The people of the world are more or less the same.
Though we may come in different shapes and colors,
we all share the same inheritance,
and we all have our back stories,
and our secrets.
Like this man, let's call him Henry,
trying to find his way on a remote Greek island.
Even though evolution might seem to mature us,
there are still parts of our brain that belong to our reptile ancestors.
Although we've convinced ourselves that hate,
revenge and nemesis belong to the past,
our ancient ancestors' blood still runs in our veins,
whether we like it or not.
Hello?
Henry Maertens?
Mr. Henderson.
It's Alex.
You found the way... obviously.
Thank you very much.
Oh, uh, perhaps you'd prefer a cold drink?
No, no, no. Tea will do nicely. Thank you very much.
A lighthouse? It's quite something.
I like to guide people.
If they get too close, I turn the light off.
I prefer the solitude. I hate neighbors.
Some say I hate people and that's...
bloody true.
Then this must be the perfect spot.
Exactly.
And all of this is mine.
And the olive grove behind us.
Some of the trees are 500 years old.
They were here when Columbus discovered America.
And there's a small chapel on the other side, which is also mine.
That's where I'm going to be buried...
when that day comes.
So, my publisher forwarded your letter.
I can't remember what you wrote,
but I assume you wanted to know how to become a writer.
Actually, no.
It's...
It's actually more about the story.
The book I'm writing, if it's any good
or interesting enough.
There are parallels to Gilliam's Temptation in a way.
I haven't read it since I wrote it.
Sure, sure, sure, sure. Since you've come all this way.
It's about this couple...
David and Eva.
About their relationship, you could say.
David is a writer, a rather successful one.
And Eva is a high school teacher, no children.
You're not gonna read the whole book?
Just bits and pieces, so you get a feeling for the story.
Get on with it.
They left on the 15th of August,
traveling in the car together, just the two of them.
David felt he really loved her.
They had been married for almost eight years.
Of course, they had their difficulties,
but he'd never felt it so strongly before.
In the midst of this euphoric feeling, there was a dissonance.
As if one of the strings in a chord was slightly out of tune.
It's difficult to pinpoint more precisely where that feeling originated.
But he seemed to have discovered a streak in his wife that he'd never noticed before.
Whether the actual change was in her or in him, he couldn't tell.
- Shall I switch on the radio? - I'd rather not. Thank you.
Gabber recommended this gasthof just south of Burghausen,
which is supposed to be nice.
Edelweiss, good food apparently.
After the shortcut, we'll soon be on the highway again.
So we should get there around...
7:00, 7:30.
Tomorrow's leg will be shorter.
I wonder how many gasthofs are called Edelweiss,
- must be hundreds. - David, I've met someone else.
Okay.
The way things have been this past year, I...
I-I have no choice
and I'm going to leave you.
Anyone I know? It's, um, Mauritz.
Mauritz Winkler?
Christ, why do all women have to fall in love with their therapist?
You know as well as I do that it doesn't mean anything.
So why are we on this fucking trip?
Look, I wanted to give it a try, but it seems futile.
I'm so sorry, I've just... I've got to be honest with you.
Mr. Schwartz?
Madame H. Welcome.
Pleasant journey, I hope.
It's the most wonderful road. Isn't it?
Can I get someone to help with your bags? No, I'll be fine.
- Oh, you shouldn't trouble yourself. - No trouble at all.
It's good to have you here. And good to be here.
This was the last time.
You can't be serious?
Oh, I'm serious, David.
You belong to me, Eva.
I love you.
Do you need the spray?
Here.
Have a seat.
Here.
Do you want some water?
No, I'm fine. Thank you.
I'm fine. Thank you.
Don't you understand that it will pass?
You know, you're just confused.
I'm not confused.
You know, I had other women.
Why do you bring that up?
Because I want you to know
they never meant anything.
Well, that's just the difference.
What is?
I've only had one, David.
And he means everything.
If your life...
is dark and then a door suddenly opens, then...
you have to move on.
No, it's your responsibility.
I think you owe it to yourself.
That sounds like something Mauritz Winkler could have said.
Do you mean your life or whose life are we talking about here?
Our life.
Our life together. Bullshit. Fucking rubbish.
We don't talk to each other anymore.
We don't stimulate each other anymore.
So you talk to him instead
about our relationship?
Don't you see it, David?
It's so very obvious right now.
If we continue like this, we'll just cease to exist.
Those are just words with no meaning. They signify nothing.
They signify everything.
Hey! Ow.
What are you doing?
I'm sorry. But you can't just walk off like that.
I'm pregnant.
What? But...
since when do you know? It's not your child, David.
I understand if that makes you feel...
unhappy.
You know I haven't felt ready.
I haven't been able to see myself with a child.
You just didn't want a child with me.
It's not that simple.
Go on, admit it.
This is about me. Only me.
Twenty-four hours later, Mauritz Winkler showed up.
Booked himself into a hotel in the next valley.
The following morning, she took the car...
to see him, Mauritz Winkler.
So, he lets her leave.
Just like that? What a wimp.
She's such a bitch. I like her.
Do you want my comments now or afterwards?
Maybe I should go on. Whatever.
He decided to go for a walk in the mountains.
He didn't feel like being around anyone.
He didn't want anything, apart from Eva.
When your soul is wounded, physical activity can heal.
And while he was sitting there, he couldn't stop thinking about
the skin on the inside of Eva's thigh.
If only the probing sensitive touch of your fingertips
could find that certain spot.
Then of course Mauritz Winkler invaded his thoughts.
His fingers, his body against hers.
Perhaps it was there and then that he made his decision.
Afterwards, his memory failed him.
But it must have come to him right there at that very moment.
Mr. Schwartz. Hello.
Do you know if my wife has returned yet?
I'm sorry.
I haven't seen either her or the car since this morning.
Okay. Thank you.
How could he make his inner being understand that their love was over?
He remembered when he first met her...
how he immediately knew that this was the woman he wanted to share
the rest of his life with.
He remembered their first kiss...
the first time they made love.
He still loved her with every bone in his body.
And in a few months, Eva would give birth to a child that wasn't his.
Almost blinded by jealousy,
at the same time, he was surprised by his own rationality.
- But clearly, he has a plan. - - Yes.
After breakfast the next morning,
he says he's going to take the car.
Which she accepts. So he drives off...
kills that man, Winkler, end of story, right?
No, not quite. But...
perhaps that should be the feeling you get when you read it.
But that's not what happens.
Surprise me, Henry.
David had studied the map carefully, so he knew precisely
the winding road from the village of Graues went uphill.
There, some 500 meters below in the next valley was the Lauern reservoir.
He had read about it in the tourist brochure.
Opaque green water.
At full capacity, it could hold a billion cubic meters
of melted snow and ice.
When he came to the top, he had driven the car all the way
without having to use the brakes once.
It wasn't until he reached a sharp bend on his way down
to the next valley that he needed them.
Just the way he'd imagined it.
Excuse me? Yes?
Can I get one more, please? Yes.
They ate in silence.
Their words had suddenly become leaden,
just as on the eve of war when all negotiations have broken down
and all that remains is naked action.
So, I'll take the car.
I filled it up yesterday.
I'll be home for supper.
She put her hand on David's shoulder...
held it there a bit too long.
But he didn't look up.
Never met her gaze.
So...
the car is so demolished,
nobody can tell the brakes were tampered with,
if it's ever found.
Perhaps it disappears in that bloody lake.
The Lauern reservoir. The Lauern reservoir.
Yeah, Henry, it's, um...
elaborate.
It was a beautiful day and he decided to go for a walk along the river.
He walked upstream for a couple of hours before deciding to turn back.
He was hungry, hadn't had much for breakfast.
It was as if time had ceased to exist.
The hours just disappeared, but the minutes crept by slowly.
At the same time, he felt remarkably calm.
No, I haven't seen her.
Thank you.
It was the empty room,
the thought that she'd never again be there
to meet him when he came home.
Just a big... void.
The following morning was one of very few words.
He had been down and talked to Madame H in the reception,
filed a missing person report with the local police,
gone for a walk in Graues.
It wasn't until the next day that he had a visitor.
David Schwartz? Yeah.
Chief Inspector Mort.
So, let me get this straight.
You and your wife have been staying at this hotel,
and your wife went missing the day before yesterday.
- That's correct. - -Okay.
So there must be a reason why your wife simply up and left.
They say here in the hotel that you hardly spent any time together.
We have different interests.
She wanted to go for a drive,
I wanted to walk along the river.
I think something has happened to her.
Like what, for instance? I don't know.
You had a row, didn't you?
Why would we?
What are you implying?
"Implying"?
You're implying I had something to do with Eva's disappearance?
I went for a walk along the river,
she wanted to go for a drive.
When you've been married as long as we have,
you allow each other that kind of freedom.
Really?
I need a coffee.
And that's how it went for over an hour.
And no, they hadn't found the car, or any trace of it.
They had searched all the roads in the area.
They'd issued an alert,
and no reliable witnesses had come forth.
Eva was gone.
Three and a half years have passed.
He remembers Graues. He never returned.
He remembers Chief Inspector Mort's green shirt
and the sweat patches under his armpits.
He remembers conversations with good friends and welfare officers.
The months at the hospital after his breakdown.
Okay.
So, this is the end of your story?
You must be joking.
It's actually the beginning.
It was early March.
Spring had not yet arrived.
Gusts of wind tore through the streets and alleys.
The temperature dropped from a few degrees down to zero.
Berlin was unseasonably cold.
At the very end of Haydn's Cello Concerto No. 2,
it happened.
Someone in the audience coughed.
To David, it felt like an electric shock.
It was her. It was Eva.
Six months earlier, she must have been sitting there
in a concert hall in Maardam.
Strange, yet, feasible to be able to distinguish
a specific person's characteristic cough,
among millions of others.
In that moment, he was convinced Eva was still alive.
Wow.
Quite impressive, I must say.
Spectacular twist.
What do you say...
we pause for a spot of lunch, David?
Yeah.
I would like that very much.
Didn't have much breakfast this morning.
Or is it Henry?
David?
Henry?
I think I'm getting a bit mixed up.
You're a sly old devil, David.
Disconnecting the brakes on a modern car, I'm impressed.
Not only an accomplished author...
but a skilled mechanic.
It must have haunted you.
Those...
images of Eva crashing down the precipice to her death,
I can only imagine...
how many nights you woke up in a cold sweat.
And there you are, three years later...
hearing a cough on the radio.
It's fucking brilliant.
The question is...
did it fill you with angst or relief?
Mmm.
You're not going anywhere.
We haven't finished yet.
You come here, take up my time.
I could have written a fucking novel of my own this morning.
I intend to hear the rest of your story.
Do I make myself clear?
And you,
drawn to Maardam,
like a moth to a flame. By what?
A cough on the radio.
Yes.
In a manner of speaking.
I tried to convince myself that it could've been anyone
with a coughing fit in that audience,
and I almost succeeded.
Then I received a proposal,
or should I say, an opportunity.
"I am sending you my latest manuscript"
to be translated and published.
I forbid you to contact my publisher in Maardam
"or anyone else for that matter."
This is the only copy.
Of course I had to doubt my own sanity,
but I couldn't get it out of my mind
that she had somehow managed to disappear from Graues
without a trace and start a new life.
I felt I had no choice, I had to find out.
A translation of Germund Rein's last book
could take me to Maardam at the German publisher's expense.
It was almost like a gift from above,
and I was convinced.
If Eva lived there, I would find her.
- Cheers. - Cheers.
And yes, I'm not a writer.
I'm a translator.
I simply translate the works
of genuine writers into the German language.
Yeah.
And my work goes unnoticed by everyone,
except for my publisher and possibly one or two readers.
But I know my own value, and I take pride in my skills.
Skills that could bring me closer to Eva,
that is, if she still happens to be there.
Yes, I was drawn to Maardam like a moth to a flame.
I had no idea how I was going to find Eva.
But I was determined to do whatever it took to find out.
I know for certain that she'd been in that concert hall in Maardam six months ago.
The question was, did she live in Maardam?
So, I sublet a flat from an architect who'd been posted abroad,
potted plants and cat included.
Any allergies?
No.
I'd already translated a couple of Rein's books,
The Red Sisters and Kroull's Total Silence.
And I felt I might be able to master his style of writing.
Not an easy task, but not by any means beyond my capabilities.
After all, I knew I would have more than enough time.
I didn't open the manuscript until I made myself comfortable in the library...
a consequence of translating according to Darke's model.
I brought you some tea. Thank you so much.
Darke's method builds on the fact that you don't know the text beforehand.
You translate sentence by sentence,
paragraph by paragraph.
So you value the text the way it appears to you,
like a reader who doesn't know what's coming.
I had to conduct my search for Eva during my spare time.
And she was obsessed with classical music and opera,
I started to frequent the Nieuwe Halle and the Concert Hall.
I would try to buy front of stall seats, giving me a strategic vantage point
from which to scour the audience.
I believe I managed to spot Giselle at least four times.
This was to become a very costly routine.
So sometimes I would have to settle for simply standing outside in the street
watching the concertgoers on their way in or out.
It was like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Of course, I also pursued every other available avenue
in order to find out if Eva or Mauritz Winkler, for that matter,
even lived in the city, but all in vain.
Sorry.
When the library opened at 2:00,
I'd sit there until they closed,
and then continue my fruitless search,
keeping my tasks apart like oil and water.
- I'm sorry. - Turning day into night.
What do we actually know about our next of kin and their deepest motives?
The bill, please. Yeah. Coming.
I started to wonder about all this secrecy.
Why had he sent the manuscript to Kerr and Amundsen, his German publisher,
instead of his regular publisher Otto Gerlach in Maardam?
It certainly seemed strange.
And could it really be true, that this was the only copy?
All I knew was what Judit Kerr told me,
and she seemed too excited by the prospect of the actual deal
to question anything about the background situation.
The woman...
- surveillance or missing? - Missing.
That's good. I prefer missing persons.
And when did you see her the last time?
Three years ago, or perhaps a bit more.
Have you googled her? She doesn't exist.
Her maiden name? Leuwe.
All the information's written
on the back of the photo.
Are you sure you want to find her?
You know, three years,
most people would have moved on by now.
But not you.
No, not me.
I thought private dicks were extinct.
Obviously not.
Ooh, gonna have to get some more wine...
if I'm gonna be able to listen to any more of this.
Get to it. I'm listening.
Hmm?
Move on.
I don't wanna spend the rest of my life listening to your screwed up story.
Well, it's not that easy. Try, for Christ's sake.
I had made some progress with Rein's novel.
It had two sides to it. One was...
dreamlike and introverted...
the other cynical and realistic.
I've read it.
Still I felt a great discomfort.
Too many similarities to my own story. At the same time as...
I think "frustrated" is a better word.
But it wasn't the novel itself, even if it did influence me.
This is getting better and better.
I'd started to believe that the book was about Germund Rein himself...
and about Mariam, his wife.
And the most bizarre aspect of it all was, of course,
the parallel with my own life, my situation with Eva.
I was frustrated by the fact that my search for her remained without success.
I can't really explain why I reached out to Germund Rein's wife, Mariam Kadhar.
Maybe it was because I couldn't find Eva
that I decided to find Mariam instead.
There's no logic in it, I know.
Maybe the content of the book was merging with my subconscious.
I don't know.
But her husband had disappeared without a trace,
and so had Eva.
Alex Henderson, one of the few colleagues my husband really valued.
Yes, he's well worth reading.
Please take a seat. Thank you.
So you've translated my husband's books?
Only the two latest, The Red Sisters and Kroull's Total Silence.
Do you know if they sold well in your language?
Um, not big editions.
But he's regarded by most well-informed people
as one of the great modern authors.
Always up for the Nobel prize.
Hmm.
I was just passing by and wanted to present my condolences.
It must be a heavy burden.
I haven't got used to it yet...
even though several months have passed.
But on the other hand,
I don't know why one should get used to it.
Hmm.
Excuse me for asking this,
do you know if he was writing anything before he died?
Yes, he was writing. He always did.
But we don't know what became of it. "Became of it"?
He was busy with something.
I don't know what it was. He didn't tell me anything.
But that's the way he was.
I think he was pleased...
with what he wrote.
I could see it in him.
But there's nothing left.
Like I said...
perhaps he burned it, perhaps he...
took it with him.
I really don't know.
Mariam Kadhar...
I felt pity for her, even though I clearly understood
that I couldn't do anything to help her.
But, most importantly, I now understood that apart from Judit Kerr,
I was probably the only living person
to have held Germund Rein's final book in my hands.
Why me?
Mariam Kadhar didn't even know
of its existence, as far as I knew.
I became so preoccupied by my thoughts
that I didn't notice that someone was following me.
I don't know if you've ever been shadowed,
but somehow you can feel it in your bones.
It's not a pleasant feeling.
My first thought, of course, was that it had something to do
with my visit to Mariam or, more specifically,
with Germund Rein's manuscript.
But on second thought, that didn't feel credible.
Why would anyone go to such lengths?
Honestly, the whole setup was pretty amateurish.
For a while, I pondered giving in to Kerr's suggestion,
to abandon Darke's model and simply read Rein's manuscript to the end.
And, of course, there were things in the manuscript which got me thinking.
As if the book's real story was concealed between the lines, as I said.
But Darke maintained that it was just that kind of thing,
the hidden meaning and deeper dimensions,
that risked getting lost if you gave in to it.
I worked on the text and I became more and more fascinated.
Suddenly I discovered something really odd.
Why had he underlined these words?
West, sea, sun, bear, dial.
And why hadn't I noticed this before?
Not good. Not good at all.
No matter how I tried, I couldn't make anything comprehensible out of them.
Why on earth had he underlined those words in red?
Excuse me?
Hey!
Wait.
Wait!
Mr. Schwartz.
I didn't know what to think.
It was him. The same man again. No doubt about it.
Who he was and why he was following me, I had no idea.
- Please, Mr. Schwartz. - I'm so sorry.
I'm sorry.
Listen. Excuse me.
Do you know who that was, the man who just ran out? Do you know him?
Sorry.
And where exactly was she spotted and by whom?
One of the suburbs, Wassingen, block 184.
Are you saying you've seen her there? Not personally.
It was one of my collaborators.
And when was that? Yesterday.
He caught sight of her in the underground, followed her.
She got out at Wassingen, and went into one of these high-rise buildings.
He didn't have time to see what floor she went to.
Is he sure it was her? Not at all...
but the birthmark was there,
along with the rest of your description,
so it's not completely out of the question.
So...
Eva was still in the land of the living,
risen out of the reservoir like Venus.
Yes.
That's what it looked like.
Rather ambiguous feelings, to be honest.
You may suffer ambiguity...
but the law never does.
Murder or attempted murder.
Excuse me?
Same intent, same punishment.
Yeah, I don't know. Whatever you say.
Wassingen.
If hell had been conceived in our times...
In my obsessed mind, I had gone through this moment a thousand times,
but what would actually happen if I saw Eva there?
What would I do?
Having now seen this place, I couldn't imagine
what might have possessed her to settle here
in this concrete desert
rather than live a good life with me.
I counted 142 names,
but no Schwartz, no Leuwe, and no Winkler.
I felt a growing sense of despair.
I began to imagine I saw her everywhere.
Give me all of these please.
This? Yeah.
Okay. Five.
One, two, three, four, five copies of the same issue?
Yeah, I want to give them to people in need.
Did you know that Jesus is coming and he would like to meet you?
Good for you, but I'm not interested.
I'm not... Here, just... I'm not interested. Thank you.
They're for free. Thank you. No.
Did you know Jesus is coming and he would like to meet you?
- Cool. - By the end of the day,
I had managed to sell two copies
of the magazine Enlightenment.
I had rung all 142 doorbells,
but not even a glimpse of Eva
or Mauritz Winkler for that matter.
Someone had opened the door to 93 of the flats, that left 49.
I spent the rest of the next week phoning around
and asking for Eva.
- Not even a cough, I presume? - Not a trace.
Not a single sign that she was living
in that depressing building in Wassingen...
or that she had any connection to it whatsoever.
Of course, I understood there was a gigantic margin of error here.
So you simply gave up?
Almost.
I have to also admit I was lonely,
and the architect's flat reminded me of my loneliness.
I spent as little time as I could in my so-called home.
- Thank you. - I had, as I said...
- Enjoy. - Turned day into night.
- Thanks. - And clearly drunk too much.
I couldn't sleep without my pills.
It had become a vicious circle, pills and liquor.
And my search for Eva had become an obsessive routine,
constantly compelled to return to the same places
over and over again, waiting outside.
For what?
When I saw Germund Rein's widow at the Nieuwe Halle all alone,
I suddenly felt the urge to rescue her.
Was she as lonely as I was...
or maybe she was the one who would rescue me?
I came to Maardam because of my stupidity.
I thought that...
I was going to find Eva.
Eva? I'm sorry. My wife.
It's like finding a needle in a haystack.
Has she disappeared? Disappeared. Perhaps dead.
I really don't know.
So how long has she been missing?
It's been more than three years.
Hmm.
I was on my way home, but then I caught sight of you outside the concert hall.
Perhaps it was a sign.
You're so beautiful.
Sorry. I'm late. No. That's okay.
This is David Schwartz. Otto Gerlach.
Pleased to meet you.
I'll, uh, fetch your coat.
Mh-hmm. Thank you.
I want to see you again.
Sorry.
I am not interested.
I don't know what I was expecting.
As I said, I'd been drinking way too much the last few weeks.
That had to change now.
I also needed to concentrate on Rein's manuscript.
It was necessary.
I was behind with my work. I'd been neglecting it lately.
In spite of the circumstances, I became more and more caught up in my work.
In less than three days, I had finalized the translation of Rein's book.
But I just couldn't let go of those underlined words.
The words appeared one after the other
at first sight in no particular order.
Maybe there was a hidden message after all.
"Thirty centimeters west of...
the sundial in... bear... sea..."
Behrensee.
The sudden realization terrified me.
At that point, I could easily have taken the first flight home,
but my search for Eva had now turned into something new and very different.
I didn't dare e-mail the translated script,
instead I found a printer in the architect's flat,
made a hard copy, and sent it by courier to Judit Kerr, the publisher.
You take that road there, and then you turn.
I knew that Rein and Mariam had a summer house by the sea
just outside a small village called Behrensee.
The name of the house was Cherry Garden,
and was reputed to be something quite outstanding.
A secluded haven where Germund Rein produced most of his works,
according to rumors.
A remote location which,
exactly as I had been led to understand,
would take some finding.
But I found it.
And I also found the sundial.
My inner voice urged me to forget about the whole thing and return to the city.
But for some reason, I couldn't let it go.
I had to find out.
So I waited for nightfall.
And once again sneaked into the garden.
"Thirty centimeters west of the sundial in Behrensee."
I found what Germund Rein had buried.
The next day I went to the police.
I no longer had any choice.
So, Mr. Schwartz,
you translated Germund Rein's last book?
Yeah.
The book that is the reason
we are all gathered in this courtroom today?
I guess so, yeah.
Why do you suppose Germund Rein
only wanted the book to be published as a translation?
I thought that was clear.
Otto Gerlach was his publisher.
Can you clarify what you mean?
I assume Rein was afraid the book,
the manuscript would disappear, never be published.
And why would it disappear?
Because of its content...
- compromising information. - Compromising for whom?
I really don't have anything to do with this.
I put it to you that this was compromising information
for the accused...
Mariam Kadhar and Otto Gerlach.
I assume. Your Honor,
my client's name isn't even mentioned in the book in question.
It's...
Let the witness elaborate his assertion.
In the beginning, it was just subtle hints.
But the more I read, the more obvious it became.
You mean there are passages in the book that underline
the theory of the accusation?
I guess you could say so.
Can you give the court an example of this?
If I may borrow the book.
I'm quoting from page 37.
"One morning she goes to the square to buy vegetables."
Always these vegetables that must never be less than a day old,
her memento mori.
He goes through her belongings.
She knows he would never do this,
so she has never bothered to hide anything.
He finds letters, four letters, three are clear enough,
the fourth is about a conspiracy.
They obviously want to see him dead.
He puts the letters in a folder, drives into town to copy them.
He thinks he's got plenty of time. She's probably fucking G,
reaping his vicious semen between her wide open legs.
Puts the originals back among her knickers in the chest of drawers
and puts the copies in a plastic bag.
Goes to the shed, fetches a spade,
finds a place with soft soil,
"and buries his treasure."
Can you tell me what you did after you read this?
I went to check it out.
According to the hidden code I told you about.
So you found the letters
where the hidden code in the manuscript said it would be?
Mh-hmm.
The letters Mariam Kadhar and Otto Gerlach had exchanged?
- Yes. - Did you study the content?
Eventually.
And I came to the conclusion that the information in the book was true.
And what exactly, Mr. Schwartz,
does it say in Germund Rein's book?
It says that M and O planned to kill Germund Rein.
Thank you.
No further questions.
Mr. Neumann-Hansen.
You found these...
handwritten notes and letters
buried just west of the sundial at Behrensee?
- Yeah. - Didn't that seem strange to you?
In what sense?
Well, during the inquiry,
the police went through all e-mails
between Otto Gerlach and my client.
And, yes, there's correspondence. Plenty of it.
But it's all professional.
Nothing like what you found in your letters.
Strange, wouldn't you say? I mean,
it's so much easier to send an e-mail these days.
Excuse me. But I would like to remind you all that I've only done my civic duty.
I went to the police with the material I happened to have.
The same thing any of you would have done.
No more questions.
Thank you.
There is still time, David.
It's not too late.
You know it's not too late.
Rein...
- You're Rein, aren't you? - No, no!
We've got time.
Now it's my turn...
to kill you.
Hello.
Good morning.
Sorry, but you have to leave now.
Please leave.
Is it correct that you are the, um, sole inheritor
of your husband's property and literary estate?
Yes.
Did you love your husband, Mrs. Kadhar?
- Yes. - Do you...
have intimate relationships with other men?
- I object. - Do rephrase the question, please.
Did you have a sexual relationship
with your husband's publisher, Otto Gerlach?
- Yes. - -How long did that go on for?
Five years.
Why were you unfaithful to your husband if you loved him?
I don't want to answer that question.
You're accused of murder, Mrs. Kadhar.
Did you kill your husband?
I did not kill my husband.
Although she terrified me, I found myself increasingly
and irresistibly fascinated.
I couldn't fight it.
I couldn't come to terms with the thought
that she could have done something so...
I don't know. I just wanted to take her in my arms...
even though she rejected me so very clearly.
So, what makes you believe a woman like Mariam Kadhar
could be interested in a man like you?
Interesting parallel with the wife, by the way.
You keep yourself quite occupied,
avenging yourself on women who dump you.
First Eva, then Mariam.
Well, I see a pattern emerging.
Don't you?
Anyway, in view of all the media attention you were getting,
if the wife, Eva,
if she were alive and kicking and living in Maardam,
surely she would've become aware
of your poster boy status by now?
Possibly.
But by that point, I'd given up all thought of her.
Thank you.
My thoughts were somewhere completely different.
David Schwartz, what do you think about the possible sentence?
Mariam Kadhar and Otto Gerlach. I've got nothing to...
After all, it's because of you
they might end up behind bars.
How do you feel about that?
The court finds the accused guilty of first degree murder.
The defendants Otto Gerlach and Mariam Kadhar
are each sentenced to 12 years.
David.
David Schwartz? Twelve years behind bars.
How does it feel to be the hero of the day, David? No comment.
Both defense lawyers have already lodged appeals. Any comments?
There you have it.
I just wanted to get away from the place
and Mariam's accusing eyes burned into my very core.
It felt like I was going to pieces.
So, you really believe you were the chosen one?
You don't realize that...
anybody could've dug up those letters sooner or later?
What? Well, you're a nobody, David.
I understand that this isn't about me.
I'm completely aware of that.
I mean, the fact that you fell for Mariam Kadhar,
it just shows what a pushover you really are.
I mean, you held all the cards.
Why didn't you just torch the letters?
Yes.
Maybe I should have.
Or maybe you're just not that bright.
I mean, one moment you're a shrewd calculator,
the next you're a fucking wimp.
I'm too old for this kind of crap.
So, uh, you're hot stuff right now.
Thank you. Thank you, Doris.
That man. He's following me, on several occasions.
I'm certain of it. He walks with a limp.
You can't mistake that.
Have you any idea why?
I wouldn't come to you if I had.
Can you help me with this?
Do you know who he is?
You're a public figure now.
You never told me what profession you were in.
'Cause it's got nothing to do with Eva.
Do you know who he is?
Let's do it this way.
I'll see what I can do.
But it will cost you.
And I can't promise any results.
I'll call you?
One lasagne to go, please.
The limping man.
Interesting title for your little novel.
- No, seriously, who was he? - We'll come to that.
- Something else came in between. - So, she was given a pen and paper?
- Just a small pencil. - And then what happened?
When the door was unlocked, she was found lying facedown on the floor.
When she was turned over,
there were small spots of blood on the floor,
coming from her eye.
She had stuck the pencil into her eye.
- The whole pencil? - Yes.
Should be quite impossible, but in this case...
Thank you. We repeat that Mariam Kadhar,
the wife of the late author, Germund Rein,
recently sentenced to 12 years,
took her own life in the Burgislaan remand prison.
Mariam Kadhar was 39 years old.
Three years earlier, I had fallen...
and it was a hard fall.
Days and nights at the hospital
and my self-disgust tore me to shreds.
A secret that I had to keep hidden deep inside.
Never able to confess the truth of what I had done to Eva.
Never able to tell a soul.
You're actually the first one to hear my story.
Never-ending nightmares. Managing the medication.
Downers to send me to sleep, uppers to wake me up.
The slow recovery.
Now, I was edging closer to the precipice again.
In my defense, I would like to say I was rational during the time that followed.
Methodical, unhurried.
I allowed alcohol to rule my existence without any other purpose
than to achieve a sustainable level of unconsciousness...
without ever going over the top.
I've been there before and I know what it's all about.
A strictly clinical drinking bout
where I kept the process under control at all times.
- Hello? - Well, well, David Schwartz.
I first thought, of course, that it had something to do with your job.
That publisher doesn't seem to look upon you very kindly.
But it wasn't? So who was he then?
Why is he following me? One thing at a time.
I recognized the man in the photo.
He's a former police commissioner.
Now retired and actually freelancing in my line of business,
so I contacted him.
And he was in fact hired to follow you.
And naturally, he didn't want to reveal the identity of his client.
But?
Everything has a price.
And I'd suppose that money wasn't an issue in this...
I already told you that.
But it seems as if both of you wanted to find each other.
Who?
Oh, you and Eva.
Eva hired him?
Exactly.
When my collaborator saw her in Wassingen,
she wasn't on her way home. She has an apartment, but on the other side of town.
She was simply on her way to see my colleague.
He had an office there at the time.
She spotted you here in Maardam,
hired him to keep track of your whereabouts.
Edita Sobranska?
I guess she changed her name.
Stay there.
So, you decided to come now?
Yes.
Here I am.
Hello. Hello.
You've been living here a long time?
Three years.
- Ever since... - Ever since then. Yes.
Come on.
We're going for a nap now.
Sleep tight, sweetheart.
And I'll leave the door open.
I just made some teas.
So, how long are you staying? Sorry?
In Maardam.
How long are you gonna be staying?
Not much longer.
My job is finished. So I've heard.
Do you really believe they killed him? Rein?
Yes.
And then she commits suicide.
I've left all that behind me now.
What's her name?
Paula.
She's almost three now.
I thought so.
Is everything all right?
She's the best thing that ever happened to me.
What happened, Eva?
What happened in Graues?
I think you should leave now. I need to know what happened.
You ask me what happened?
You have no right whatsoever.
No right?
Maybe that's the worst part of it all
that you don't even understand that.
Do you know how many times I've thought about this, David?
What if we'd bump into each other one day, you and I?
Even if it's the last thing I ever wanted.
But if...
only a chance in a million that it would happen,
but still a possibility.
In a tram, or an airport somewhere in the world.
Suddenly you'd stand in front of me and ask...
"What happened?"
What happened?
What should I say?
What should I do?
After a hundred sleepless nights, David...
I've decided that I'm not gonna tell you.
You're gonna have to live with that uncertainty for the rest of your life.
You can see that as some sort of punishment if you want.
Eva. And I want you to leave now.
I'm not gonna tell you, David.
Never ever.
Are you out of your fucking mind?
You come here,
accept my hospitality and my advice,
and in exchange you offer me...
Bloody unforgivable...
to fritter away a story like that.
A sneeze on the radio.
A cough. A cough.
What the fuck? You can't just let it run out into the sand like fucking piss.
You just left them there
without a clue as to what really happened.
Hmm...
Are you familiar with my modest ideas
in the handbook of life? Yeah.
Of course.
But they're hardly yours, are they? You always have a choice.
Either you write your own script...
or you live according to someone else's.
How did you figure me out?
I realize you don't have a very high opinion of me,
a simple translator.
But I've read and translated your words.
I spent months, years, getting to know your style and your wording,
it's out there...
whether you like it or not, whether you call yourself Germund Rein or Alex Henderson.
Was this complicated intrigue really necessary?
Mm-mm. Isn't that obvious?
What the hell do you think?
Suspicion has to grow slowly.
Do you think any of this would have worked
if they found themselves in the limelight too soon?
They never planned to kill you, did they? You know as well as I do.
This is how it had to end.
The end speaks for itself, right?
What about Mariam's death?
Well, that's got nothing to do with it.
She wrote that chapter.
It wasn't in my script.
Who the hell are you to judge me?
You actually tried to kill your own wife for fuck's sake.
And here she is in the pink,
living in domestic bliss with Morris Wanker...
Winkler, whatever his fucking name is.
This isn't how you thought your story would end...
is it? Hmm?
David? Never even knowing what really happened?
I need a proper drink.
So, how did it happen? What?
The flight?
There wasn't any flight.
Alex Henderson had been in existence for many years by that time.
Even you should've realized that by now.
He took a plane to Athens. That's all.
You weren't drunk that night in Behrensee, were you?
Tipsy, at most.
Then you were bloody lucky.
Mmm, mmm, mmm.
Bullshit.
Feels like you owe me a debt of gratitude, don't you think?
I was the one who did your dirty work. Me? Thank you?
Should the puppeteer thank the puppet for her dance?
I think it's time I left.
I must find my way back to the road before it gets too dark.
You realize there's little point in squealing.
My identity is watertight, has been for a long time.
So I've understood.
Good.
Being a bad loser can be so unbecoming.
It's just that...
I've found it really hard to accept Mariam's fate.
You didn't kill her, neither did I.
What about Germund Rein?
He's dead.
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