Authors: Sebastian Fitzek
‘Please sit down. My husband won’t be long.’
Stern shepherded Simon over to a white leather sofa. Meanwhile, the woman made her way to a small bureau with some drinks and nibbles on it, tittuping rather awkwardly on the soles of her high-heeled shoes.
Puzzled by her peculiar way of walking, Stern thought at first that she was trying not to make a noise. It was only when she was fixing herself a gin and tonic that the penny dropped: she didn’t want her stilettos to mark the freshly waxed parquet. This house was unoccupied. They were in a luxuriously renovated but still unlet show house, nicely furnished but devoid of any personal touches. Surveying the room, Stern could recognize the signs quite clearly: the portable telephone on the desk; the leather-bound volumes neatly arrayed in a half-empty bookcase; the brand-new leather sofa on which only a handful of potential purchasers had hitherto sat while being shown the ground plan of the property by the estate agent. Stern would have bet a fortune on the woman’s husband being the same estate agent who had the Mexikoplatz café on his books.
‘May I offer you something?’
He shook his head. All that he possessed in the way of grey matter was churning around in his skull. It was a perfect set-up. The couple’s method was pathologically brilliant. There was nothing here that a victim could remember later. Nothing of value that couldn’t be replaced if soiled with blood or body fluids. And no one would be surprised if the whole house underwent thorough cleaning before being handed over to its new owners, who would naturally have no inkling of what had gone on in the rooms in which they looked forward to spending a happy future.
It sickened Stern to realize how well the bogus backdrop of this house symbolized the whole situation in which he’d been embroiled for the last few days. Everything seemed so theatrical: Simon’s inexplicable knowledge of murders in the past and his absurd intention of committing one in the future; the voice on the DVD that hinted his son might still be alive; and the obscure paedophile connection between the two dramatic incidents in which he had involuntarily played a leading role.
He gulped a couple of times, assailed by violent heartburn. Watching the boy beside him out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Simon was quite calm, almost relaxed. Unlike Stern himself, Simon didn’t give a start when the living-room door opened and a man came in, his bland face wreathed in smiles. At least sixty years old, he was no longer handsome in the classical sense. Age had thinned his once luxuriant hair at the temples and inscribed a network of fine wrinkles around his mouth, but this only added to his air of almost stately elegance. Despite his unconventional mode of dress.
‘There you are. How nice.’
His voice sounded warm and friendly – thoroughly in keeping with the sympathetic aura he had about him. Eyes fixed on Simon alone, he clapped his hands in appreciation as he slowly drew nearer. The rustle of his dressing gown covered the sound of this subdued applause, which was almost inaudible in any case. His hands were encased in thick latex gloves.
Carina undid her ponytail and pulled off her raspberry-red headband. Borchert had advised her to dress as a jogger. In his opinion there was no better form of camouflage for someone running away from potential pursuers without attracting attention, but the elasticated headband had felt like a steel clamp around her throbbing head.
What’s happened? Why isn’t Borchert answering his phone? Where’s Robert?
Her fears for Simon redoubled with every heartbeat. She waited another minute, then made up her mind. She couldn’t sit there idly any longer.
She turned the key in the ignition.
But where should I drive to?
She put the car into reverse. Her rear tyres hit the kerb with a bump.
No matter
. She was about to pull out of the parking bay when an orange delivery van double-parked just ahead, hemming her in.
What the—
A man got out of the van carrying two pizza cartons the size of wagon wheels. She wound her window down.
‘You! Move it!’ she yelled.
The driver, a young student, gave her an impish grin, clearly amused by the red blotches on her angry face. He blew her a kiss.
‘I’ll only be a minute, darling.’
Carina felt her throat tighten with panic. She remembered Borchert’s instructions before they split up.
Anything goes
, he’d said,
but we mustn’t attract attention
.
So what to do now? The back of the van was obstructing her by a tyre’s width, but that was enough. To the rear her escape route was blocked by a tree with railings round it.
This is impossible …
Carina sounded her horn, but the student merely gave a casual wave without even looking round.
OK. Don’t attract attention
.
She threw the car into reverse, crunching the gears, and it mounted the pavement with both rear wheels. Then she engaged first, removed her foot from the brake, and floored the gas pedal.
‘Hey, hey, hey!’
The Golf crashed into the van’s rear door sideways on.
‘Are you
crazy
?’ she heard the driver yell. He dropped the pizza cartons and stared in horror at his van, which was now jutting into the road. The force of the collision had shattered its rear window.
Yes, I am
, thought Carina, and did it again. The second impact not only reduced her near-side wing to scrap metal but bulldozed the van far enough for her to exit the bay.
‘Hey! Stop!’
She roared off down Argentinische Allee heedless of the yelling delivery man, who was spinning like a top as he looked around for witnesses to this outrageous incident.
Carina knew that her own car had sustained some damage, judging by the sound of the tyre scuffing the wheel arch, but it didn’t stop her from driving even faster.
What had Borchert said?
She sped towards a red light, wondering feverishly which direction to take after the crossing.
Borchert’s words came back to her:
Just passing the petrol station on Potsdamer Chaussee …
Damn it, Andi, there’s a petrol station on every other corner
.
She ignored the red light and turned sharp right. Somehow, heading out of town seemed more logical to her than driving back to the city centre. It was utter nonsense, of course, but she had to make a decision. She only hoped that fate had dealt her a decent hand of cards. For once.
Where’s he got to?
Stern’s anger was focused on Borchert. For some unknown reason he was taking much too long. Five minutes at most, he’d said. Then he would break into the house and overpower the couple. After the intermezzo in Harry’s camper van, Stern felt confident that Borchert would manage to extract the information they needed – provided there was anything of value in the couple’s sick heads. He realized they were clutching at straws, of course. Stern had made up his mind that this operation must be their last, desperate attempt to get at the truth of Simon’s predictions.
And find Felix
.
Afterwards, no matter how things turned out, he would call Engler and turn himself in. He was a lawyer, not a criminal, far less an undercover investigator of the paedophile world, one of whose fully paid-up members was sitting on the sofa beside him, fondling Simon’s knee.
‘How much?’ the man asked blithely, without taking his eyes off the boy. Stern tried to detect something diabolical in his profile, but he still looked like a nice old gentleman whom Stern would unhesitatingly have helped if his car had broken down.
‘We haven’t discussed that yet, my dear.’
The woman was still standing beside the bureau. She gestured to Simon with her glass. ‘But take a good look at the boy. He looks ill to me.’
‘Really?’ The man lifted Simon’s chin. His latex gloves were even paler than the boy’s cheeks.
‘We advertised for clean goods. What’s wrong with him?’
Stern felt like grabbing the man’s hand and breaking his fingers. He wouldn’t be able to control himself for much longer in the couple’s presence. If Borchert didn’t come in soon he would settle matters himself. The old man weighed twenty pounds less than him and would be easy to overpower, and the snake in shades shouldn’t present any problem as long as he retained the element of surprise. He would have to use the standard lamp’s extension lead to tie them up with. The only thing was …
Stern was puzzled when the estate agent removed his latex-sheathed hand from Simon’s knee before he could intervene. Then he heard a faint hum. The vibration became more audible when the paedophile took a wafer-thin mobile phone from the pocket of his dressing gown.
‘I see, thanks,’ he said after some innocent preliminaries. Stern’s heartbeat accelerated. Although he couldn’t hear what was said on the other end of the line, the two parties appeared to be on good terms. The estate agent laughed and expressed his thanks twice more. Then his smile abruptly vanished and he stared at Stern.
‘All clear, I understand,’ he said, and hung up.
The sofa emitted a sigh of relief as he rose and took Simon’s hand.
‘He’s a lawyer,’ he said, turning to his wife. ‘He’s wanted by the police for abducting this child from a hospital.’
‘What is all this nonsense?’ asked Stern, doing his best to sound calm and composed. In reality, his pulse was racing with fear. His heart beat all the faster when the woman pointed a gun at him.
‘Take that thing out of my face,’ he demanded. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I could ask you the same thing, Herr Stern. What game are you playing?’
‘No game. I came here to—’ Stern broke off. The man was still holding Simon’s hand.
‘While you’re talking business, my dear,’ he purred, ‘we’ll go upstairs, shall we?’ He blew his wife a kiss.
‘Robert?’ Simon said timidly as the man pulled him to his feet.
Stern started to rise, but the woman jerked the gun at him. He blinked and shut his eyes for a moment, trying to collect the thoughts whirling so ineffectually around in his head.
What shall I do? Where’s Borchert? What the hell shall I do?
The handsome old monster holding the boy’s hand was a few steps from the door, and he had no idea how to stop them leaving the room.
‘Robert?’ Simon said again softly. He might have been asking permission to spend the night at a schoolfriend’s. He was still totally confident that his ‘lawyer’ would not put him in jeopardy. After all, Stern had promised to clear things up and protect him from any kind of danger. Whatever happened.
Besides, the boy still firmly believed he was destined to kill someone on a bridge tomorrow morning. That being so, nothing could happen to him here and now.
Stern sensed Simon’s train of thought, so he knew what would happen if he didn’t intervene at once.
He had perhaps five seconds left before the brute to whose mercies he’d consigned the boy walked out and took him to his darkroom on another floor.
Stern was wrong. They disappeared after only four seconds.
A speed camera caught her doing ninety kph past the cemetery. She didn’t even notice, but she took her foot off the gas even so. The traffic was suddenly slowing.
What’s happening up ahead?
All at once, on a level with Dreilinden, the cars ahead of her were pulling over into the right-hand lane.
A tailback? At this hour?
If anywhere, it should have been on the opposite carriageway, where Berliners out for a day’s drive in the country were now heading home.
She pulled over likewise and slowed down. Then she spotted the trouble. A police car was occupying the fast lane in front of the lights before the intersection.
Oh no, please no
.
Why did there have to be a police roadblock now of all times?
She neared the flashing blue light and looked for a traffic cop flagging cars down at the side of the road. But there was no one and the traffic was flowing surprisingly smoothly. Most of it turned off right towards the station so as not to—
Oh no …
Tears sprang to Carina’s eyes. She took both hands off the wheel and clasped her mouth. Stationary beyond the patrol car was a small silver saloon the hazard lights of which were working on one side only. Borchert was nowhere to be seen, but there was no doubt who owned the Corolla.
Andi must have broken down. Oh my God …
Carina was slow to grasp the full implications. For a few seconds her mind refused to accept the truth. This was no police checkpoint. She wasn’t being flagged down or arrested. Something far worse was happening. Now. At this very moment. To Simon. At a place known only to Robert Stern, who was relying on help that would never arrive.
And now? What now?
Carina could only think in fragmentary sentences. She drove slowly past the Corolla and across the intersection in a stream of traffic, searching for a clue as to where Stern and Simon had been taken. Looking in her rear-view mirror, she saw two sturdy traffic cops start pushing Sophie’s car off the road.
All at once a thought struck her. She turned and looked back.
The direction of travel
.
The car was pointing straight on. Towards Potsdam. It wasn’t much to go on, but still. Once past the intersection Carina speeded up, spurred on by the thought that so far she hadn’t made a mistake. She was driving along the right road in the right direction. That irrational hope buoyed her, but for only some two hundred metres.
And now?
She shot past the turning to Grosser Wannsee without knowing whether she’d lost the trail.
‘Abducted from a hospital? What’s the matter with the poor little mite?’
The cynical creature sounded like a worried aunt as she continued to hold Stern in check with the gun. ‘I trust it’s nothing infectious?’
Stern was still staring at the doorway through which Simon and the old pervert had just disappeared. He was incapable of replying and reluctant even to breathe. The thought of inhaling the same air as this woman – of sharing what had previously issued from her mouth and nose – was utterly repugnant to him.