Sorry. Shaun Whiteside

be anywhere else. It’s only in Berlin that cigarettes taste so good to him.

      At the back of the building the air is stuffy. It smells of fried onions and boiled meat. The smell reminds Wolf of the jellied meat that his aunt always made. Her hands smelled like the house. Jellied meat was her speciality. Wolf tries to remember his aunt’s name. A woman in a headscarf comes toward him.

      “Hi,” he says.

      The woman lowers her eyes and presses herself against the wall so that he can pass. Her footsteps are barely audible on the steps. Wolf climbs further up the stairs. On the fourth floor he gasps for air, his armpits are steaming. He urgently needs a shower and he would really like to light the next cigarette.

      A nameplate is missing; but as it’s the only door on this floor, Wolf has no choice. He rings. He waits. He knocks. The door swings inward.

       Not good, not good at all.

      There’s a light on in the hall. There’s a sound of music. Loads of bad films start exactly like this.

      “Hello? Mrs. Haneff?”

      Wolf pushes the apartment door a little further open.

      “Hello? I’m from the agency. We e-mailed each other yesterday.”

      No reaction.

       If that was Mrs. Haneff coming down the stairs toward me, then …

      Wolf thinks about simply leaving again.

       Maybe Frauke got the dates mixed up.

      “Hello?”

      The hall floor is dirty. There are scratches along the wallpaper, on one wall there’s a water stain in the shape of a Christmas tree. Wolf doesn’t want to have come to Kreuzberg in vain.

      “I’m coming in, okay?” he says and goes in.

      It’s not just the hall that looks as if a renovation is overdue. Wolf expects to see a ladder, tools, and decorators in one of the rooms, hiding their beer bottles behind their backs and smiling awkwardly.

      The first room is the kitchen. A beat-up stove stands in the middle of the room, otherwise there’s no furniture. The windows are dirty, there’s a smell of drains in the air. If anyone’s out of place here, it’s Wolf.

      “Mrs. Haneff?”

      He follows the music and finds the woman in the room with the radio in it. One side of the wall is entirely covered with a photomural. It must have been recently applied, because it still glistens with damp and is coming away at one corner. The photo wall shows mountains in the background, and in the foreground an autumn forest with a lake. A stag stands on the shore and drinks. Mrs. Haneff is floating above the water of the lake as if she wants to rise to heaven. Her arms are stretched upwards and placed together, her feet hang inches above the floor, her open eyes are fixed on the opposite wall. The head of a nail protrudes from her forehead, a second nail holds her hands above her head. She is barefoot, a puddle of blood has formed beneath her feet. Her shoes are placed neatly beside the radio. Wolf sees another drop of blood dripping from the tip of the woman’s foot. If the radio were off, he would be able to hear the drop landing in the puddle.

      Wolf’s first thought is: Where would you get such long nails? His second: This isn’t real, it’s …He doesn’t have a third thought, because his stomach heaves, and he runs retching from the room.

      Minutes later Wolf is leaning against the filthy wall of the hallway, smoking. The cigarette trembles between his fingers. Every now and again he glances at the open door of the room. The radio goes on tirelessly playing. Wolf’s thoughts are in chaos. He stares at the ceiling of the hallway and tries to concentrate. Still more water stains. His hands won’t stop trembling. Damn it, calm down, please. He feels as if he’s about to shit himself. Then he starts thinking. Finally.

       Kris. I’ve got to call Kris …

       No, I’ve got to call the police. I’ve got to …

       Get out of here, I’ve got to get out of here as quickly as possible. And then call Kris and—

      Wolf gives a start when his phone rings.