And then there was Ivan. The man had slightly Mongolian features and looked like he could have come from Russia, which was why Nik had decided to call him Ivan. He was always at The Palace with an older man who sat in the separate VIP lounge talking to numerous people. Going by the older man’s body language, some of them were friends, some fleeting acquaintances and others were strictly business associates. Ivan stayed near him almost all the time, apart from when he was occasionally sent away by the older man. Ivan was the classic bodyguard. He was clearly interested in Viola but he also acted in a pushy, almost vulgar, manner with lots of other women in the club as well. Viola was just one of many.
Nik focused on the night of Viola’s disappearance. Nothing seemed strange. The club was full as per usual and it was mostly the regular crowd. Viola was going about her work as normal. And then Nik saw something. It was just before 1.00 a.m. on 23 October. Viola had dried a chrome cocktail shaker and handed it to Finn when she stopped dead in her tracks. Her mouth was open slightly and she stared straight ahead with a mixture of fear and astonishment. The dishcloth she was using fell to the floor and she started walking backwards away from the bar, her eyes still fixed on whoever it was that had given her such a fright. She was moving towards the stairs that led to Weise’s office and the back door. Nik tried to see what she was looking at but there was nothing inside the shot. Seconds later, she raced up the stairs and vanished. Nik wished he’d seen someone follow her, but nobody used that door again until the club closed. The person who’d scared her hadn’t run after her.
‘It had to be a weekend, didn’t it!’ mumbled Nik. If Viola had gone missing on a Wednesday, he would have had half as many customers to look through. He was going to be there all night, taking stills of each and every customer in the hope of finding somebody suspicious.
Six hours later he’d collected over four hundred photos and still hadn’t got through everybody entering the club. The ringing of his phone jolted him out of his state of concentration and he looked around for a moment, bewildered, before remembering where he was. He noticed his extreme hunger pangs and realised he desperately needed to go to the toilet. He looked at his phone. There was only one person who’d be calling from a private number.
‘It’s not looking good,’ said Nik.
‘What d’you mean?’ Jon replied.
‘The footage is useless.’
‘I thought you had the footage of the day Viola went missing? There has to be something.’
‘Viola saw something from behind the bar, got really scared and ran. She was a confident woman and not easily shaken but whoever she saw made her nervous.’
‘Can you see who it was?’
‘Nope, wrong camera angle. The only thing to do is take a still of every person entering the club.’
‘Jeez, how many is that?’
‘Over four hundred.’
‘Any familiar faces turned up yet?’
‘Nobody,’ replied Nik. ‘No Beate Cüpper, no Tilo and no friends of hers that I’m aware of.’
‘So what good are the recordings then?’
‘Pretty much no good right now. And lots of people are keeping their heads down, so I can’t even get a decent shot. The footage will only be useful after we’ve got a suspect we can compare with the stills.’
‘But we don’t have any suspects.’
‘We have to go back to the serial killer theory,’ explained Nik. ‘We still don’t have any link between the victims. We’ve got the fake farewell letters that were really well written. We’ve got nothing on the similarity of the deaths because we don’t even know what happened to Viola. Viola and Kathrin are similar in age and appearance, which fits the serial killer theory. But they are not so incredibly similar that other women wouldn’t also fit the bill.’
‘But the fake letters are a common thread, maybe not with the women but with the perpetrator. What is it that’s still bothering you?’
‘How powerful the perpetrator is,’ explained Nik. ‘He had a high-up CID agent on his side. And a well-known pathologist . . . and a professional handwriting forger. Not the kinds of things you can just pick up down the high street. And he managed to set the perfect trap to get me suspended. What kind of serial killer has that sort of power?’
‘Look at it as an advantage,’ suggested Jon. ‘We’re looking for a very influential person, which means we can rule out regular citizens.’
Nik took a moment to think about the comment. ‘True,’ he said at last.
‘So, d’you know what you want to do next?’
‘Can you still get on the CID network?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then go through all the cases from the last twelve months involving women who look like our victims. I’d set the age group to between eighteen and thirty-five. Slim, dark hair. Concentrate on violent crimes like armed robberies, rape, bodily harm and murder. Oh, and kidnap and attempted kidnap. We can rule out domestic abuse, theft, break-ins, fraud and traffic offences.’ Nik could hear Jon typing. ‘Use a less specific filter for the appearance. We don’t want anyone to slip through the net.’
‘OK,’ said Jon.
‘I’m gonna order something to eat and go through all the people at The Palace, even if it is unlikely to give us a new lead. Give me a call when you’re done. The perpetrator’s bound to hear about my visit to the club owner at some point. And I’m sure he’ll try something else when he does. Very much doubt I’m gonna get away with just a suspension.’
Nik was enjoying an hour of rest when he was woken by his phone ringing. Falling asleep at the desk had been a bad idea for his neck and it cracked as he straightened up to answer.
‘You got something?’ Nik asked, yawning.
‘Uh, maybe,’ Jon answered hesitantly.
‘Why maybe?’
‘I searched the CID database like you said and came across a woman who fits the appearance but other than that has little in common with Viola and Kathrin.’
Nik could hear Jon typing again. ‘Her name’s Olga Rasic. A prostitute who went missing. It was a social worker, Corinna Drung, who reported it. I’ve sent the files to your private email address.’
Nik opened up Jon’s email and the attachment. He looked at the photo. Aside from the fact that Olga looked Eastern European, her age, face shape and hair were very similar to Viola and Kathrin’s. She wore a lot of make-up and a tight leather top which clung to her chest. She looked blankly into the camera, as if she didn’t care that she was about to be chucked in jail. It was probably better than going back to work on the streets.
‘She was picked up a number of times for illegal prostitution at the main station and down on Schillerstraße. According to her file, she wasn’t registered to work in Germany, so chances are she came over here after being promised the world and then never got away.’
‘OK, so she moved in different circles to Viola and Kathrin.’
‘Olga’s disappearance was reported on 25 February 2016,’ Jon went on. ‘According to the social worker, her flatmates hadn’t seen her for two days. She just never came back to the flat after work one morning. So Drung went to the police.’
‘OK, so she went missing at night between the 22nd and 23rd of February.’
‘Nobody noticed anything, which is pretty normal for that scene. There’s no description of possible customers, no registration number or any other kind of clue.’
‘I’ve already looked through the missing persons database,’ said Nik. ‘There have been no unidentified bodies in the last twelve months who match her. Olga’s either still alive or her body hasn’t been found yet.’
‘Well, she couldn’t have met our perpetrator at The Palace, because at that time it was closed for refurbishment.’
‘OK. And I can’t imagine she’d have gone to the same gym as Kathrin, so that’s unlikely to be the common thread between them either.’
‘And . . . nobody ever got a farewell letter from her. She’s still registered missing. So ma
ybe her disappearance has nothing to do with our perpetrator.’
‘What’ve you got on this social worker?’
‘Corinna Drung used to be a prostitute herself. She now supports prostitutes who are working illegally and have no health insurance. I found over twenty entries for her where she’d reported men for either bodily harm or people trafficking. Olga’s disappearance was an exception. D’you want to speak to her?’ asked Jon.
‘No use,’ replied Nik. ‘Drung probably looks out for hundreds of women and wouldn’t have anything on Olga’s customers. I need to speak to the other prostitutes. Have you got Olga’s address?’
‘A flat in Schillerstraße, not far from the main station. Looks horrible.’
‘It is,’ agreed Nik. ‘There’s this dilapidated block where the girls are shacked up four or five to a room that’s not even big enough for one person. I’ll head over tomorrow around noon.’
‘The pimps aren’t gonna be happy to see you, you know?’
‘Let me worry about that,’ said Nik. ‘A little bit of physical activity always helps clear my mind.’
The courtyard was just as dingy as the last time Nik had been there. The few bits of wall that weren’t crumbling had been covered in graffiti and there were random metal rods lying around on the ground. Water was leaking out of a broken gutter from above and a thick mixture of mould and moss had started to grow where it hit the ground. The building was five storeys high and let barely any light into the narrow courtyard, and the small balconies hanging off the flats made it feel even more claustrophobic. There was a disgusting, heavy smell in the air which clung to every corner like a sticky fog. It was a mixture of rotting rubbish from the overflowing bins and cooking fat that had been used far too often.
The only improvement since last time was the lack of a dead body lying on the ground. When Nik had been there two years ago, a young prostitute with a shattered skull was lying in the middle of the courtyard, clearly too far away from the building for it to have been an accident. She had also had a swollen eye and burst lip from being beaten up not that long before. The other prostitutes in the building had been far too scared to say anything and her pimp gave some blabbering speech about suicide. So the case was declared as just that.
Nik had never managed to get Kevin Otte’s contemptuous grin out of his head. It was a mixture of contempt for the police and smugness because he knew he was going to get away with everything. As if his thoughts had conjured him from thin air, the very man appeared from a small door and walked straight over to Nik. He looked exactly the same. The tattoos of the devil on his shaved head and the word ‘hate’ on his knuckles only riled Nik even more. The man was scum. Otte’s strong, muscular body was clearly outlined beneath his black jacket and he obviously had metal caps on the tips of his combat boots. Just like the last time, he stank of sweat: a musty, filthy smell, which perfectly matched his torn, stained jeans.
‘Hey, dickhead!’ the pimp said, chewing on something. It looked like Nik had interrupted his dinner. ‘You’re on private property, so fuck off!’
‘Kevin!’ said Nik, like he’d just seen an old friend. He showed him his fake badge. ‘You’ve got even less teeth than the last time we met. Get smacked in the face again or just bad dental hygiene?’
The thug looked confused for a second as he tried to work out how he knew Nik. Then it finally clicked.
‘What d’you want, you prick?’ Otte asked.
‘Your mother never teach you any manners? Swearing at a police officer, I don’t know.’
‘Fuck you! Tell me why you’re here or I’ll smash your face in.’
‘I want to talk to some prostitutes. Prostitutes who knew Olga Rasic.’
‘Aren’t any prostitutes here,’ Otte continued. ‘Just decent women who hired me to protect them from dickheads like you.’ He pointed to the courtyard entrance. ‘Go!’
‘How about I make a suggestion? We fight on it.’ Nik pointed to his clenched right fist. ‘If I win, I’ll walk around and speak to the decent women. And if you win, I’ll disappear and never come back.’
‘You really think I’m stupid enough to fight a copper?’
‘Oh no. I think you’re much more stupid than that. But how about I make it easy for you?’ Nik threw his badge over his head behind him and took off his jacket. ‘See, now I’m not a copper.’
Otte grinned and threw a left-handed cross as hard as he could. Nik managed to bend back a bit, but he still got hit hard in the face.
‘Not bad,’ said Nik, spitting out the blood that had run down from his nose into his mouth. Otte didn’t stop – he cracked Nik on the chin and rammed his fist into his stomach twice. He pushed Nik backwards, then piled in with a second round. Nik protected his head with his arms and doubled his body over, trying to dodge to one side. But Otte followed and threw a punch so hard, it emptied Nik’s lungs. He fell to his knees, gasping for breath.
‘What the fuck?’ Otte cried. ‘Is this a fight or d’you want the shit kicked out of you?’
Nik hummed a tune.
‘What the hell is this?’
‘It’s no wonder a dipshit like you likes the Nine Inch Nails.’ Nik sprang to his feet, threw a tidy punch to Otte’s face, dodged quickly out of the way and hooked him hard in the ribs.
‘I just needed a bit of a thrashing so I could see things clearly again,’ Nik said as Otte winced back at him. ‘I prefer it to yoga, even if it does have a few painful side effects.’ Now it was time for Nik’s second round. He used exactly the same sequence. ‘Plus, I used the opportunity to study you.’ Otte bawled from the double blows and stumbled backwards. ‘You almost always hit with the left and you kept your right arm locked in tight . . . like you were trying to protect something. In your case, a broken rib.’
‘Wanker!’ Otte screamed. For a moment, his rage erased any pain and he started to swing his arm. But Nik ducked down quickly and on his way back up, kneed Otte powerfully between the legs.
‘And the way you pull your arm back before you punch. Looks like you’re on the phone, mate.’ Nik shook his head as Otte fell to the ground, groaning. ‘Thanks for that. Always good to know where the punch is coming from. Gives me time to get out of the way. And that hook! The way your hip always buckles so I know which punch is coming before you even raise a fist.’ Nik stood directly in front of Otte. ‘Now, if you did any training, you’d admit defeat and give me a tour, but unfortunately you’re just a piece-of-shit pimp, so I’ll need to meet the women myself.’ He rammed his knee into Otte’s chin and watched his bald head bouncing unconscious on the floor.
Nik pulled a knife and a knuckleduster from Otte’s jacket and tied him up with his leather jacket. It turned out they’d attracted quite an audience. Nik lifted his head to see a group of young women moving away from the window and curtains falling back into place. He rubbed his knuckles, trying to soothe the pain and went in the door Otte had come out of. He entered a small, rotten kitchen where the smell of old cooking oil almost choked him. He washed the blood from his face at a filthy metal sink that had turned brown. He was going to look pretty broken for the next couple of days but that would actually be an advantage for what he was planning. Fear was an ally if you knew how to use it. His show in the courtyard had fulfilled its purpose.
He went up the creaking staircase, taking his time. He heard women whispering in another language. They sounded scared, almost panicked, but as he got to the first floor they went silent. Nik opened the door on the right-hand side of the corridor. The room was just as dirty and decaying as the outside of the building. The wallpaper was torn and stained. Cables were exposed on the walls and the only light came from a grimy light bulb in the centre of the ceiling. There were three girls to the one old and worn-out sofa bed, and other than a mirror on the wall, the room was bare: no furniture, no pictures, no ornaments. Not even an old TV.
The air was damp and warm. Condensation dripped heavily down the window in the corner and a layer of mould grew around the
frame. The three women were standing against the wall on the right side of the room, none of them showing an inch of fear. They just stood there looking down at the ground. You could tell from their body language that they’d all been hurt so badly they were immune to the threat of violence. Any hope they might once have had of getting out of the hell they’d landed in was well and truly gone. Nik would have loved to get the women out of there: find them a decent flat, get them out of the sex trade, but that wasn’t going to save anybody. In fact, it would do exactly the opposite. Nik knew the way Otte would take his rage out on these girls after being beaten up. But this was his only option.
‘I’m looking for someone who used to know Olga Rasic,’ Nik said immediately. He didn’t try to console the girls and didn’t show his badge. It felt horrible but it would be better for everybody if he just got out of there as quickly as possible. A woman with dyed pink hair and smelling of cheap perfume stepped forward. She had tried to make herself look older by wearing blusher and eyeliner but Nik could still make out the smooth, teenage facial features. She was a pretty girl but any sense of youth was gone. No sparkle in her eye, no smile. And she’d applied much more concealer to her right eye. Probably to cover up a bruise. She wore a baggy, stretched jumper that fell over her hips, as if she was trying to conceal anything alluring about her body.
‘I knew Olga,’ she said with a Russian accent.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Roswitha.’
Nik waved her over to the hallway and closed the door behind them. ‘What happened to Olga?’ He spoke quietly. He didn’t want the others to hear what she said.
‘One day, she just never came home,’ said Roswitha without any emotion. ‘Like lots of us.’
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