Playlist by Sebastian Fitzek

Author:Sebastian Fitzek
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781804542392
Publisher: Head of Zeus

38

ZORBACH

It was reasonable to assume that Olaf Norweg was a good pupil.

The private school he attended with Feline in Grunewald admitted pupils on the basis of their grades or the size of the parents’ wallets. And nothing suggested that the Norwegs had coffers full of riches. Least of all where they lived.

Even non-Berliners knew the tower block in Schöneberg’s Pallasstrasse from many a documentary on domestic violence, dilapidation or the drug use of its residents. The place had more visits from the police each year than sunsets.

It was thus a reasonable security measure that Olaf’s mum had the chain on when she opened the door to her flat.

‘Yes?’ she asked through the crack, sounding as if she had a cold.

‘Good morning. Sorry for disturbing you so early,’ I said, introducing Alina and myself. ‘We’re investigating on behalf of Emilia Jagow. I’m sure you know Feline has disappeared and we’d like to speak to your son.’

‘My son?’

‘Olaf, yes. Is he at home?’

‘In a manner of speaking,’ the mother said, shutting the door in our noses again. I was slightly taken aback as she’d sounded tired but not unfriendly. But then I realised she was just taking off the chain.

‘Feline Jagow?’ she asked, rubbing her eyes. Frau Norweg looked as if she’d slept in the black linen dress that was almost as wrinkled as her face. But she was in pretty much the same state as us; we were both exhausted too, having spent the night merely dozing. At least Alina’s opaque glasses and well-styled short wig disguised the fact she’d been on the sofa. Unlike my real, unkempt hair, her wig allowed her to make a halfway decent impression.

‘Do you think we could ask Olaf a question or two?’ Alina enquired.

‘I fear you won’t get an answer out of him,’ the mother said.

‘Couldn’t we try at least?’ I asked.

I noticed Frau Norweg was avoiding eye contact with me.

‘Sure, be my guest,’ she said, then asked us to follow her. Alina took my hand so I could help her navigate the unknown interior.

The small, square flat, with a tiny hallway that led to three rooms and a kitchen, was impeccably tidy. But it didn’t look as sterile as the Jagows’ bungalow, which was chiefly down to the personal things that caught my eye, such as the family photos on the walls. They only ever depicted mother and son, never a father, which led me to the not very bold theory that Frau Norweg was a single mum or maybe even a widow. Most of the pictures were holiday snaps showing Olaf’s mother looking far less tense than now. Tanned, smiling and with alert eyes. Which afforded a stark contrast to Olaf’s melancholic teenage aura – most of the time he was scowling at the camera.

‘I can’t offer you anything, I’m afraid. I’m not used to visitors,’ Frau Norweg apologised on the way to the sitting room.

‘Is Olaf still asleep?’ Alina asked.

‘Most probably, yes,’ the mother said, pointing to the wall with shelves where I was expecting to see a door to Olaf’s bedroom.

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