Читать книгу Strangers on a Bridge - Louise Mangos - Страница 21

I pushed open the door of the police station and stepped inside. A young officer sat at a desk some distance behind the counter, studying a computer. His desk was surrounded with cardboard boxes full of files and books. The nametag on the royal-blue uniform shirt of the Zuger Polizei said R. Schmid. I remembered the name from the day I had called. He seemed surprised to see a visitor as he glanced up from the screen. His hand floated briefly above the keyboard with his palm raised, forbidding interruption while he finished typing slowly with one finger. My confidence began to wane as the seconds passed.

‘Grüeziwohl, what can I do for you?’

I wasn’t reassured by his informal and jocular manner. I wanted gruffness and officialdom.

‘My name is Alice Reed,’ I said. ‘I called you a few weeks ago regarding a man I stopped jumping from the Tobel Bridge.’

‘Ah, yes,’ Schmid said. ‘The lady who does not want to practise her German.’

He had that look on his face I had seen before. Communication had been my main worry in my encounters with the authorities. Taking a deep breath, I put on my friendliest tone.

‘Do you remember my report about the man I saw on the Tobel Bridge?’

The policeman tipped his head on one side.

‘This man, his name is Manfred Guggenbuhl. He wanted to jump. You know, suicide.’

I drew my hand comically across my throat, face flushing. A flicker of amusement lit the policeman’s face.

‘Selbstmord,’ I reiterated, patting my handbag to reassure myself the dictionary was there should I need it.

Schmid compressed his lips and nodded slowly, bringing his hands together in a steeple of fingers, a gesture way beyond his years. If I couldn’t make him believe I had prevented someone from committing suicide, how was I going to convince him I thought the man still needed help?

I haltingly explained the subsequent events, emphasising words I knew in German. The officer’s expression, displaying initial displeasure that I hadn’t tried to speak his language, soon faded to one of irritated boredom.

‘Although I’ve asked him repeatedly, he hasn’t told me he’s sought help, and I’m concerned. It’s important for people who have attempted suicide to have follow-up therapy and, through some strange mix-up at the hospital, I couldn’t find out from them whether he has been assigned psychological help. Is there any way you could intervene? It’s just that… my son has seen him in the village when I haven’t been around, and although he told me he has business here, I’m not sure…’

I thought it strange Schmid hadn’t stood up and approached the counter. The wild thought occurred to me that he was missing his trousers. More likely he wanted to finish his work without the interruption of some foreign woman.

‘Shouldn’t you be taking notes or something? Writing a report of my visit?’

He crossed his arms and leaned back.

‘I’m… I’m sorry,’ I stammered. ‘It just seems to be a lot to remember.’

‘Well, Frau – Reed, gell? I cannot know yet what you are here to complain about. You are telling me this man did not jump, but neither did you call 117 on the day…’

‘But I didn’t have my phone with me.’

He carried on as if I hadn’t spoken.

‘…Instead you took him to your home, and you took him to the hospital, so he should certainly be thankful. And you called him to meet for coffee. Surely this is an invitation, how do you say, to engage? Has he been displaying behaviour that makes you believe he is still a danger to himself? Maybe the man who was outside the school is not the same person.’

‘There’s something else… We’ve been getting some silent calls at home. The two incidents are making me nervous.’

‘What exactly are you here about, Frau Reed? Herr Guggenbuhl’s well-being, or to report some other fool making joke calls?’

Schmid leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, a further sign I was getting a rejection. He continued.

‘I took the liberty of learning a little about the gentleman in question after your telephone call. He has an unusual name, so I was curious.’ Schmid was now openly patronising. ‘He has an exemplary character, no record, and is well spoken of among his neighbours. He has recently moved to Aegeri and lives in an apartment in the same residence as the Staatsanwalt. It is natural he would be seen around the village. You must be very careful if you are to declare instability in a respected member of our community.’

My jaw dropped and I stood at the police desk dumbfounded. This information almost needed a replay button in my mind to allow me to compute.

‘He lives here? But he lives in Aargau! He has family there…’

‘This is a small community; people talk to each other, Frau Reed. The man you are concerned about has recently made his home here. He will pay his taxes here. Where he came from and his history are no business of anybody else. He has a right to move where he wants. I think you are being a little overexcited. Perhaps he has been trying to make a normal impression on people as a new resident and you have taken his politeness in the wrong way? If he was still… unwell, there would be evidence.’

The heat of tears prickled. I didn’t want to humiliate myself any more. I turned to leave.

‘Are you moving your office?’ I asked, manoeuvring my way round a pile of boxes.

‘We are preparing to close the office here. Our services will soon be centralised in Zug. We are much occupied with combining the administration and assigning new rotas.’

I wandered back to my car, climbed in and clutched the steering wheel for half a minute until my whitened knuckles began to ache.

When I arrived home, I passed the mailbox. The latest gift from the farmer was a small box of Kirsch Stängeli, tiny chocolate fingers filled with cherry schnapps. I thought perhaps they were going a bit far with their kindness, but appreciated the fact that at least they hadn’t shunned our presence in the community as everyone else seemed to be doing.

In the apartment, I went straight to the shower, having worked up an unpleasant sweat with my frustrating police encounter. I turned the water to as hot as I could stand and enjoyed the sensation of the heat on my shoulders and neck. I lathered my hair with shampoo and breathed in the whorls of steam to help ease the tightness in my lungs. I immediately felt better, and knew it wouldn’t be long before I was back to my regular pace and running distances.

I made a mental note to be extra affectionate with Simon from now on. I would cook him a favourite meal, offer to give him a massage, try to reconnect where I thought we might have had a misunderstanding about my reactions and decisions regarding Manfred’s attempt to take his life. With summer approaching, I wanted to broach the subject of fixing certain days of the week for marathon training. Tuesday afternoons for a long hill run, Thursdays at the track. If I alternated times, Simon might need to be available to look after the kids after school. I knew he was pleased I had formed a long-term goal to keep me occupied during his long working weeks, so thought he would comply.

I stepped out of the shower, towelling my hair. Squeaking a space clear on the fogged-up mirror, I pulled my fingers through damp locks. As I wrapped the towel round my torso, I heard the familiar creak of wood on the fourth stair and figured the boys must be home, or perhaps Simon, to surprise me for lunch. I smiled in anticipation of a complaint about the muggy bathroom, and threw open the door.

Steam swirled out after me as I walked barefoot into the hall and stood silently with my head on one side.

‘Simon?’ I called. ‘Are you home?’ Silence. ‘Leon, Oli?’

I shrugged, figuring I must have been mistaken, and headed to the bedroom to open the window where condensation was blurring the glass from my shower. As I opened the wardrobe to pull out a pair of jeans, I heard the latch click on the door downstairs.

‘Simon?’ I called again, and looked over the banister to the empty hall. I must have left the door ajar, the breeze from the open bedroom window pushing it firmly closed.