“Give me a hardcopy.”
The desk ejected a sheet of paper. She scooped the computer print-out and held it high. It showed the image that had been reflected in the murderer’s upturned blade. It showed Saskia Brandt frowning in concentration.
“I did it.”
Jobanique smiled robotically, as though for the first time in his life. “I’m still listening.”
“Fine,” she said quietly. “This is what I think happened. On Friday evening I did not fly out to Marseilles. I know this because I remember Simon, my boyfriend, throwing a ladle of boiling pasta at my face yesterday morning. It made a burn. The burn, today, has gone. For a burn to heal so quickly is impossible. What is not impossible, even if it is improbable? That I was not burned. If I was not burned, then my memory of being burned by Simon must be false. If that memory is false, then it is likely that all my memories of Marseilles this weekend are false. So I did not fly out to Marseilles. That would certainly fit with subsequent facts. I would suggest that the memories were deliberately implanted. By you.”
Jobanique gestured impatiently. “I’ve got a meeting to attend.”
“The murderer killed Mary, my secretary, the moment my first memory of the trip to Marseilles begins. This fits with the hypothesis that I am the murderer. The surveillance footage shows that Mary was not surprised when the murderer entered. This is also consistent. Mary was killed by a single stab wound below the ear. That, I suppose, is consistent with a female murderer. Again, when the murder tried to move the body she struggled. I would struggle. And the hat; a broad-brimmed fedora. Concealing not only the entire face but – more than most simple disguises such as a handkerchief or scarf – it concealed the sex of the wearer. I had nowhere to hide the hat where my future self couldn’t find it so I shredded it here. When I visited the hat maker he was surprised to see me. He also knew my name without examining my ID. Clearly I had warned him. And, into the mix, we must count the murderer’s knowledge of the computer system in my office. She was permitted entry to the surveillance tapes because, being me, she had clearance. By the same token she was permitted to perform ‘routine maintenance’ on the computer. And…I remember now that the computer failed to recognise my voice following my discovery of the secretary. That fits: that was my first conscious moment after the memory implant. The computer suggested that my voiceprint had been altered by a malicious user. That user was me. My former self. But this is all indirect. The conclusive evidence is the computer’s analysis of the blade. It reflected the face of the murderer. Here she is. It is me.”
Saskia walked around her desk. She had walked further this weekend than she could ever remember. But what, actually, could she remember? “What did you do to me, Jobanique? Who are you?” She picked up Simon’s picture from the floor. “Who is this man?”
“He is nobody. You’ve never met him.”
A shadow fell across her. “But I remember him.”
“So what? I remember Elvis Presley. Down to business. You only have a minute left.”
Saskia sagged. Her world was vanishing, piece by piece, and her mind with it. So what. Why not dance off the edge of the stage? “So. The question must be why. Why did I do it? Perhaps I was hypnotized. Post-hypnotic suggestion would explain both the murder and the false memories. But a moral human being will not commit murder even under hypnosis.”
Jobanique shook his head. “Allow me. Until last week, you were in jail.”
Saskia blinked. She fought with her mind, tried to remember anything. She could not. She had no childhood, no teenage years, no friends...did she even have an apartment? She realised, then, that she did know where it was. Presumably it did not exist. That explained her urge to remain in the office all weekend.
“My brain has been wiped.”
“Yes,” said Jobanique. “On Friday morning I visited you in custody. You were being held in a woman’s prison in Bonn following a fast-track trial. Your murder was thorough and meticulous. It is one of the more unusual aspects of the female criminal. Your premeditation made it very hard for your lawyer. But it makes you very attractive to me. Have you ever heard the expression –” he switched to English – “‘set a thief to catch a thief’?”
She didn’t understand. “What’s that in German?”
“Einen Dieb aussenden, um einen Dieb zu fangen.”
“Explain what you mean.”
“Over the past few years I have recruited members into my organisation who were, shall we say, semi-retired versions of their prey. That is, detectives with a unique –”
“Criminal.”
“Perspective on crime. We have had some problems, of course. ‘Wet’ incidents. In the past six months, however, a particularly interesting liberalisation of the punishment of murder has emerged. It involves a systematic removal of the muderer’s memories and personality. A true ‘brain-wash’. The murderer is rehabilitated. Everybody is happy.”
“What about the families of the victims?”
Jobanique laughed. “For their own sakes, they are seldom informed. In fact there have only been six of these ‘brain wipes’. Two of them are in your office.”
“My secretary, Mary. And me. What did she do?”
“She played her part, nothing more. We can consider her rehabilitated.”
“So I was lucky.”
“Your crimes were more spectacular.” His smile broadened. “You were given the task to solve a murder and you have succeeded. Well done.”
Saskia frowned. She could no longer look into the face of this man. She was...had been...a murderer. Unbelievable. She did not feel like a murderer. But what did murderers feel like? Did they feel evil? Surely she was evil. What crimes had she committed? Why were they spectacular?
“What happens now?”
There was a knock at the door. “Your time is up, Saskia Brandt. It is 9:00 a.m.. With this day your
