The Girl on the Stairs

by Louise Welsh

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

Jane Logan is six months pregnant and has moved to Berlin to live with her long-term lover, rich banker Petra. The women's chic new apartment is in a trendy part of the city, but Jane finds herself increasingly uneasy there. She conceives a dread of the derelict backhouse across the courtyard and begins to suspect something sinister is happening in the flat next door, where gynaecologist Alban Mann lives with his teenage daughter, Anna. Petra believes her lover's pregnancy is affecting her judgement, but Jane is increasingly convinced that all is not well. Her decision to turn detective has devastating results when her own past collides with the past of the building and its inhabitants.

A haunting, atmospheric novel from the acclaimed author of The Cutting Room.

Release date: March 28, 2013

Publisher: John Murray Press

Print pages: 288

Sample

Eight

‘Sind es die Russen?’

The old lady was tiny and layered with clothes. Jane glimpsed the frill of a long nightie beneath a pink sateen underskirt, which was in turn topped by a dress patterned with sunflowers. A raincoat completed the ensemble.

‘Sorry?’

‘The Russians.’ The woman’s English was clear and barely accented, but her voice was a whisper. ‘Are they after you?’

‘No,’ Jane faltered. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘This wouldn’t stop them.’ She touched Jane’s belly, her smile as cheerful as her summer frock. ‘They’re pigs.’

‘I’ve heard that.’ Jane kept her own voice low, listening out for the sound of a commotion outside. ‘I’ll just hide from them here for a wee moment, if you don’t mind.’

‘No, not here.’ The woman’s eyes were wide. ‘Where could you hide here?’ She waved an arm and Jane took in a small hallway, made smaller by the overstuffed bookcases that lined both walls. ‘No,’ the old woman took her hand in a surprisingly strong grip and propelled her along the lobby, ‘you must come through.’

The sitting room felt stuffy after the chill of the backhouse. The bookcases continued through here, but the space was dominated by a large double bed tumbled with blankets. All three bars of the electric fire glowed red, too close to the mattress for safety. A smell of burnt dust, cooking and stale cat litter percolated the room. The old lady roused an elderly tabby from one of a pair of armchairs.

‘This young lady is going to have a baby, Albert, so you will need to make space for her.’ She looked anxiously at Jane as if something had just occurred to her. ‘You’re not going to have it now, are you?’

‘I’ve a while yet.’

‘Good.’ The old woman moved a bundle of newspapers and settled herself on the other chair, beaming with delight. ‘I’m not sure I would remember what to do.’

‘Were you a nurse?’

‘No, I’m a teacher.’ The old woman stood up. ‘I mustn’t be late. It sets a bad example.’

Jane glanced at the clock on the mantel.

‘You’re all right; it’s only three forty-five.’

‘Then I’ve missed the whole day.’

They had been keeping their voices to a whisper but now the old lady’s voice was rising with distress. Jane pulled herself to her feet and put a comforting hand on her arm.

‘Three forty-five in the morning, all your pupils will be safe in bed.’

‘Beruhige dich, Heike.’

Jane gasped as the mound of bedclothes moved, like an ancient hillside preparing to reveal the sacred army hidden in its depths. An old man emerged from beneath the blankets, his face creased with sleep. He eased himself up painfully, bolstering his back with the pillows, his eyes half closing against the light.

‘It is the middle of the night, and anyway, it’s the school holidays.’

The old lady sat back down, easily mollified.

‘Look, Karl, we have a visitor, a nice pregnant English lady.’

The man rubbed his eyes and groaned. His head was bald and patched with age-spots; his mouth, wide and thin-lipped, would have been a gift to a clown. He placed a pair of glasses on his nose and looked at Jane, apparently unsurprised to find a foreigner at the bottom of his bed in the middle of the night.

‘My wife likes to talk English. She is a very educated woman. I thank you for bringing her home. Normally I notice if she goes out in the night, but tonight I slept.’ He rubbed his face again and his wide mouth drooped sadly. ‘That is a problem.’

‘No . . .’

Jane wanted to explain but the old lady was on her feet again.

‘She’s running from the Russians.’

‘The Russians?’ The old man glanced at Jane and for a second she thought he was about to humour his wife, but then he said, ‘They are not as active as they once were, Heike.’

Jane could feel the strain of the night working on her. She wondered if Anna was after all asleep upstairs in her own bed, but she said, ‘Anna Mann has gone missing and I thought I saw her in the backhouse. I was mistaken, but I’m afraid I pressed your doorbell instead of the light switch when I came back in.’

‘You went into the backhouse in the dark on your own?’ Surprise mingled with concern in his voice, or was it anger?

‘I didn’t like to think of her out there in the cold.’

‘Frau . . . ?’ The old man hesitated, unsure of what to call her.

‘Frau Logan . . . Jane, I live upstairs.’

‘I know.’ He nodded. ‘We have seen you and your sister. She keeps long hours, and you keep house. We are Frau and Herr Becker.’ His gaze moved to her belly and lingered there. Jane wondered if Herr Becker was going to ask her where the child’s father was, but he continued, ‘I will give you some advice. It is not a good idea to wander around here in the middle of the night.’

‘I thought that Anna . . .’

He cut through her words, quick and sabre-sharp.

‘Better you leave Anna Mann alone.’

‘She’s only a child . . .’

Frau Becker’s voice was petulant. ‘Who is Anna Mann?’

The harsh edge in her husband’s voice blunted into softness.

‘You know Anna, Greta and Alban Mann’s daughter.’

The old lady smiled and Jane realised they were entering Frau Becker’s realm: the past.

‘I liked Greta. People shook their heads when they talked about her, but she was so pretty, I would have liked to marry her.’

‘Lucky for both of us, I married you first.’

Herr Becker propped himself up on one arm. His pyjama top hung open, exposing a thicket of white chest hair.

Jane asked, ‘What happened to Herr Mann’s wife?’

Herr Becker stared at Jane and she noticed how small and dark his eyes were. She thought he was about to ask if it was any of her business, but then he shrugged.

‘When Anna was two years old, Greta walked out in the middle of the night.’

Frau Becker giggled. ‘Alban Mann killed his wife and buried her beneath the floorboards in the Hinterhaus.’

‘That’s an old joke, Heike.’ Herr Becker’s voice was firm, as if he were addressing a recalcitrant child whose treat he didn’t want to spoil, but whose excitement must be checked. ‘You remember Greta, she liked to drink and dance and have a good time. Babies get in the way of all that.’ He looked at Jane. ‘It is my opinion she went to Hamburg, or maybe America.’

‘It’s not a joke.’ The old lady stared at Jane fiercely, offering a glimpse of the kind of teacher she might have been. ‘He strangled her, up there in his apartment, next door to where you sleep.’

Jane whispered, ‘What makes you think he murdered her?’

‘I would if she were my wife.’

‘You’re being silly, Heike,’ Herr Becker chided. ‘A moment ago you were saying you would have liked to marry her.’

‘I’ve changed my mind. I want a wife who will cook and clean and make my dinner.’ She looked up as if she had suddenly remembered something. ‘When is dinner-time? I’m hungry.’

‘We will eat after we’ve slept.’

It was Jane’s cue to leave but she asked, ‘Did the police have any idea of what might have happened to Greta?’

‘Police?’ The old woman was incredulous. ‘No one called the police.’

Her husband’s voice was firm. ‘Because there was no crime.’

‘She went no further than the courtyard and there she stays.’ The old woman laughed. ‘You check beneath the floorboards in the Hinterhaus if you want to know about Greta Mann. I wonder if she still has her lovely hair.’

‘Heike,’ Karl Becker’s voice was sharp. ‘You’ll frighten the young lady.’

‘No,’ Jane tried for a smile. ‘It’s okay. It’s late and you’ve been very kind to me. I should let you go back to sleep.’

The old woman got to her feet. ‘I have to get ready for school.’

‘It is vacation-time, remember?’ Herr Becker reached beneath the bed and passed his wife a battered textbook. Jane caught a glimpse of a boy in lederhosen and a girl in a checked pinafore on its cover. The boy was chalking something on a blackboard, while the girl played pupil. The old man said, ‘Why don’t you plan what lesson you will give the children when they come back?’

Frau Becker looked at her husband suspiciously, but she began to leaf through the book’s pages, too quickly to take in their detail. Herr Becker slipped from the bed, pulling on a heavy grey-and-black dressing gown, not quite big enough to fasten around his paunch.

Jane got to her feet.

‘Goodbye, Frau Becker, thank you for letting me hide here.’

But the old lady was absorbed in her book, and didn’t reply. The tabby jumped on to the chair, settling itself in Jane’s warmth. She rubbed the cat between its ears. It turned and hissed, baring its teeth at her. Jane felt its breath, warm and alive against her skin, as she snatched her hand away.

Herr Becker said, ‘I’m sorry. Old age has made Albert bad-tempered.’

Frau Becker looked up from her book.

‘Albert was always bad-tempered. He’s the same as ever he was.’ Her voice took on a sing-song tone. ‘I’m the same as ever I was, and you are the same as ever you were. Time makes us older and our bodies rot, but we stay the same inside.’

Herr Becker glanced at his wife, but made no reply. He put a hand on Jane’s shoulder.

‘I will escort you home.’

She glanced up, saw the sheen of night-time sweat that greased his skin, smelled the sour scent of him. His breath touched her face and it was as warm and unwelcome as the cat’s bite.

Frau Becker sing-songed, ‘People who die young stay beautiful for ever. Who gets the best of the bargain, those who die or those who stay?’

Neither of them answered her. Jane said, ‘I’ve put you to enough bother, Herr Becker. I can find my own way out.’

But the old man followed her, keeping close in the corridor shrunk with the weight of books. He unlocked the door and then turned to face Jane, blocking her exit.

‘You mustn’t listen to my wife, she is a very clever woman, but in recent years . . .’

‘Yes.’ She interrupted to save him the pain of an explanation. There was the sound of a cupboard door slamming in the sitting room, and Frau Becker started to sing in a high, wavering voice. Her husband looked towards the noise but remained standing by the door, steeling himself for the task ahead. Jane knew she should let him go but she asked, ‘This belief about Herr Mann and his wife, is it a recent fancy?’

The old man shook his head.

‘Anyone who cared to look would see that Greta was unsuited to motherhood, anyone except for her husband. Things have changed a lot here. The city has become a carousel, but Alban Mann stays. I think in his heart he still hopes the carousel will turn full circle and bring Greta home to him.’ His wide mouth stretched into a smile and he looked again like a sad clown. ‘Who knows? Perhaps it will.’

Herr Becker moved to let Jane pass. His hand stroked against her thigh, but the corridor was so narrow she could not be sure whether it was by accident or design . . .

‘Frau Logan . . .’

‘Yes?’

His eyes met hers, hard and dark, like the eyes of a younger man, still moved by ambition.

‘Please remember what I said. Stay away from the backhouse, especially by night.’

‘Why?’

Herr Becker lowered his voice. ‘Abandoned buildings are like abandoned people. They grow bitter and start to keep bad company. Haven’t you seen shadows crossing the courtyard at night?’

‘Perhaps. Whose shadows are they?’

The old man shook his head.

‘I know enough to keep my windows locked and my door bolted. Whatever goes on there is none of our business.’ He smiled, closing the subject. ‘It’s late and whoever you were avoiding has gone now.’

He took her hand, his palm warm and damp against hers. Jane returned his smile, pretending not to feel the pressure of his grip tightening as she pulled her own hand free.

‘Please don’t worry, I can make my own way home.’

She listened for the sound of the Beckers’ front door shutting as she climbed the stairs, but the old man must have closed it softly because, although she stopped on the landing to listen, she didn’t hear the latch clicking home.

 

Jane let herself quietly into the apartment, surprised to see the lightening grey of a winter dawn stretching though the windows. There was a figure, standing by the window, a silhouette in the shadows. She gasped and then laughed with relief as the figure turned and she recognised Petra.

‘Where in hell have you been?’

‘Out.’ Jane’s smile withered and all of her resentments at Petra’s early starts and late nights at the office were in the word. ‘I went for a walk.’

‘At this time in the morning?’

‘Why not?’

‘Why do you think? Because it’s dark, you’re pregnant and you gave me a fright.’

‘I didn’t realise pregnant women were under curfew in Berlin.’

She wanted nothing more than to get back into bed and forget her strange adventure. The dust of the backhouse was still on her skin. She went through to their bedroom and started to strip off her clothes. Petra followed her.

‘I thought you were getting better but you’re still fucking irresponsible.’ She paused, stepping neatly into the well-worn rhythm of their arguments, but Jane remained silent. After a moment Petra snapped, ‘You’re all right, you can sleep through the morning, but I have to be at work in a few hours.’

‘Think of it as practice for when the baby comes.’

Jane pulled her jumper over her head, and then wriggled out of her leggings.

‘I can’t believe you’re already using our child as a weapon.’

Jane wanted to scream that it wasn’t their child yet, it was hers, but that would be untrue. She pulled off her underwear and stood there naked, feeling fat and ungainly but determined not to hide herself.

‘I’m awake every night. I just felt like getting some fresh air. I’m sorry I woke you. Perhaps I should sleep in the other room.’

‘Yes.’ Petra plucked Jane’s dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door and flung it at her. ‘Perhaps you should.’

Eighteen

Jane set the telephone receiver back on its cradle, trying not to mind that Petra’s call had been so brief it made her feel like another item on a long list of tasks. She switched the CD player back on and the calm voice of her German lesson resumed.

Für mich ist ein Einschreibebrief da.

She repeated the sentence, trying to mimic the teacher’s crisp accent.

‘Für mich ist ein Einschreibebrief da.’

Wie heißen Sie bitte?

‘Wie heißen Sie bitte?’

Brigitte Hoffmann.

‘Jane Logan.’

She had lit the lamps against the dark and the sitting room glowed white in the carefully calibrated light, so sterile it might have belonged to the clinic of some celebrated plastic surgeon. It was easy to imagine a trolley being wheeled into the almost bare expanse by masked surgeons, ready to carve out some beauty. She saw them for a moment, gloved hands moving deep in blood. The image was too suggestive of the forthcoming birth and she pushed it away.

Ja, hier ist ein Einschreibebrief für Sie. Zeigen Sie mir, bitte, Ihren Ausweis.

‘Ja, hier ist ein Einschreibebrief für Sie . . .’

She had lost track of the conversation. Jane lifted the book that had come with the CD and tried to find the right page.

Hier, bitte . . .

. . . und unterschreiben Sie hier.

It was useless; she should have gone to classes at the Goethe Institute, as Petra had suggested.

Geben Sie mir vier Briefmarken für . . .

Jane turned off the CD player and placed her pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. There were three left. After that she would give up for good, or at least until after the child was born. The dilemma was whether to smoke one now, or save it for morning. She stared at the box, meditating on its logo, the familiar block capitals she used to think were stylish. Morning was when she felt the craving most, but evenings came a close second; just in front of the afternoons.

Jane had half-dreaded Petra’s call, worried that she might have spoken to Tielo first and would blame her for the social workers’ visit, but Petra had put her on speakerphone while she dressed for dinner and only asked about the child. Was he moving a lot? He, it was always he. Had Jane been playing him music? Was she sticking to the diet they’d agreed?

Jane took the pack from the table and tipped a cigarette loose.

‘Okay, soldier,’ she whispered, ‘time to do your duty.’

The phone burred back into life. She crossed the room and snatched it to her ear. It was typical of Petra to get distracted by work and typical of her to phone back to apologise.

‘Hey, baby girl,’ she put on the American drawl she sometimes used in love-play. ‘In the mood for some sexy phone fun?’

‘That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.’ The voice was male, with an accent she couldn’t quite identify.

A warm blush blazed across Jane’s chest and up her neck.

‘I’m sorry, who is this?’

‘Jurgen Tillman, Johannes’s boyfriend. We met a few nights ago, at your dinner party.’

‘Oh, yes.’ She couldn’t think why he would call her. ‘How are you?’

‘In good health. And you?’

‘I’m well.’

She had had a headache ever since Tielo had left; the sound of the social workers banging on Alban’s door still echoing in her head.

‘You’re wondering why I’m phoning.’

‘No.’ She laughed. ‘Well, perhaps.’

A white orchid stood in a pot, next to the phone. One of its petals was browning at the edges. Jane started to gently peel away the decay with her fingernails.

Jurgen said, ‘Firstly, to apologise for my drunkenness.’

The tear she had made caught in one of the flower’s veins, ripping half the length of it. She suppressed a curse.

‘Were you drunk? I didn’t notice.’

‘Then pregnancy has made you blind.’

Jane laughed again, hating the sound of her own voice, false and tinny in her ears. She nipped the remaining shred of petal from the orchid, leaving the flower with a lopsided look that made her think of Anna’s black eye.

‘And the second reason?’ She tried to focus on Jurgen’s call.

‘I felt I owed you more than an apology, so I did a search on your backhouse. You dislike it so much I thought you might like to know if there are any plans for it.’

He had her full attention now. It was odd to think of strangers deliberating over the building’s fate. Jane wasn’t sure she liked it.

‘That was kind of you.’

She could almost hear the casual shrug of his shoulders.

‘It might be a good opportunity for someone.’

‘For you?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Jurgen paused. Jane felt a question in the silence and wondered what he was about to ask her to do. He said, ‘The building belongs to your landlord.’

‘I guess that could make sense.’

‘Do you know him?’

‘No, Petra dealt with the lease. She went through a letting agency.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Jurgen sounded disappointed and Jane wondered if he was going to make a reference to how much of her life she left to Petra’s care, but he asked, ‘So the name, Dr Alban Mann, doesn’t mean anything to you?’

‘Alban Mann owns this place?’

‘You do know him?’ The enthusiasm was back in his voice.

Jane held the receiver to her chest. She had imagined Anna haunting the backhouse, but now it seemed as if the building had been looking at her with Alban’s eyes.

She put the phone to her ear again and heard Jurgen say, ‘Hello?’

‘I’m sorry, I got distracted. Dr Mann is our next-door neighbour. We nod to each other when we meet on the doorstep, but I don’t really know him.’

‘Do you think you could get to know him?’

‘I doubt it. He’s a busy man and I’m a seven-and-a-half-month-pregnant lesbian.’

Jurgen laughed. ‘I guess I sounded like a pimp.’

‘A little.’

‘Dr Mann owns a lot of property in Berlin – some he leases, some he sells at a profit. He’s been sitting on this particular building for quite a while.’

‘Longer than you would expect?’

‘More than ten years. A long time, but then I don’t know what he has in mind.’

‘Maybe he likes it the way it is.’

Jurgen snorted. ‘That seems unlikely. I imagine he’s just not found the right person to move it on to. It’s a large building, in poor condition. There’s potential there, but it would take a lot of investment to realise it. Could be there’s a lucrative deal hovering, maybe a series of lucrative deals that haven’t come off. One falls through, another beckons, and before you know it you’ve held on to a property longer than you should have. It happens.’

‘Could he have held on to it for sentimental reasons?’

‘Anything’s possible. I still own the first apartment I ever bought, a one-bedroom flat in Neukölln. It no longer fits with my portfolio, but it reminds me of where I came from, and where I might end up if I’m not careful.’ Jurgen paused, and Jane imagined him trying to calculate the kind of sentiments that might lead a man to snub a profit. The equation eluded him. ‘No, it would be too much money to tie up in nostalgia.’

‘How much money?’

‘Impossible to say. It depends on what he paid for it and whether he would renovate the apartments himself or sell the whole building in its present condition. . .