Another sheet of paper, written on in pencil, described the route that he and Brian had taken: along the embankment where he had parked the Polo, over the wall and past the swimming pool. It was all planned out. Ralf grabbed the photos from the bed. There were two, both of Helen Möhring. One of them was a passport photo, enlarged and printed on glossy paper. The other had been taken at the Möhrings’ home: a full-length image of Helen in jeans and a white blouse. She was standing in the kitchen, raising a glass and smiling at the camera. Ralf furrowed his brow and held his fist to his lips. He studied the images carefully, turning them over, but there was no other information. What was Brian doing with photos of Sara’s mother? He felt his heart throbbing in his throat. This was weird. Really weird. He looked inside the envelope, but it was empty. Then he gathered together all the notes, spread them out over the bed, and set about deciphering them with renewed interest.

Inside 7:30 p.m., up to B -> find P

B, he thought. Bram, Brigitte, Bastiaan? Or Brian himself? And then P. Who was P? The second sentence was easier to work out:

Tie up + hit W, wait for H (about 8:00 p.m.), H 2 shots (chest)—Done!

Ralf forgot to breathe. Did it really say what he thought it said? He read through the sentences again and recalled how Brian had cursed Werner from behind the shrubbery before entering the house. Werner had fled upstairs, and Brian had followed. Ralf rubbed his neck. Werner’s face had looked beaten up for a few days after the robbery. Tie up and hit Werner. So these cryptic fragments amounted to a plan? In other words, Brian had tied Werner up and beaten him, and then waited for Helen Möhring. Two shots in the chest . . .

She was supposed to die.

He shook his head, his mouth slightly ajar. He could hardly believe it. Brian hadn’t entered the house to rob Werner Möhring. It was merely intended to look like a robbery that had gotten out of hand with the husband bound and roughed up, the woman killed.

But it wasn’t a robbery.

It was a cold-blooded murder, planned in detail.

Ralf recalled the moments leading up to the robbery—the things Brian had said and done. He had been extremely jumpy and had fortified himself with a good deal of blow—much more than usual. He’d been snorting coke all day, in fact, having already started using in Ralf’s shed that afternoon. Maybe because he was about to do something he didn’t want to do? Something he needed to suppress his emotions for?