They Thought I Was Dead: Sandy’s Story

106 March 2018

It was four months since my accident, Stationsschwester Frau Fekete told me — as I had no sense of time at all — when I re-entered Planet Earth in some small capacity as a sentient human being. Almost every part of my body hurt and I had only limited mobility without excruciating pain — despite being attached by a cannula to a morphine drip, among other drip lines plumbed into me.

There’s a word in German that I particularly like. I like the way it sounds and I like what it means. Gemütlich.

It translates as ‘pleasant’, but actually it means so much more than that. I don’t think there’s a word in the English language that adequately conveys the feelgood factor of the word.

That’s what it felt as I stared up at a man in scrubs, with warm brown eyes that seemed almost to be dancing. The badge on his lapel read Dr Stockerl.

‘I think you are back with us now, Sandy,’ he said in English with a strong accent. ‘Would you prefer I speak in English or German?’

‘Either. Maybe English, bitte?’

I was on a bit of a morphine high at the moment and I smiled at him and wanted so much to tell him just how gemütlich he was. But then he talked me through all the injuries I had sustained in the accident, and suddenly he seemed so serious. He delivered a litany of bad news about my condition.

And suddenly he wasn’t at all gemütlich any more.

When he had finished dispensing all the gloom and doom I thought it was possible to hear, he added further to it. ‘Munich Police are very anxious to speak to you about your accident. Do you feel up to talking to them?’

I didn’t feel at all up to speaking to anyone after the information dump I’d just had. But I was curious. My memory had returned — at least some of it — and I was thinking back to the last time I’d spoken to Munich Police — soon after I had arrived at the schloss. How many years ago? Six, seven?

With a stab of alarm I wondered: was there news of Nicos after all this time?

I didn’t have to wait long. Soon after, Stationsschwester Frau Fekete came into my room with a tall, rather fine-looking and confident man in a green tunic. It took a moment before I placed him. He looked a little older and his black hair was now shot through with silver flecks. He also looked a little stiff.

‘Guten Morgen, Frau Lohmann, ich bin Kriminalhauptkommissar Steinmetz. Erinnern Sie sich, dass wir uns vor einigen Jahren kennengelernt haben?’

I replied to him in English, because the German translation software in my head wasn’t working that great. ‘I remember, we met some years ago. You were just a humble Kriminalkommissar then.’

He softened a fraction. ‘You remember.’

I looked directly back at him. ‘I think most people would probably remember when they were detained. Particularly if it was the only time in their life.’

He looked as if he wasn’t sure whether to frown or smile. Instead he did neither, he just looked serious. ‘Frau Lohmann, I am in charge of the investigation into your accident, and I would like to ask you some questions, if you are feeling strong enough?’

‘I’ll try. But I don’t really remember anything — only what I’ve been told.’

‘According to eyewitnesses, you were struck by a Mercedes taxi as you attempted to cross Widermayerstrasse. But what the four witnesses we have interviewed have each said is that this vehicle appeared to deliberately drive at you. There were not any tyre marks on the road to indicate it had braked, and three of these witnesses have said they heard the roar of its engine, as if it was accelerating.’

I thought about this for some moments. ‘I was standing near to the traffic lights, and I was confused, I remember, about how the English drive on one side of the road and Germans on the other.’

Steinmetz nodded. ‘Yes, and this may be the simple answer. But there are two things that are concerning to us. The first is that the taxi did not stop — of course the driver could have been drinking and was scared he would lose his licence. Unfortunately no one got his registration number. But the second is that a motorcyclist, seconds after, stopped, grabbed your handbag and rode off. One of the witnesses did manage to write down his licence plate — and it turned out to be false.’

He looked down at me as if waiting for me to provide an answer. But I didn’t have one.

‘What are you actually saying?’ I asked him.

‘What I need to ask you, Frau Lohmann, is do you think you might have any enemy?’ He gave me a long, penetrating and knowing look.

‘Are you referring to Nicos — my former partner?’

He continued looking at me, as if he was convinced I was hiding something. ‘It is possible, Frau Lohmann, that this was just an unfortunate accident, and this motorcyclist was a criminal opportunist. We do not have enough evidence to suggest for sure you were targeted, but, bearing in mind your past association with a former criminal who went missing, this is something we cannot rule out. Perhaps you could think hard if there is anyone who might have — what do you call it in English? — a grudge against you, and let me know. I will leave you my card.’

I thanked him. But the way I was feeling after all the bad news Dr Stockerl had delivered, I didn’t care if anyone did have a grudge. If they wanted to kill me, I would embrace them with open arms for taking me away from the life I was left with.