Strangers on a Bridge. Louise Mangos

something else… We’ve been getting some silent calls at home. The two incidents are making me nervous.’

      ‘What exactly are you here about, Frau Reed? Herr Guggenbuhl’s well-being, or to report some other fool making joke calls?’

      Schmid leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, a further sign I was getting a rejection. He continued.

      ‘I took the liberty of learning a little about the gentleman in question after your telephone call. He has an unusual name, so I was curious.’ Schmid was now openly patronising. ‘He has an exemplary character, no record, and is well spoken of among his neighbours. He has recently moved to Aegeri and lives in an apartment in the same residence as the Staatsanwalt. It is natural he would be seen around the village. You must be very careful if you are to declare instability in a respected member of our community.’

      My jaw dropped and I stood at the police desk dumbfounded. This information almost needed a replay button in my mind to allow me to compute.

      ‘He lives here? But he lives in Aargau! He has family there…’

      ‘This is a small community; people talk to each other, Frau Reed. The man you are concerned about has recently made his home here. He will pay his taxes here. Where he came from and his history are no business of anybody else. He has a right to move where he wants. I think you are being a little overexcited. Perhaps he has been trying to make a normal impression on people as a new resident and you have taken his politeness in the wrong way? If he was still… unwell, there would be evidence.’

      The heat of tears prickled. I didn’t want to humiliate myself any more. I turned to leave.

      ‘Are you moving your office?’ I asked, manoeuvring my way round a pile of boxes.

      ‘We are preparing to close the office here. Our services will soon be centralised in Zug. We are much occupied with combining the administration and assigning new rotas.’

      I wandered back to my car, climbed in and clutched the steering wheel for half a minute until my whitened knuckles began to ache.

      When I arrived home, I passed the mailbox. The latest gift from the farmer was a small box of Kirsch Stängeli, tiny chocolate fingers filled with cherry schnapps. I thought perhaps they were going a bit far with their kindness, but appreciated the fact that at least they hadn’t shunned our presence in the community as everyone else seemed to be doing.

      In the apartment, I went straight to the shower, having worked up an unpleasant sweat with my frustrating police encounter. I turned the water to as hot as I could stand and enjoyed the sensation of the heat on my shoulders and neck. I lathered my hair with shampoo and breathed in the whorls of steam to help ease the tightness in my lungs. I immediately felt better, and knew it wouldn’t be long before I was back to my regular pace and running distances.

      I made a mental note to be extra affectionate with Simon from now on. I would cook him a favourite meal, offer to give him a massage, try to reconnect where I thought we might have had a misunderstanding about my reactions and decisions regarding Manfred’s attempt to take his life. With summer approaching, I wanted to broach the subject of fixing certain days of the week for marathon training. Tuesday afternoons for a long hill run, Thursdays at the track. If I alternated times, Simon might need to be available to look after the kids after school. I knew he was pleased I had formed a long-term goal to keep me occupied during his long working weeks, so thought he would comply.

      I stepped out of the shower, towelling my hair. Squeaking a space clear on the fogged-up mirror, I pulled my fingers through damp locks. As I wrapped the towel round my torso, I heard the familiar creak of wood on the fourth stair and figured the boys must be home, or perhaps Simon, to surprise me for lunch. I smiled in anticipation of a complaint about the muggy bathroom, and threw open the door.

      Steam swirled out after me as I walked barefoot into the hall and stood silently with my head on one side.

      ‘Simon?’ I called. ‘Are you home?’ Silence. ‘Leon, Oli?’

      I shrugged, figuring I must have been mistaken, and headed to the bedroom to open the window where condensation was blurring the glass from my shower. As I opened the wardrobe to pull out a pair of jeans, I heard the latch click on the door downstairs.

      ‘Simon?’ I called again, and looked over the banister to the empty hall. I must have left the door ajar, the breeze from the open bedroom window pushing it firmly closed.