Chapter Ten

Undercover

Sandra knocked on the apartment door. It was a few hours since they’d decided to take action, and while Liz was at the library trying to glean what she could about the Pohler family, Sandra has assigned herself a mission. She was going undercover. She’d seen Fletch, Charlie’s Angels. She knew what to do. Plan a cover story, knock on the door, talk a lot really convincingly and worm your way inside. They’d spent a good hour working out a mind-map of all the possible questions she could be asked, and what answers she could give, and where those answers could lead. It was hastily improvised story, but flexible in its lack of substance. They’d made cue cards out of coasters and Liz had tested her for twenty minutes, pretending to be several different types of tenant – business person, housewife, squatter, junkie, hippy, anything she could think of she’d tried it.

It’d taken her a while to remember where the apartment was. They’d had a couple of beers to help them brainstorm, and though she convinced herself it was for courage and to help her remember where she was going, the former had proven true but the latter proved so horribly untrue that by the time she needed the former the juice had worn off and she could feel her heart competing with her throat for space. Still, here she was. She’d walked out of the lift and across the walkway concentrating on being natural instead of stiff, awkward and unsure which is the way it would have appeared to the most casual observer.

The building was as she’d remembered it, a huge converted warehouse, only last time it was in a haze. This was very real. They’d scoped the building out on Google Earth from Sebastian’s phone whilst plotting, and she walked purposefully passed 303 (wrong position), 304 (crime scene) and was now knocking on the door of 305. The plan was mad and full of holes. But it was a plan. Sort of.

1.    Get access to a neighbouring apartment.

2.    Get onto the balcony.

3.    Lean around the balcony and get some shots of the inside.

It wasn’t much, but it was the only place to start. She had an elaborate spiel as a representative of the tenants union, or the building owner, depending on who answered.

Problem was, no one was answering.

So this is us taking control is it? Auspicious beginning.

She’d been left with no choice. Besides, she was unemployed and needed something to do other than drink, read blogs and take up smoking again. Her life being in danger also helped nudge her over the line. Liz on the other hand had a real job, but unlike any job Sandra had ever had it was results-oriented and not based on the number of hours spent in the office.

Liz was exceptionally efficient with her time.

Sandra knocked once more. In all of their planning it hadn’t occurred them that, perhaps, given it was the middle of a Wednesday afternoon, no one would be home.

“No one lives there” said someone from down the hall. She turned to see the owner of the voice – it was a man somewhere under 40, armed with shopping and fumbling for his keys. Half of his stuff was in canvas bags, and the other half in plastic. He was trying to get into apartment 306. He was blond, nice eyes, seemed friendly. That’d have to do.

“Really?” she said. “That’s a shame.” No it isn’t. Why is it a shame? Jesus Christ. You’ve got a fucking plan, use it.

“No one’s been in there for a year or so I think”, he said, still trying to get his keys without putting his shopping down. Inevitably, one of the plastic bags broke and seven grapefruit rolled across the floor. She ran over to help.

“Thanks. Sorry. You know how it is, you never have enough of your own bags and then you feel bad for getting plastic so you try and jam as much into the plastic as you can, bla bla bla.” He had his keys in one hand, whilst Sandra had grapefruit piled into her arms. She smiled.

“I understand. I often find myself short of bags, just when I need them.” Just make mouth noise. Think of plan. “Let me help you get this stuff inside.” Good plan. She was hoping that wouldn’t seem weird or awkward. Or pickuppy. He looked at her, and she smiled again. I’m a good Samaritan. That’s what I am.

He smiled back as he rescued his key from his pocket fluff and opened his door.

“Thanks so much”, he said as he opened his door. She followed him inside, arms still full of grapefruit.

This was a completely different interior. There was an entrance alcove, and the hallway twisted around blocking the front door from the rest of the building. She followed him down around and down the hallway, which had three closed doors, and then opened up into the kitchen and main living area beyond. She liked this place. It was nice. Subtle. Tasteful. And completely different from the other apartment. To start with, there was coffee in plain site on the bench. Now that made sense. She stood there, awkwardly, whilst the man placed his bags on the kitchen island. She spied the fruit bowl and moved to unload herself.

“Sorry, here let me get those for you”, he said and went to help as she awkwardly replied “No, it’s alright, just show me where to put them”, and as he was about to remove the fruit she was shuffling to the bench to put them in the bowl, and she dropped them. They rolled across the kitchen floor, and he bent down to pick them up. She took the opportunity to look around the apartment, and saw what she wanted to see – the door to the balcony.

“Wow, nice view” she said, and headed straight towards the window.

“Yeah, I guess. If you like staring at buildings”, he replied, putting the fruit in the bowl.

“Oh I do, I do”, she wished she’d never said. What the hell does that mean? She walked right up close to the balcony, and found the door unlocked. She opened it, and the door slid silently open and she stepped outside. She could see, to her right, the next and then the next balcony. With a distance of about two feet apart, about what they’d guessed. Thankyou Google Earth.

He appeared beside her.

“Um, you alright?” he asked, not concerned about her well being but more her sense of propriety. She turned to him very sharply

“I’m sorry. I’m in sales.” Which version of the plan had me in sales? SHIT. “I tend to get very forward quickly. And, to be honest, I’ve always wanted to live in an apartment like this. It’s beautiful.”

“Sure, sure, I understand. Look, thanks for your help with my shopping.”

“No problem.”

They stood there, awkwardly together on the balcony – him obviously wanting her to leave, and her trying to figure out how to work this. In the end she said:

“Well, I’ll be going then.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

She didn’t move. He smiled, stopped smiling, and smiled again.

“Right”, she said. “Well, I’ll just see myself out.” And she left the balcony, deliberately shut the door behind her to slow him down. She walked down the hallway as she heard the balcony door open.

“Wait” he shouted after her. Damn. She stopped, turned around as he passed her the handbag she’d left on the floor next to the bench. “You forgot this.”

She took Liz’s bag off him. Her mumbled “thanks” was muted by her annoyance. There goes that ploy. She smiled, turned and walked the rest of the hallway. She didn’t hear him follow. Thank god for the loss of old school manners. She reached the front door, opened it obviously, didn’t step through, listened – he’s not following - and closed it again.

She leant against the stranger’s entrance wall, and held her breath. He didn’t move for a moment, and then she heard his feet twist around on the carpet, then hit the hardwood in the kitchen area. She breathed very, very slowly.

Please let him be like me, please let him be like me. She listened to him carefully unpack and put away everything from the bags. Ok, so not like me. There was still hope. Once it was all done, she heard him leave the kitchen, back into the hallway. A door handle turned, and the sound changed from muted carpet to the echo of bathroom tiles. She breathed out. Fortunately he wasn’t exactly like her – first thing after grocery shopping, toilet time, but unlike her he lived alone and actually shut the door.

She wanted to move fast, but had to be quiet. She tiptoed down the hallway, passed the bathroom door. It was completely silent in there. She couldn’t tell what he was doing. Now if this was a share house, that would be a good thing. She silently longed for a house like that. She heard the shower turn on. Excellent. Noise. She continued into the kitchen, when she heard the bathroom door open again. She was just passing the kitchen and had nowhere to go. In desperation she ducked behind the side of the kitchen island facing away from the hallway. The tell tale sign of bare feet walked lightly into the kitchen. He was standing next to the bench. He stopped, reached for something on the bench. She tried to press herself as silently as possible against the end. He moved closer to her, and she suddenly saw him walk to the corner, naked, and open a cupboard with his back to her. He stood there, looking for something. She was frozen with fear. And fascination. He had no bum hair either. Or leg hair. What is with men these days?

She stretched out a leg and lolloped around the bench corner, out of site. She heard the cupboard close, then footsteps on the floor and saw him walking away from the kitchen, down the hall and back into the bathroom.

Phew.

She stood up and was suddenly aware of the speed of her heart. No time to think. Just move. She went to the balcony door, carefully slid it open and stepped outside. The wind had picked up, and the air was cooler. She went to the edge and judged the distance between this and the balcony for 305. Not that far. She can reach.

She swung one leg over the railing, and then the second leg. She sat on the edge. Don’t look down. Just reach one foot over, touch the edge, that’s right, now just slide that leg of the edge, now one arm, grab hold of the rail, and over we go. She placed one foot, then another, on the balcony of 305. She looked back and smiled smugly. That wasn’t so hard. Go me. But with no one around to be smug at, she moved on. She peered through the window. Like 304, it was one big open apartment, except that it seemed to be an art studio. There was canvas in stacks, some blank, some painted. Paints piled up here and there. Several easels. No wonder no one lived there. What kind of an artist has an entire apartment just as a studio? Not living off grants, that’s for sure.

She repeated the procedure, and climbed over to 304. Again, surprisingly easy, but equally unnerving. She was facing away, looking down the alleyway between this and the next building, and suddenly felt a rush of anxiety. Taking a deep breath, she turned it off. She had work to do. She pulled Liz’s camera out of the bag and turned towards the window. The reflection was quite high, and she had to step forward and cover the glass to have a look inside.

It had been trashed. For a minimalist apartment, he seemed to own a whole lot of stuff, and most of it was on the floor. Books, clothes, even stuffing from the furniture. The kitchen cupboards had been emptied, their contents hurled across the room.

She raised the camera and took a photo. The reflection of the flash blinded her and produced a useless image. After blinking the light out of her eyes, she tried to navigate the ridiculous menu on the back of the camera. Flash... flash.. macro, red-eye, portrait, landscape, fast-action, how the fuck do you turn the flash off? She sighed, leant on the door, and it clicked. She turned around, and did what she should have done first, and tried the door. It slid seamlessly open. Well, why bother locking when the balcony, technically, is going nowhere?

She stepped inside, and shut the door behind her. Suddenly she was acutely aware of how noisy it was outside, as the quiet inside was strangely alarming. She had to tread carefully, trying to not stand on anything hurled across the floor. She took photos of everything. The kitchen, the futon turned sideways, the smashed TV. It was hard going, there was not a lot of floor to be seen.

She noticed there was a total absence of anything that would identify the owner. She hadn’t noticed this the first time but there were no photos, no documents spread around, not even a receipt from the supermarket. The books were generic page turners, nothing specific, the kind of pulp designed to end each chapter on a cliffhanger to keep the reader going, regardless of how crap the content was.

She tried to piece together what had happened. That’s what a detective would do. She imagined someone coming in, looking for something hidden. She started from the door, took two steps and stood on something. She looked at the pile of stuff on the floor. Bits were from over there, bits were from over there. She didn’t have time to figure this out, whoever had turned this place over had done so in a hurry. Why were they in such a hurry? What were they looking for?

She decided to just take photos, and work it out later. Starting at the door, she snapped the mess in the entrance, and made her way to the bathroom, then towards the living room. She checked each photo in the viewfinder to make sure it came out clearly. Broken glass. Fabric. Clothes. Shoes. Foot.

Foot?

She looked at the image again. She then turned back to where she’d taken the shot. It all blurred into one big mess, and she had to lean in, but it became clear - there was the shoe. And there was the ankle sticking out of the shoe. The rest of the body was buried underneath the debris.

Her heart thumped painfully in her throat. She recognised that shoe. She gingerly stepped towards the pile. Now that she knew it was hiding something, it was abundantly clear it was a pile, whereas before it had just blended with the mess. She looked at the shape, calculated how the body lay. Shifting around, she reached where she assumed the head would be, and carefully at first she removed a few pieces but quickly became more erratic. There was just too much crap here. She needed to know. Magazines, fabric, stuffing, cups, dirty t-shirt – and then the bruised face of Sebastian Pohler.  And he was very clearly dead.

She paused. Caught her breath. Then she stood up, and took a picture.