Safe as Houses Read online

  Pasta sauce. Herbs. Spaghetti. Garlic. Tomato and onions. All laid out on the worktop in front of Lisa, as though it’s a normal Monday. The weather forecast had been good: it had been a lovely, warm, late-summer’s day. September is warm this year, almost muggy. The trees have begun to change colour, and spiders weave delicate webs in front of the windows, but the sun shines on imperturbably, as though the time to take things down a notch hasn’t yet arrived. When this afternoon’s mist had closed in suddenly, it was a surprise. It has lifted now, but the sky is still grey.

  Lisa tries not to look at the bandage she has just changed. She was shocked by the wound. It didn’t look good, with its open flesh and dark edges. Though that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s serious. The bleeding has stopped, but the pain has not lessened. Despite the paracetamol, the wound continues to throb.

  The extractor fan hums, sucking away the pervasive smell of onions and garlic.

  Spaghetti is Anouk’s favourite food, and Lisa had decided earlier that they’d have it for dinner. It was a way of making sure that Anouk would eat at least a few spoonfuls. Now she wonders how much she’ll be able to get down herself.

  The smell of fresh herbs and the delicious juice from the tomatoes on the chopping board do their best to tempt her, but she knows she’ll have to force herself to eat. It’s important that she eats to keep up her strength. You never know when you might suddenly need it.

  From time to time, she checks on Anouk. To her alarm, Kreuger is sitting next to her on the sofa, talking quietly. Anouk is nodding and shaking her head, but not saying a word. Lisa longs to listen in on what Kreuger is telling her; but, whatever it is, Anouk is fending him off, and she pulls up her knees to make a barrier between them.

  Has Anouk realised that she should keep on this man’s good side, not repel him? Anouk has seen too much to give this uninvited guest the benefit of the doubt. Luckily, she is intuitive, like most children, and seems to know how to behave. She has limited herself to nodding and headshaking so as not to say the wrong thing, and she’s even stopped herself from making the mistake of whining or crying. Instead, she is keeping a keen eye on Lisa and copying her behaviour: a calm, distant, wait-and-see attitude.

  With as much composure as she can muster, Lisa goes into the sitting room and sets the dining table. Three placemats, three plates, just like it used to be.

  Back in the kitchen, she gathers up the cutlery. Just a fork and spoon – the absence of knives isn’t a problem with spaghetti. As she puts the cutlery next to the plates and a trivet for the pan on the table, she strains to overhear something of the conversation Kreuger is having with her daughter.

  ‘You probably think I’m a really nasty man, don’t you?’ she hears him ask.

  Silence.

  ‘Answer me now,’ Kreuger insists.

  Anouk’s eyes find her mother’s.

  Answer him, Lisa wills her.

  Anouk takes a deep breath. ‘Yes. You hurt Mummy. And Mummy didn’t do anything wrong.’

  Her voice sounds as accusing as a five-year-old’s can be.

  Kreuger slowly holds out his hand to her, and Anouk recoils just as slowly. Every muscle in Lisa’s body tenses, like a predatory animal preparing to spring to protect her young.

  Kreuger touches Anouk’s cheek gently, as though she might crumble at the slightest touch. He lightly strokes her skin with his thumb.

  Anouk’s face darkens, as though she doesn’t know whether to cry or to bite Kreuger’s hand.

  ‘Mummy didn’t do what I said,’ Kreuger says in a gentle voice. ‘And you didn’t either, but you can’t help that. The next time you don’t listen to me, though, I’ll be even less nice. Do you understand?’ His hand moves to her chin and lifts it up. ‘Do you understand me, Anouk?’

  ‘Yes, she understands. We both do,’ Lisa butts in quickly.

  Kreuger swings around. ‘Shut your mouth!’ he screams at her. ‘I was talking to your daughter, not you!’

  Lisa takes a terrified step backwards. ‘All right, all right. I’m sorry.’

  After a few seconds Kreuger calms down again. ‘If you both do exactly as I say, nothing will happen to you. Then I’ll be off and you can act like nothing ever happened.’

  You pathetic bastard, Lisa thinks. You hold us hostage, you frighten my daughter; she’ll have nightmares for years now. And if she doesn’t, I will.

  With a superhuman effort, she manages to smile and nod. ‘Fine, agreed. Well, I’ll finish off the dinner, then. It’s almost ready.’

  ‘This is nice,’ Kreuger says.

  They’re sitting at the table, Kreuger facing them. He is eating with gusto but in a refined manner, not like the savage who forced his way into her kitchen. He must have been a civilised person once, a father and husband, an employee, someone’s neighbour in a row of terraced houses in a respectable street. A man who taught his children table manners and complimented his wife on her culinary skills. An attentive and caring man.

  They eat without any conversation. The television, which Kreuger wants to keep on all the time, breaks the silence. This, and the sound of their forks and spoons as they twist their spaghetti. Anouk looks a little better: the fever has gone down, and she is actually eating something.

  It is still light outside, Lisa notices, but not for long. The darkness falls more quickly each day. It doesn’t seem so long ago that they could eat outside and sit on the terrace enjoying the sun for a while afterwards. Yet it still feels warm and summery during the day: yesterday she’d put on a vest and shorts and done some work in the garden.

  She keeps looking over Kreuger’s shoulder at the borders in the garden, the blooms of hydrangeas, pink phlox, hollyhocks and salvias fading with the light. Plants that she put in herself when she moved here and that she cherishes; their beauty fills her with happiness each year. She loves September, especially when there’s an Indian summer. But now she wonders whether this autumn might be both her loveliest and her last.

  She doesn’t dare count on Kreuger’s promise that nothing will happen to them if they play along. How much can you trust a criminal sentenced to psychiatric incarceration? He is calm now and doesn’t look that dangerous; she has to keep it that way. It’s still possible that the police might come, but deep inside doubt nags away at her. They should have been here ages ago. How much time does it take to write up a report and investigate the given address? Even if the police didn’t take the woman seriously and weren’t in any hurry, at least one policeman should have knocked on her door by now.

  She cannot imagine that the police would be so lax as to do nothing. The only possible conclusion she can reach is that the woman didn’t report it. Maybe she didn’t even see Kreuger standing there; and, if that’s the case, she would have misread the situation.

  Kreuger serves up seconds. At least he’s enjoying dinner. Her dinner – her plate, her fork and spoon, her food. Sitting in Mark’s place. As if he’s planning on staying for good.

  Lisa sips from her glass of water, but she has difficulty in swallowing. The despair flooding through her is suddenly so immense she has to do her best not to burst into tears.

  Why has she been fooling herself? The woman hasn’t gone to the police, and no one is coming. She’s completely on her own.

  12

  Of course she has thought about the coming night. Several times the question of who is going to sleep where, and how, has shot through her mind. Lisa doesn’t think there’s much chance of Kreuger letting them sleep in their own beds, but she has managed to repress the thought for the entire afternoon.

  But now that dusk is creeping around the house, nestling into the far corners of the garden, and the sky has taken on a dark blue tint, Lisa knows it is time for the second act.

  They have eaten; she has tidied everything away and put the plates in the dishwasher. Anouk is playing a game on the computer at the workstation. Kreuger is sitting on the edge of the sofa, watching TV, tensely leaning forward. He zaps until he gets to the seven-
thirty news on RTL4.

  The news starts with Kreuger himself. Lisa catches fragments of the coverage from the kitchen and stands as close as she dares to the open door.

  ‘There is still no sign of the escaped psychiatric criminal Mick Kreuger . . .’

  ‘If he doesn’t take his medicine, he may become dangerous . . .’

  ‘It is believed a man was killed by Kreuger in the course of his escape . . .’

  ‘Kreuger was sent to a psychiatric prison two years ago for the murder of . . .’

  Lisa rushes back to the worktop and tries to marshal her thoughts. What will happen if Kreuger has to go without his medication for any length of time? All his murderous instincts, usually repressed by the drugs, will surface.

  Her hand rubs her painfully throbbing temples, and she takes a sip of water to wet her dry throat.

  When she turns around, Kreuger is suddenly in front of her. Lisa catches her breath sharply.

  ‘I fancy some coffee,’ is all Kreuger says.

  ‘I’ll put some on.’ She turns to the espresso machine and switches it on. The machine comes to life with a splutter.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Kreuger asks, nodding towards the TV.

  ‘I was busy. The television is just too far away. Why? Were you on the news?’ She manages to keep her voice light, as though it’s totally normal for Kreuger to be on TV. It’s quiet behind her for so long that she regrets asking the question. Kreuger comes and stands next to her, leans on the worktop and gives her a searching look.

  ‘What did you hear?’

  Lisa mechanically puts two cups under the espresso machine’s spouts. ‘Like I said, not much. A few snippets.’

  Kreuger crosses his arms. ‘They showed a photo of my family. There they were, right in my face, all three of them.’

  The coffee beans have run out. Happy with this excuse to delay her reaction, Lisa adds some more. Then she gathers her courage.

  ‘Do you have three children?’

  ‘Two,’ he says. ‘A boy and a girl. Around the same age as your daughter.’

  ‘Nice, a boy and a girl. We call that a king’s wish, don’t we?’ He must have noticed the fake enthusiasm in her voice.

  ‘That’s what they say, yes.’ It doesn’t sound like a wish that came true.

  There’s a silence, which Lisa breaks by pressing a button. The coffee beans are milled with an enormous clatter. When they’re ready, she presses another button and the coffee streams into the two cups. What does Kreuger want from her? He is restless; perhaps he’s looking for distractions. The problem is that having a conversation with him is like taking a walk through a minefield. She can’t ask him anything about his wife, but perhaps she can talk about his children. They’ve probably been placed with a foster family or are in a children’s home.

  ‘Do you miss them?’ she asks, feeling like she’s jumping off a mountain blindfolded.

  The crushing grip on her arm comes as no surprise.

  ‘And why wouldn’t I miss them? Eh? Why do you think I wouldn’t miss my own children? Because I’ve got a criminal record? Maybe you can’t imagine it, but I do have feelings. Did you think I didn’t have any feelings, you filthy bitch?’

  His shouting fills the kitchen. Lisa is scared, but she doesn’t shrink back, look down or begin to sob.

  With all the self-control she can muster, she sticks out her bandaged hand and lays it on his arm.

  ‘Of course you have feelings,’ she says gently. ‘And of course you miss your children.’

  His rage disappears just as quickly as it surfaced. His face contorts, and the vacant expression returns to his eyes.

  ‘I’m not allowed to see them any more,’ he says tonelessly. ‘Never again. Can you imagine that? Their own father? But that didn’t matter to the judge. I’m forbidden from seeing them.’

  ‘How terrible for you . . .’

  ‘Yes.’ A confused expression appears on his face, as though he doesn’t understand quite what he’s doing here.

  ‘My ex tried to take Anouk away from me,’ Lisa says.

  Kreuger massages his forehead with his thumb.

  ‘I told you that he was jealous, didn’t I?’ She offers Kreuger one of the cups of coffee. He takes it but doesn’t drink. ‘That jealousy of his ruined our lives. He was jealous of everything, particularly that I had a career and he didn’t. He was a manager at a large supermarket, but got made redundant when they restructured. Suddenly he was at home and had all the time in the world to get involved in what I was doing. I was working at a research lab in Utrecht and carpooling with a colleague. A nice guy, but just a colleague. I never thought that Mark would make a fuss about it. At first he didn’t, but after he lost his job he started to worry about everything. I reassured him that he could trust me. But he didn’t. It only got better when I became pregnant with Anouk.’

  Lisa sips from her coffee. Their eyes make contact for a moment and then she looks down.

  In a quiet, toneless voice, she tells him about the post-natal depression that overcame her after Anouk was born, about the dark, dead-end world she inhabited at that time.

  ‘Mark looked after me really well. Even though he’d found a job by then, he took over all my chores: doing the shopping, taking Anouk for her check-ups, you name it. In the meantime, my world became smaller and smaller. My whole life took place inside the house. In hindsight I realise that was what Mark wanted. Finally he had me all to himself.’

  She recounts her difficult struggle to escape from her isolation. Mark persuaded her not to go to a psychiatrist, which he thought was just an expensive way of grousing. Mark couldn’t understand why she would want to share her thoughts and feelings with a stranger, when her husband was there for her the whole time. He found it insulting, wounding, completely unnecessary. And, what’s more, they couldn’t afford it.

  This was how Mark became the only thing she could cling to as she sank further and further into a deep sea of depression. The tide turned when she joined some internet forums. She ordered anti-depressants from an online chemist and slowly rediscovered the world around her again – only to find that Mark was leading a double life.

  ‘He was cheating on you,’ Kreuger states.

  ‘Not only that: he had two sons with that woman.’ Lisa’s voice sounds dull. ‘When I announced that I wanted a divorce, he became furious and threatened to take Anouk away from me. It wouldn’t have been that difficult for him, because he’d printed all my correspondence from those forums and saved the invoices for the anti-depressants. I was terrified he’d get sole custody of Anouk.’

  ‘But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t – they always let the mothers keep the children.’ There is an aggressive undertone to Kreuger’s voice.

  ‘Not always.’ Lisa lifts the espresso cup to her mouth and takes a sip. ‘And Mark didn’t take it to court. He left Anouk with me. Actually, he dumped both of us.’

  13

  Senta’s greatest dream had always been to become a journalist. Preferably for a big, respected newspaper. But once she was employed by one, she realised that the magazine world was much more attractive to her. She didn’t hesitate to make the change and never regretted it. One promotion followed another, with Senta making editor-in-chief of one of the biggest women’s magazines before her fortieth birthday.

  Getting a good interview requires special skill. Anyone can fire off a series of questions, but you need to be able to do more than this to have a good conversation. Many journalists make the mistake of talking too much themselves, when all they really need to bring to the room is empathy. The only way to think up good leading questions is through trying to understand the interviewee – and the self-knowledge prompted by such questions will lead the interviewee, in turn, to give answers that make for remarkable reading.

  This was what had happened with Alexander Riskens. A writer who led a fairly reclusive life, he wasn’t known for his generosity in giving interviews, and it had taken a lot of effort to get him to a
gree to talk to someone. He had consented only on the condition that she, the editor-in-chief, should do the interview, and she was happy to oblige: she had been a fan of his work for years and wouldn’t have dreamed of passing it on to one of her colleagues.

  It had been an exciting afternoon. Alexander turned out to be a friendly man who didn’t like to talk about himself, making for a tough start. It took three quarters of an hour before she began to win his confidence and could progress from clichéd questions to deeper emotional matters.

  She had managed by avoiding the taboo topics, such as the deaths of his wife and young daughter, and questioning him only the subjects that he raised himself. At the beginning this meant that they just talked about his work, and about the writer’s block that had paralysed him.

  At a certain point they almost imperceptibly slipped into the subject of his private life, and finally there was such a good rapport between them that Senta found it difficult to bring the interview to a close. Alexander seemed to feel the same way, because he invited her to have lunch with him in a cosy restaurant in the village. She had accepted the invitation, even though alarm bells had begun to ring in her head, and all her senses were telling her she’d have been better off driving back to Amstelveen as quickly as possible.

  But she didn’t. They went to the restaurant and talked for hours, off the record of course.

  Senta knew she had entered a danger zone. She was falling in love with this man; perhaps she was already in love with him, with every minute spent in his company just fuelling these feelings.

  In the restaurant she had kept her left hand in sight at all times, so that the white gold wedding ring with its small diamond couldn’t escape his notice: a last attempt to keep something of a barrier in place. If you’d asked her a year later what the conversation had been about, what they’d eaten and drunk that afternoon, she wouldn’t have had a clue.

  She sat there looking at him as if she were bewitched. And vice versa. That first smile of recognition, that first special glance – she saved everything in her memory, larger than life. Not that they were flirting with each other. There was no question of double entendres or teasing – just a calm conversation, with a natural accord that rendered such nonsense unnecessary.