!”That’s fucked up! It’s not normal, anyway.“Do you think I have bats in the belfry?”
Celine looks at me with seriousness, then shakes her head. “No.”
“No?” Since the press conference is over, I turn off the TV.
“At least no more than anyone else,” Celine qualifies, pulling her legs up onto the sofa. “You see, the bats in my belfry are convinced that there are definitely… certain connections between people who are close to each other.”
“Close?”I don’t like the word.
She shrugs. “Even if the closeness between the two of you was anything but positive… she was your mother.”
Oh my fucking God. That’s true again.
Though I hate to admit it: I spend the next two days just going through the motions. Fortunately, my basic functions work on autopilot once I get my hands on the drawing pen or tattoo machine. Otherwise, I’d really have to start worrying.
But that part has apparently been taken over by Celine.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” she asks me after the last client has left on Wednesday. “In private,” she adds with a sideways glance at the artists, who are listening prick-eared.
“Always at your service.” I can’t help but put two fingers to my forehead in a pseudo-military salute.
Celine tilts her head and lowers her eyelids. When she opens her eyes again, veritable bundles of irony fire at me.
“Copy that.” I log out of the computer, then follow her up the stairs and into my apartment.
As soon as we’re sitting on my sofa, Celine pulls out her cell phone. She unlocks it and slides it over to me. “Did you read this?”
I only need half a glance at the display to decipherGesine Grosse-Garbe. “No.”The subject is closed. She’s dead.
Celine picks up her phone. “The funeral is on Friday.”
“So?” I clear my throat. I didn’t want it to sound that snippy. “What are you trying to tell me?”
