The next morning the detectives came back, this time looking serious. The fat one settled himself in his usual corner, while the other remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Are you Margaret Elizabeth Hillcoat?” he said, his accent heavy but his English perfect.
I was shocked to hear that name again, to recall my surname. But before I had time to answer, there were shouts from the other side of the door, raised German voices, and Ute burst into the room, followed by a nurse who had hold of her coat sleeve. Ute had widened, but it was her. Her eyebrows were still plucked into perfect semicircles, her dark hair still swept back from her face, her lipstick still neat. When she saw me she stopped shouting and the nurse let her go. Her eyes looked me over, compared me with an image I supposed she kept inside her head. I put my hand up to my shaven hair and bandaged ear. I wasn’t sure I would match up.
“Peggy? Mein Gott, Peggy?”
The police officer stood back to let her pass.
“Is it really her?” she asked him in English, as though I weren’t there.
“We have more questions,” he said.
Ute came to me and took my face in her hands, moving it this way and that—examining me like a mother might check her newborn baby. She touched the scar that ran through my eyebrow where the hairs hadn’t grown back. She held my hands in hers, turning them over, tutting at my callouses; at my fingernails, short and cracked; at my red skin—the hands of an old lady. She spread my fingers out against her own and looked up at the detective.
“Peggy always had good strong fingers and a wide span,” she said to him. “I used to think she would make a fine pianist one day.”
It was funny, I thought, that I had never heard her say that about me before. When she turned back to me there were tears in her eyes, but mine remained dry. I was one step away from the action, watching it unfold in front of me, curious to find out what would happen next.
“Are you Margaret Elizabeth Hillcoat?” the detective asked again.
“Of course she is,” Ute snapped. “Do you think I would not know my own daughter?”
“In which case,” he said, “I have to inform you that we have recovered the body of your father in the location you described to my colleague.” He nodded toward the fat man. “Frau Hillcoat”—he used her married name—“has already provided positive identification.”
“Oh, Peggy,” said Ute, sitting beside me on the bed, shuffling me along to make room. “What has happened to you?”
“And Reuben?” I asked the police officer. “Did you find Reuben?”
“We would like you to explain again what happened on the day your father died.”
“Did you find his camp?”
“Ja,” said Ute, “did you find this wild man?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I said. “He isn’t a wild man.”
“We are doing everything we can, Frau Hillcoat, but for the time being we need your daughter to tell us again what happened.”
“Meine Tochter,” Ute said in awe, and stroked my cheek.
“But I’ve told all of it already,” I said.
“Again, please,” said the policeman.
I sighed. “Reuben woke me up, early in the morning.”
“Why was that?” said the policeman, his moustache moving.
“I told you, that was the day my father was going to kill us both.”
Ute put her head in her hands. “Nein, nein,” she said.
“And what happened when Reuben woke you up?”
“We ran away, into the forest, to my nest, my den, and then down the gill and across the forest back to die Hütte. My father was crazy, he was hunting us like we were animals. I didn’t have my shoes, we had to go back to get them. He came in with the knife, he was angry with me for running away. He wanted me to choose—the knife or the spyglass—then he lashed out at me so Reuben hit him, with the axe.”
“Are you certain?” he pressed me.
“I’m certain.” I raised my hand to my ear.
“What happened after that?”
“My father fell down, of course!” I shouted.
Ute put her arm around me and gave my hand a squeeze.
“What happened to the axe and the knife?” The detective’s tone didn’t change: level, calm, infuriating.
“What do you think happened? Do you think Reuben ran around chopping at everything?” I spat out, and looked away toward the window, shaking.
“The cabin had been ransacked by someone.”
I turned back to him, pushing my anger down into my stomach. “That was my father,” I said. “He destroyed everything before Reuben and I returned.”
“Peggy,” he said, pulling up the chair next to my bed and sitting down. “May I call you Peggy?”
I nodded.
“This is very important. Did you touch the axe or the knife after Reuben hit your father?”
“Reuben told me to go back in, to get things to take with me. I left them on the floor; I only took my father’s boots, the spyglass, and my balaclava.”
“So you didn’t touch the knife or the axe?”
“No,” I said.
“We found a bag near the river with some items in it.”
“My rucksack, with my toothbrush and the comb.”
“So you did take something other than the boots and balaclava?”
“Yes. No. I left them by the river.”
“Does she have to answer all these questions right now?” asked Ute. “Surely you can do this another time.”
“It is important.” The detective spoke in German to his colleague. “You said Reuben lived with you and your father in the cabin.”
“No,” I said. “Not in the cabin, in the forest.”
“I thought Reuben’s camp was on the other side of the river—the river you crossed.”
“It was. It is.”
Ute held me tighter and gave the man a hard stare.
“But you lived together in your den?”
“I only meant . . . we spent some time there,” I said, my voice rising again. “We ran there from my father. You can see it for yourselves. I’ll draw you another map.” I turned to the fat man in the corner. “I need more paper and your pen,” I said, making drawing motions with my hand.
The man stood, but he didn’t give me the paper.
“Reuben left his hat there. Reuben left his hat behind.” I knew I was gabbling. “We were running away from my father, for God’s sake. Reuben saved my life!”
“That’s enough!” said Ute. “She needs to rest.”
Both detectives were standing now, and the one who had asked the questions inclined his head toward Ute in agreement.
“I would like to take my daughter home,” said Ute, “to London.” The two men talked together in German, and Ute interrupted them. They appeared to have forgotten that she understood them. They spoke for a few minutes, back and forth, arguing until an agreement seemed to be reached.
“What about Reuben?” I said.
Ute’s arm tightened around me again. “The police will carry on looking. They have agreed you can come home, Peggy, to London.” There was a catch in her voice. “They will telephone us when they know something more.”