One Eye On The Darkness

Chapter Nine

Schluter threw a folder containing Neusser's statement and other records of the ongoing investigation down onto the table. He never took his eyes from the suspect as he dragged out a chair so that its feet scraped the tiled floor with the same teeth-on-edge sound as nails on a chalkboard.

Meanwhile, Frieda shot Neusser a wan smile and sat down beside the irascible detective. She realised that she had been dragged unwittingly into a game of good cop, bad cop.

"So, Herr Neusser," Schluter said slowly, making a show of opening the folder and examining the contents. Then he looked up, face rigid as stone, blue eyes boring into the pale young man "Why'd you do it?"

Neusser was taken aback for a moment. Sweat broke out on his high forehead. He swallowed nervously, his lips sounding parched. "I didn't do anything," he denied.

"What have you done with Stephanie Brink?"

"Who?" stammered Neusser. "Nothing!"

"I'm not sure the Maass family see what happened to their son as nothing, " growled Schluter, lowering his gaze back to the contents of the folder.

But Frieda noticed that the youth looked genuinely confused. He did not strike her as being the sharpest knife in the draw; his tone was stereotypical fitness fanatic. It was hardly impossible that he was unfamiliar with the recent spate of slayings, culminating with the Brink girl. Not everyone read or watched the news, and if she was asked to be very bigoted and judge this particular book by its cover, then she would hardly imagine Neusser being a subscriber to the Muenstersche Zeitung.

"Got a bit if an anger issue by all accounts I see," pressed Schluter. He flipped a couple of papers. "Twice arrested for being a tad too handy with your fists. Previously banned from all Deutsche-Bahn trains for six months following a racially-aggravated assault at Wolfsburg bahnof."
     
"Hey!" protested Neusser. "That was years ago. And he called me a fucking Kraut first!"
     
"Shouldn't he have a lawyer present?" whispered Frieda.
     
Schluter looked askance at her. "He's not under arrest," he hissed. "Besides, I asked, and he refused."
     
He fixed his eyes back firmly on Neusser and raised his voice. "Because he says he has nothing to hide. But is that really the case, Lars? Eh?"
     
"It's Herr Neusser to you."
     
"Whatever." Schluter tipped his head towards Frieda. "My colleague here has a few questions she'd like to ask."
     
Neusser glared at Frieda "Who is she? She doesn't look like a cop."
     
Schluter tensed. It clearly hadn't occurred to him that Neusser might ask.
     
"Associate Scene of Crime Officer," chipped in Frieda helpfully, plucking a believable-sounding role that was not so far from the truth. Schluter gave her a grateful glance.
     
Neusser didn't dispute Frieda's claim and she placed her hands palms upwards on the table before she spoke. It was an old psychologist's trick she had learned by way  of observation of Dr Bloemberg during her therapy sessions with him. It sent a subconscious appeal for information to the patient that they would unthinkingly respond to.
     
"I want to get back to your relationship with Elsa," she said quietly. "If you don't mind me asking a few questions about that."
     
Schluter snorted an obvious disapproval at her softly, softly approach that Frieda ignored. Neusser nodded.
     
"Thank you." Frieda prepared to to prick him: "Herr Neusser, why did the relationship end?"
     
Neusser shrugged. "She told me she preferred girls."
     
"She was a lesbian?"
     
"That's what she said," replied Neusser monotonously. "But I told her that was fine with me if she wanted some of her friends to join in."
     
He let out a stupid laugh and Schluter shook his head. "Oh my God," he muttered.
     
Neusser shrugged. "But she just told me I was a pig."
     
"Did you feel it was just an excuse to end it?" asked Frieda.
     
Neusser shrugged again. "Maybe."
     
"Is that why you were angry when she wouldn't get back with you? Did you feel betrayed?"
     
A look of surprise and then humour crossed Neusser's face. "Only when it came to the money," he answered. "The only reason I asked her to move back in was because both our names were on the lease for our flat. She said no and lumbered me with the full rent each month."
     
Frieda frowned. "So you just wanted her back as a flatmate? You didn't love her?"
     
"I loved my flat," was all Neusser replied.
     
"And is that what you were fighting about at the club the night she died?"
    
A trademark shrug. "It's what we were always fighting about."
     
"Did you know she was seeing someone else?"
     
Neusser again looked surprised, but not upset. "No. But so was I. We'd both moved on I guess," he said ruefully.
     
The trust issues, the deep sense of betrayal that had impressed themselves upon Frieda did not square with a basic issue of financial woes, however severe. There was emotional baggage at the murder scene so crippling that it rarefied the air. And from what Neusser had said, any depth of feeling there may have been between Elsa and him had long since disappeared.
     
She stopped and looked at Schluter whose face was dark but resigned.
     
"All right, Herr Neusser," Schluter rasped wearily, "you're free to go."

***

"What an absolute fucking waste of time!" stormed Schluter, kicking the vending machine to the disapproving look of uniformed colleagues in the canteen.
     
The machine finally gave in and offered Schluter the black coffee he'd ordered. Frieda followed him to a table where he crashed into a chair, she opposite him.

Schluter's worn-out look had grown significantly more pronounced. By the look of him, this case was clearly giving him sleepless nights. He downed the lukewarm coffee in one and scrunched the plastic cup in his palm.
     
"We haven't even left square one," he complained bitterly. "And meanwhile the Brink girl is God-knows-where having God-knows-what done to her. Fuck!"
     
He looked at Frieda desperately. "Can you give me something more? Anything, Frieda?"
     
But she was at a loss to offer him anything. She had given all she knew, all she had felt gnawing into her at that filthy, horrifying grave.
     
All she could do was shake her head sadly.
     
Schluter held her gaze for moment then pushed back his chair and stood up. Frieda made to follow but he held up a hand.
     
"Go home, Frau Lockner," he told her curtly. "There's nothing more you can do here."
     
Frieda was deaf to the living, but as she watched the dishevelled detective walk out of the canteen, she thought that if she were not, his soul would sound to her the most tormented of all.

***

Frieda returned home by mid-afternoon and finally got down to working through the backlog of emails and other correspondence that had built up in the previous few days. She had been lucky enough to land the home-based role as state co-ordinator for the new Catholic charity, Gratia on Fr Derrick's personal recommendation to the cardinal. She owed the good Father a debt of gratitude for his investment of trust in her ability to liaise with various needy causes, mostly  via Skype and email, send reports to the board, and oversee the distribution of vital funds as and when they were allocated.
     
After a couple of hours and as many coffees, she was almost up to date with her workload when a peculiar scratching sound caught her attention. It was slight but persistent, and seemed to be coming from the bathroom.
     
Gripped with apprehension, she forced herself out of the office and down the hallway towards the bathroom. The door was ajar, and as she approached, the scratching sound grew louder. It was rhythmic, regular and Frieda realised now that it was not exactly a scratching sound. It was more like...sawing?
     
Her heart was racing as she paused at the door and leaned slowly to one side to peer through the gap. Towels, toothpaste, the toilet roll stack all came into view, but nothing that could have possibly been a cause for the continuing noise. The washing machine stood silently in a corner, and the taps were all off.
     
In a burst of courage or lunacy, she yanked open the door -- and abruptly the sawing sound ceased. She took a step into the bathroom, then another, peering into the corners, behind the toilet, in the gap between the shower cubicle and a cupboard. But she saw nothing out of place or out of the ordinary. And the only sound now was the patter of rain on the window of frosted glass.
     
She turned to leave, took one step towards the door when it slammed shut suddenly, causing her to jump back in alarm. The sawing sound started up again, becoming louder and louder so that she clutched her hands to her ears to shut it out. 
      Then after what must only have been half a minute but had seemed an age, it stopped again. Frieda lowered her hands slowly and turned again for the door.
     
Her hand had just grasped the handle when a breath of air brushed the back of her neck, and she heard a menacing throaty whisper next to her ear:
     "Eins, zwei, drei."
      Frieda screamed.