Norah held her breath as she waited for an answer.

‘Who was this someone who gave you my number?’ the woman asked.

‘Does it matter?’

The woman made a strange noise; it sounded to Norah like a little snorting laugh.

‘I think I have a pretty good idea.’

Norah said nothing. The woman, too, was silent for a moment, giving Norah time to think. She’d been sent this number so that she could find out what kind of a man Arthur Grimm was—she was sure of that. What did this woman have to tell her? Norah resisted the temptation to light a cigarette; she didn’t move a millimetre, anxious not to disturb the woman in any way as she made up her mind. She could sense the woman poised between speaking and remaining silent and knew how it felt—knew, too, that she mustn’t push her now, mustn’t try to pressure her into anything. All she could do was wait.

‘Okay,’ the woman said. And began her story.

41

Even using a lighter was suddenly too much for Norah; it took her several tries to light up. Vienna lay quiet in the dark, as if night had sucked up the sounds as well as the colours. People moved almost noiselessly, as though anxious not to mar the beauty of the city at night. Norah wandered here and there, with no particular aim, trying to think things over as she walked. When she came to the Karlskirche, she stopped to admire the glorious baroque dome and columns; it never ceased to amaze her that humans were capable of creating such beautiful things. Especially, she said to herself, when you think of all the ugly things we get up to as a species. She crossed the square in front of her flat, sending a can clattering over the asphalt with her foot. After coming off the phone to Angelika Reiter, she’d given the kitchen wall a good kick, but that had brought back bad memories and she’d gone out for a walk instead, to cool down and work off her anger. Norah pumped as much cold evening air into her lungs as she could. The woman’s story had been awful.

Realising, though, that walking and fresh air were no help and that she was getting hotter rather than cooling down, Norah headed back and stopped outside the bistro on the corner of her street. It looked cosy and inviting; warm light shone out into the darkness like a promise of warmth and company and happiness. Seconds later, Norah was sitting at a little table in the far corner. The three old ladies weren’t there at this hour—only a few lonely souls like her, staring into their drinks or out of the window. Norah ordered a glass of Veltliner.

Blows, threats, physical and psychological abuse, blackmail. If what the young woman had told Norah about her two-year relationship with Arthur Grimm was true, the man was a monster. Clever, manipulative and cold as ice. Norah had no trouble believing it. But what now? She took out her phone and yet again she typed: Who are you?