The Gloaming (20 page)

‘Mr Koppler, I'm so sorry, but we need you to identify her body.'

‘She was taking the bus.'

Strebel sat quietly. People in these circumstances attacked him. A woman whose young son had been battered to death by her boyfriend hit Strebel so hard that her ring split his cheek and he needed half a dozen stitches. Or people collapsed; their internal scaffolding gave way and they fell to the ground like detonated buildings. Or, like Mr Koppler, they seemed not to hear, not to comprehend.

‘She wasn't in a car.'

‘She was waiting at the bus stand with Mattias Scheffer and Markus Emptmann. A driver coming downhill lost control of her car and hit the bus stand,' Strebel explained in a soft voice. ‘All three children were killed.'

Mr Koppler nodded vaguely, and after a moment he stood and they walked slowly down another corridor to the chapel, where Sophie lay, cleaned of blood and glass, under a white sheet. But you could never imagine she was asleep. This was always when the pretending stopped, all possibility of error eliminated.

‘But how,' her father said, looking through the glass. ‘She wasn't in a car.'

* * *

Ingrid was clearing away the dishes. She said, ‘The downstairs toilet is broken again. The plumber promises to come tomorrow, but you know how they are.'

Strebel glanced over at his wife and felt a sudden rush of hatred, like a blast of wind. He wanted to run over and slam her hand into the rubbish disposal and hear her scream, and pull up the mangled appendage, bloody and battered, then say, ‘Look, look at this, blood and bone and gristle. It's all we are, all that's ever left.'

In horror he got up and retreated to the living room, then turned on the TV. People were laughing, he had no idea what about. His whole body felt odd, as though his blood was fizzing. His breath wouldn't quite come, but knotted in his throat. Was he having a heart attack? He checked himself for symptoms but there was no numbness or pain in his left arm, no tightness in his chest—nothing specific, just this internal
heat
and profound anxiety at the rage he'd just felt against his wife. He sat on the sofa and tried to make sense of the TV. The actors were running around, chasing someone—something? each other?—laughing. A poor imitation of laughter.

‘Paul?' He heard his name. Initially he thought one of the actors on TV must be named Paul. ‘Paul?'

‘Paul! Is something the matter?'

He looked up at Ingrid. The rage was gone, but its absence only clarified his profound ambivalence. And in this he felt a further confusion. How could feeling nothing be so intense?

* * *

Leaning over, he turned off her light. For many years her bedside lamp had been a source of irritation. Ingrid liked to read in bed, while he preferred to close his eyes straight away. But she would always fall asleep, the light on, the book open on her lap, her lower lip slack as a moron's. He was never asleep—could not fall asleep until he knew she was. He was a natural insomniac and bedtime was rife with ritual. The fresh glass of water by the bed, the hot shower, the special pillow, the ridiculous lavender sachet under his mattress: the superstitions of the sleepless.

But he liked to pretend to be asleep—a kind of lie to her; he liked the separation, the isolation, and how he could turn thoughts over in his head without interruption; without: ‘Dear, it's Beatrice's birthday next week. The twentieth. You haven't forgotten? I spoke with Caroline and I suggested we buy a new bicycle.' He knew he was required to participate—his wife, his child, his grandchild. He did his best.

Ingrid shifted position in her sleep, entering her own fiefdom, dreaming voluptuously. No doubt she would need to refer to one of her books on interpretations. Her dreams were never just dreams but omens, premonitions, signs. She did not tell him about them any more. She knew better. But she kept a ‘dream journal' on her bedside table. On waking she would scribble at wild speed and he often wanted to suggest she take up shorthand. The pen scratched the paper, scratch, scritch, her face intent and closed to him.

Now she was dreaming of her father coming out of a hole in the bed or a red fish that turned into a woman or a flock of white birds trapped in the kitchen. He did not dream, and he'd once made the mistake of telling her this. ‘Everyone dreams, Paul. You just don't care enough about what your subconscious has to say.'

He turned on his side, slipping delicately out of bed. His rule. If he had not fallen asleep within an hour, he must get up. He felt not the least bit tired, although he knew the tiredness stored itself away, like bales of hay. Tomorrow they would tumble, bury him with exhaustion.

In the kitchen, he heated milk in a small pan. In the dark, quiet world outside, people were committing unspeakable crimes. Unspeakable, but not unthinkable. He sat down, drank the milk. Was Beatrice old enough for a bicycle? Hadn't she just started walking?

* * *

Ernst Koppler had put nothing of Sophie's away. Three dolls sat on the dining table, carefully aligned along a Dora the Explorer plastic placemat. Strebel knew vaguely about Dora because of Beatrice. Dora was supposed to be a better role model for little girls than the numerous princesses—Snow White, Cinderella; Dora was independent and proactive. Her ambitions didn't involve marriage to a handsome prince.

A number of stuffed animals were stationed or abandoned about the room: a penguin on the floor near the sink, a camel on the sofa; something—a cat? a monkey?—with large plastic eyes and pink fur crouched on top of the TV. On the coffee table were two rubber snakes, a green crayon, a yellow sock, a book about a baby elephant, a plastic spoon, a purple ribbon, a mini handbag decorated with pink and gold sequins, a princess crown, a yellow bath duck, a ladybird key ring, a plastic Swiss cow.

Sometimes it took parents years to put their dead child's possessions away. By then, Strebel had observed, it was too late: the ability to move on had been forfeited. Objects wielded great power. Left out, they became museum pieces, totemic. Artifacts. Packed away, they became memories—the past. Strebel understood the psychology of grief—not that it was complicated. Detectives were required to take sensitization courses. They had to look at houses as potential crime scenes. Mothers who beat their children to death cried just as hard as those whose children had drowned accidentally in the river. Toys, therefore, could become clues, evidence.

But not here. In this house the toys, the casual mess, suggested the expectation of return. We'll clean up later.
Later
hung upon the air with the almost visible density of dust. There was a smell of dried apples. Strebel realized this was coming from Mr Koppler. He had not bathed recently, his clothes were the ones he'd worn at the hospital two days ago. He looked like a tramp.

Mr Koppler sat in an armchair. Strebel took the couch. But as he sat something squeaked. He rescued a doll from under his left buttock, and held it, not sure where to put it. Mr Koppler looked at the doll, and Strebel knew he was seeing Sophie talking to it, seeing the little girl babble. Are you hungry, little baby? There, there, Mummy'll give you a bottle.

The doll held them captive for long moments, before Strebel finally broke the spell. Very carefully, he put it on the coffee table.

‘Mr Koppler, I know this is very difficult for you. I need to go over your movements that morning.'

Mr Koppler shifted his gaze, passing over Strebel to the pink cat-monkey on top of the TV and out the window. He was a man leagues down, on the bottom of the ocean. He could not move against the pressure of the water, could not see because light did not reach such depth.

‘She didn't want to go. But I work. My own business. A stationers in Interlaken.'

‘Go? Go to the Fun Park?'

‘Yes. They planned it. They asked me. They're trying to be kind. After Hamida died.' Mr Koppler's expressionless face rotated back toward Strebel. ‘They never spoke to me before, those women. Not to Hamida when she was alive. She was one of those immigrants.'

Strebel let a brief silence absorb this memory. Then he continued: ‘The trip was to the Fun Park. With Simone Emptmann and her children, and Vidia Scheffer's son, Mattias. Correct?'

‘Yes,' said Koppler. ‘They were all going to take the bus because Vidia's car wasn't big enough.' Mr Koppler rubbed his hands very slowly against the top of his thighs. ‘The baby. Simone's little girl. Her car seat was the issue, I believe.'

Outside, the sound of a car. The silence slipping backward. Strebel waited. How many times had he done this? Waited for a parent to recount the last hour of a child's life. The hour when anything else could have happened.

Mr Koppler began again: ‘We left the house at about eight-fifteen. We crossed the Arnau Bridge. She wanted to stop a moment and watch the water in the ravine. She believes fairies live down there. Hamida told her that. We reached the recycling center, the parking lot, at about eight-thirty. Sophie told me again that she didn't want to go. We talked about it. She—she started to cry. I said I had to go to the shop and she must understand she couldn't come with me. She'd be bored. She'd… she'd get in the way. I said that. That's what I said. “You'll get in the way.” So she agreed. She wanted to help me. That's how it's been between us after Hamida, we help each other. I left her and walked back across the bridge. I got in my car and reached the shop at nine-fifteen. In time to open at nine-thirty. It was busy. There was a conference in town and I had a lot of customers. The phone rang several times but I let it go to the voicemail. That's why. That's why when the hospital called…' He let the sentence drop.

There was nothing else. Mr Koppler rubbed his thighs again, sat back in his chair and shut his eyes. Strebel put away his notebook. He glanced again about the room and saw the pink cat-monkey that longed for Sophie's touch, longed to nestle in her arm when she fell asleep, her soft breath smelling of bubble-gum-flavored toothpaste.

‘She could have come to work with me,' Mr Koppler said, his eyes open again, tight and small behind thick glasses. ‘She would have been no trouble.'

 

Statement by Mrs Alicia Berger; interviewing officer: Sergeant Teresa Caspary

14 March 2015 14:32

I left my home about twenty past eight to walk William.

[Sgt Caspary asks Mrs Berger to clarify who is William.]

He's a Rhodesian Ridgeback. They are very large dogs, and some people therefore find them intimidating, but they have excellent dispositions and are easy to train. Being a widow for more than five years now, I have taken William to be my best friend.

I walk with William every morning, weather permitting, at almost the same time and on the same route. He does enjoy his walks, so the weather must be really bad to deter us. And that morning the rain was holding off. It was just a little on the chilly side.

William and I never alter our route. I believe a dog has a natural territory, and by taking the same route I am allowing William to designate and maintain—to patrol—his territory. I must add here that he is always on a leash. I have a humane collar, a harness that goes over his chest and shoulders rather than around his neck. William is beautifully trained and very obedient. I never have to even tug a little on the leash to remind him of his manners. Which is why I find his behavior perplexing.

[Sgt Caspary asks Mrs Berger to describe the route she walks with William.]

Well, we descend from our house on Hillside Crescent to the pedestrian walkway connecting the crescent to Field Road. We follow Field Road south to the footpath leading down to the village green. We then take the footpath as far as the recycling center. It's very pretty there, overlooking the river ravine, among the trees. We then cut through the recycling center, cross the road at the pedestrian crossing, and go straight home along the Arnau Road.

Shortly after crossing the Arnau Road—

[Sgt Caspary asks Mrs Berger to define ‘shortly.']

Two minutes. One minute? Say two minutes after crossing the Arnau Road, William suddenly lunged away from me. He's never done it before, so I wasn't expecting it. I don't know why he did it, as if he saw a cat or something, but even then he's seen cats before and never behaved in such a manner. I was so surprised that he yanked the leash right out of my hand and I saw him run across the street, right in front of a car. There was a terrible crash and I closed my eyes. I think I might even have fainted for a moment as I thought the driver must have hit William because when I opened my eyes I was sitting on the pavement.

I didn't see what happened. I didn't see the American woman's car. I just kept my eyes tight shut. I couldn't bear to see what was happening to my William.

The noise seemed to just go on and on, though I suppose it was only seconds. I was certain that William was dead and I couldn't bear it, just couldn't bear it. When I finally opened my eyes, I saw that the vehicle had hit the bus stand, but my concern was for William. I saw blood on the ground and I just started screaming. I'm so sorry about the children, but William is like a child to me, and I thought the blood was his. I was just reacting to what I saw at the time, not thinking. I just didn't have the courage to go over. And then I saw Mrs Emptmann running. I know Mrs Emptmann only really by sight from the market and generally seeing her around the village. I can't explain it but when she started screaming I knew it wasn't William. I knew it had to be worse. It was the way she was screaming with her mouth open so it looked like a red hole that went down to Hell and she was making the sound of Hell. I'm sorry, I don't know how else to describe it. And then I saw William. He was on the grass by the recycling center, sniffing the ground, right as rain, not a scratch on him.

‘
As if he saw a cat or something.
' Strebel reread that line and closed the file. It was exactly as he'd wanted. A dog chasing a cat. The ‘as if' and ‘or something' would be lost and the story would become: Mrs Berger's dog saw a cat. He knew an accident must have a cause. The dog, therefore.