"It's always nice in Flensburg," says my husband, holding his face up to the sun. "And wasn't that another lovely crossing?" I can only confirm that to a limited extent. Once again, the "old lady" was lying so crooked that I thought, that's it, we're going to die. And my husband is standing calmly at the front without a lifejacket in what feels like a force eight wind, fiddling with lines that I don't think are necessary anyway. But the main thing is no lifejacket, because you're the great Zampano who doesn't mind the raging sea. And of course I've "once again made a fool of myself, that alone is enough to make my head spin. Are you actually trying to kill me, is that what you want?"
But I'm not going to take this lying down: "And I wonder if you actually want me to collapse from fear," I shoot back, because I'm really starting to get fed up with his constant refusal to be safe. It's the same thing over and over again. But what really horrified me recently was the fact that in a dream - really only in a dream - I imagined him going overboard at an extreme angle, waving both arms and shouting "Now I'm never going to get the pump again!". Luckily, I woke up and was relieved to realise that he was lying next to me, breathing properly. I blamed myself for dreaming something like that and felt guilty, so I decided to be gentler with him. But unfortunately that only works to a limited extent. "Sometimes I'd really like to get you round the corner!" I say angrily. He just waves me off.
Conversation on the neighbouring boat
After this unpleasant crossing - at least it was sunny - we have now moored in Flensburg's city harbour. A boat with two women our age moored next to us, who greeted us politely and thanked us for taking their lines. My husband looks happy: no dog, no screaming children. Perfect boat neighbours in his opinion. As it's getting warmer, we don't go to the cake stand. I leaf through a magazine, my husband splices something and then fiddles with the Bunsen burner. The afternoon is really quiet and lovely. The two friendly women have gone for a walk, then apparently to the bakery and are now sitting in the cockpit with coffee and cake. While I read something about some crown princess, I listen with one ear to the conversation on the neighbouring boat. Unfortunately, I can never not listen.
"Something has to happen now, it can't go on like this," says the blonde of the two, looking at the brunette. "I have to find a solution." The other nods. "I understand you so well. We have to approach this carefully. You can't afford to make a mistake, people aren't stupid." The blonde nods: "Yes, I know that too. But he has to go. I've already thought about a divorce, but that's not possible for various reasons. If only because of the life insurance." She sighs. The other one moves a little closer to her and speaks so quietly that I have to prick up my ears: "It absolutely mustn't look like a suicide. They'll find out in forensics."
A murder is planned
My husband, who has also become perceptive, has stopped splicing. We sit there motionless and listen with huge ears. "You could just ..."
"Ah, ouch!" exclaims my husband, who has burnt off half his fingertip with the Bunsen burner. Now of all times! I don't help, I don't care. It's much more important that I continue to see what's going on on the neighbouring ship! And now I've missed the rest of the sentence. Just because of a fingertip. He's lucky he's still alive, if you ask me.
"Ow, ow!" My husband raises his bad finger accusingly like E. T. the alien, while the women next door continue to talk quietly. When he shouts "Phone home" and I don't hear anything else from the neighbouring boat, I push him below deck. He sees the look on my face and falls silent, suffering.
"Do you think so?" asks the blonde. "The important thing is that he doesn't have any bruises," says her counterpart seriously. "The most practical thing would be to scare him or something and he falls into the sea by himself." - "And then what? They always wear life jackets. What if he gets picked up and tells his rescuers that I just left him in the sea?" - "Well, firstly, there are still a few opinionated gits who don't wear a lifejacket, that's understandable. And what's more, you might have forgotten your waistcoat at home or it might have suddenly broken down - we'll think of something."
My husband stares at me, then blows his bad finger back to health. No, I'm not singing "Heal, heal little goose, you'll be fine." Murder plans continue to be forged in the next room. "You think so?" the blonde asks again. The brunette nods. "How many suicides do you think really take place on cruise ships? And how many murders there actually are?" - "I have no idea. But we're not on a cruise ship, we're on a normal sailing boat."
"There are still those dorks who don't wear a waistcoat. The important thing is that it looks like an accident!"
"It must be ensured that nothing abnormal is found during an autopsy. Believe me, there ..." A ship motors past, I could strangle the owner. My husband nervously drums his healthy fingers on the cockpit table. "... as you can see on Instagram. Take a look at the videos of Dr Tsokos, the head of the Charité hospital in Berlin, nothing goes unnoticed."
"Okay." The blonde nods. "I've just thought of something else. That could work really well: I steer wrong, the tree bangs around, in his face, and then I help a bit if he doesn't go overboard straight away." - "That's good, it could work. Great idea, Mo. But then drive on quickly. You mustn't forget to take the sails down and start the engine. You have to try to help him, you know?" They laugh.
Now only the police can help
My husband is now white in the face. And I certainly am too. A murder is being planned and we're right in the middle of it. I'm stunned and shake my head in the direction of the companionway. We need to discuss how to deal with the situation. He just stares at me. "Get down," I say silently. "Huh? I'm not going below deck now!" Of course the two women heard me. If they keep their voices down now, I won't hear a thing. I could hit him. "Now I've got a few options," says the blonde, whose name is Mo, with satisfaction. "It's always good when someone thinks things through with you." Yes, that's good. It's even better when it doesn't happen at all.
I go below deck, pick up my mobile phone and dial 110. "What?" the officer who arrives shortly afterwards asks me. "A murder is being planned? By these ladies?" Together with his colleague, he points to the neighbouring boat, where the two women are sitting and are curious to see what's suddenly going on. "Greetings, Mrs Rosenbrook." The other policeman is in awe. He knows her? He knows a murderess! "Don't you know that's Molly Rosenbrook?" he asks us incredulously. "Probably the most famous crime writer in Germany, Molly Rosenbrook, who has decided to live and sail here in our beautiful city and write her bestsellers in everyone's honour!"
Oh. That's a thing. 'No, I don't know her,' I feel almost uncomfortable. Hello," says Molly. 'Berit and I are just thinking up new murder variants. Berit works for the police and always helps me out. She also knows a lot of forensic experts." - "Oh. Hello."
"Well, no offence." The policemen say goodbye. I smile at the women, almost disappointed. "We didn't want to scare you," Berit then laughs. "Why don't you come over for a coffee?"
My husband gets up and opens the forecastle. Then he holds his lifejacket in his hand and looks at me almost suspiciously. "I'd better keep them waiting. You hear so much. And you never know what might happen." Yes, he's right.
