Nik closed his eyes and suppressed a sigh. He might not work in vice but he knew all too well how these women lived. They were a commodity. And when they couldn’t work anymore, they’d be shifted out. Some would be sold, with the lucky ones ending up in a brothel, while the not so lucky ones might find themselves with some sick punter who’d live out his sadistic fantasies before getting rid of the dead body.
‘Did you notice anything strange about that day?’
Roswitha shook her head. ‘We were near the main station. I had a customer who’d paid me for the whole night, so I never saw who Olga drove away with. And then she wasn’t there when I got back. The pimps looked for her the next day but never found her.’
‘Did any of the other girls see anything?’
‘No. It was too long ago,’ she replied. ‘All the ones who knew Olga are gone.’ Roswitha lowered her gaze. Nik recognised the dark place the girl was in and paused for a moment.
‘Did she maybe run off or hide somewhere?’
‘Olga didn’t have the nerve for something like that. She wouldn’t have done it even if she’d had the chance. She would’ve preferred to die in this prison than go it alone out there,’ explained the girl. ‘And the pimps had her passport anyway. They told her if she ever got in any trouble, they’d go to her family in her home country.’
‘What can you tell me about Olga?’
‘She came from a small village where it was impossible to live a decent life. She dreamed of becoming a model and made her way to Prague, but then the agency turned out to be a sham. A day later she woke up in a freight container on the way to Munich. She’d been pumped full of drugs, abused and robbed of everything. Her money, her passport and her phone. She tried to defend herself to begin with but it didn’t last long and the next day, she had her first punter.’
‘Where did she work?’
‘We were mostly at the main station or here in Schillerstraße. Sometimes we got special jobs.’
‘Special how?’
‘As escorts for businessmen or hostesses at parties.’
‘Did Olga get more special work than other girls? Did she have a sugar daddy?’
‘No, nothing like that.’
‘So which jobs did Olga get?’
‘Two nights at the opening of a strip club in Schillerstraße. Then a New Year’s party at some sports agent’s house. Luckily enough there were so many drugs at that party that most of the guests were out of it.’ She closed her eyes. ‘And the last one was an expensive rehab clinic for addicts. The patients were allowed visits from women every two weeks.’
‘What was the sports agent called?’ asked Nik. ‘And do you know the name of the clinic?’
‘We never got any names or knew where we were being taken,’ said Roswitha. ‘We were packed in the back of a van with no windows. I know the sports agent didn’t live far from here but the clinic was out of town. We were on the road for about half an hour. Absolute agony in a van with no seats or cushions. It was out in some wood with no other houses nearby.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘It was all so long ago. I can only just remember Olga.’
Nik sighed. None of this was very informative. A sports agent might show up in the photos from The Palace but even then it would still be difficult to link him to Viola and Kathrin.
‘Thank you,’ said Nik with a smile, and without another word, he turned around and went downstairs. He knew he couldn’t change the world or save the women but he still felt guilty as he left the courtyard.
Sara looked down at the pool of blood on the filthy courtyard ground, her arms crossed. She had a pretty good idea of how the fight had gone. Her blonde ponytail fell past her right shoulder and over her large breasts, which pressed against her black jacket. Her glowing skin and blue eyes would have been more fitting on a Swedish runner but then her big nose and sickly yellow teeth, stained from all the cigarettes and coffee, ruined that image. A large man in a black jacket was waiting beside her. He stood in a military position with his hands crossed behind his back. His figure was impressive. Two feet taller than the woman, with wide shoulders and enormous arms. His black hair was short and he had a well-groomed goatee which hid his small lips. The only thing ruining his stylish businessman look was the scar that ran from his left eyebrow over to his ear. He was looking at Kevin Otte, who was holding an ice-pack to his chin and shifting nervously from side to side. He kept his gaze on the woman, not daring to speak or move from the spot.
Finally, Sara lifted her head.
‘I’ll keep this short,’ she began with a direct voice. ‘Was this the man who beat you up?’ She held up a photo and showed it to Otte.
‘That’s the wanker,’ he confirmed.
‘Nik Pohl. CID officer until not that long ago.’ She put the picture back in her pocket.
‘Give me that fucker’s address and I’ll put his lights out.’
‘We’ll deal with him.’
‘Then I’m coming with you. Nobody beats me up and . . .’
In one fast move Sara grabbed an extendable baton from her jacket and before it was fully extended, hit Otte in the face with it. He hadn’t been expecting the blow. His nose broke and blood streamed on to his shirt. He groaned loudly and fell to the ground.
‘I don’t like saying things twice.’ Her voice was quiet as she pushed the baton together and slipped it back in her pocket. ‘You had your chance and you obviously blew it.’ She pointed to the bloodstains on the ground. The large man stepped behind him. Otte screamed as his arm was twisted sharply behind his back. But his screams were cut off abruptly as the man’s foot stamped on his head and stayed there, pinning him to the ground.
‘So . . . you’ll forget the name Nik Pohl,’ she ordered. ‘You won’t look for him, you won’t ask anyone for him, and if you run into him on the street, you’ll turn around and run away.’
‘OK, OK,’ moaned Otte.
The man with the scar tightened his grip around Otte’s arm further just to make sure he got the message. When he was satisfied, he let go and moved to stand beside the woman again.
‘And now fetch the whore Pohl was speaking to.’
It wasn’t easy getting up. Blood dripped from his nose and he was holding his injured arm. Finally back on his legs, he staggered inside the building. A minute later, he was coming out again, pulling a girl behind him by the hair. He walked so fast the girl could barely keep up. Her cheek was swollen and her jumper was badly torn. Her eyeliner had run down her face and her eyes were bloodshot. When Otte was two metres in front of Sara, he gave a last tug on the girl’s hair, throwing her to the ground.
Sara shook her head at Otte as if to show her disapproval of such violent behaviour. She looked at him and quickly signalled towards the door with her head. It was time for him to leave. He clenched his fists and looked at her for a moment in disbelief. Maybe he didn’t like being sent away or maybe he had something to say, but in the end he turned around silently and went back inside.
The large man lifted the girl to her feet and straightened out her jumper.
‘What’s your name?’ Sara asked.
‘Roswitha,’ the girl replied quietly.
‘Did you speak to this man?’ She pulled out the photo again and showed it to her.
Roswitha nodded. ‘Who is he?’ she asked.
‘What did he want to know?’ asked Sara, ignoring her question.
‘He asked about Olga.’
‘Olga Rasic?’
‘Yes.’
Sara pressed her lips together and looked at the man. He looked worried for a second.
‘What’s happened to Olga?’ asked Roswitha. ‘Is she OK? Do you know . . .’
Sara shot her hand forward and grabbed Roswitha by the throat.
‘You’re here to answer questions. Not ask them. You’ve already caused enough trouble by speaking to Nik fucking Pohl.’
‘But you should’ve seen him,’ she replied, wheezing through the grip. ‘How he beat up Kevin and threw him on
the ground. What was I supposed to do?’
‘Not say anything! You fuck him or you jump out the fucking window . . . but you don’t say a fucking thing. Not about Olga, not about anything,’ answered Sara, letting her go.
‘She’s been gone so long, I hardly know anything about her anyway,’ she said, trying to defend herself.
‘Well, we’ll soon find out if that’s the case.’ Sara watched a snowflake as it fluttered to the ground and started to melt. ‘But we can discuss this inside that shithole you call home.’ She nodded towards the kitchen. ‘Air the room and make some coffee. We’ll be there in a minute.’
While Roswitha walked inside, her head hung low, Sara turned to the man beside her. ‘I underestimated Pohl, Zeljko. I thought he’d be out of the picture once he was suspended.’
‘Why’s he doing this?’ Zeljko asked. ‘No one in the CID told him to look at the case and it’s not like he’s got a personal connection.’
‘If Tilo hadn’t messed up, then we wouldn’t have to ask that question.’
‘We should sort this out ourselves.’
‘No. As long as I don’t know the background, it’s too risky,’ explained Sara. ‘Pohl is a disaster. Most people in his situation would have drunk themselves to death. He’s working with someone, and we need to find out who it is.’
‘OK. Then let’s send them both a clear message.’
Sara nodded. ‘But first of all, coffee.’ She signalled with her head towards the kitchen.
‘I’ve never been part of an investigation before,’ said Balthasar. You could hear his agitation over the phone. ‘At least not on the investigator side,’ he added. The pathologist had annoyed Jon with so many messages that in the end, Jon had just asked him to join the conversation. Nik didn’t care. Balthasar was already so involved, he could’ve already blabbered to someone by now.
‘How’d it go with the prostitutes?’ Jon asked.
‘Um . . . refreshing.’ Nik rubbed his swollen nose tenderly. ‘But not very enlightening.’ He went to the fridge and grabbed a beer. ‘I only found one woman who knew Olga. But she never saw who Olga got into a car with that night or who might have abducted her.’ Nik squeezed the telephone between his shoulder and ear and opened up the bottle. ‘She wasn’t sold on, because after she disappeared her pimps went crazy and tried to find her.’
‘Maybe the men finally found Olga and shot her,’ suggested Balthasar.
‘People traffickers like this work with the women’s fears,’ explained Nik. ‘They do kill, but in this case they would’ve beaten her half to death and then shot her in front of the other prostitutes just to show them what happens to someone who doesn’t obey the rules.’
‘What could the woman tell you about Olga?’ asked Jon.
‘She didn’t have a sugar daddy or a regular customer who wanted to save her. She was just a normal prostitute who one day went out to work at the main station and never came home. Her colleague also told me about some special jobs for a sports agent and in a rehab clinic, but she couldn’t tell me any names.’
‘Rehab clinic?’ asked Balthasar.
‘Apparently there are these parties with prostitutes for the patients.’
‘Hmm,’ said Balthasar.
‘Why a rehab clinic?’ asked Jon.
‘Disulfiram,’ replied Balthasar.
‘What?’ asked Nik.
‘Disulfiram. It’s a drug that can be used to treat alcohol addiction. It inhibits the enzyme acetaldehyde dehydrogenase, which is used by the body to convert alcohol into acetaldehyde. As a result, there’s a build-up of acetaldehyde which causes the acetaldehyde syndrome.’
‘Didn’t understand a word,’ said Nik.
‘It’s basically a drug that makes you feel bad when you drink alcohol. The resulting acetaldehyde syndrome is actually just poisoning. It starts off with sweating and flushing of the skin which leads to intense itching, all of which is still harmless. What is dangerous, however, is the increased heart rate and strong fluctuations in blood pressure. After that, there is normally sickness, stomach cramps and breathlessness.’
‘Sounds like a good remedy for alcohol addiction,’ Nik remarked.
‘And that’s exactly what it is. But disulfiram can only be used if the patient plays along. If you drink one too many with the substance in your system, it’s over. The doctor can’t take any risks.’
‘And how is this useful to us?’
‘I found traces of disulfiram in Kathrin’s blood,’ said Balthasar. ‘I didn’t think twice because her liver showed no signs of cirrhosis but together with the addiction clinic it’s certainly noteworthy.’
‘So could Kathrin have been in the rehab clinic when Olga was working there?’ Nik wondered aloud. ‘Yes, that makes sense. I meant to ask whether you found any traces of drugs in Kathrin’s body because her friend told me she’d had problems with drink and drugs in the past but had got treatment. Said when Kathrin disappeared, she was worried she’d relapsed.’
‘Well, that would certainly explain the disulfiram.’
‘Could Kathrin have taken it for some other reason or by mistake?’
‘Unlikely.’
‘I didn’t find anything related to any health treatment,’ said Jon. ‘There was nothing mentioned on social media and no payments from her bank account.’
‘Well, it isn’t the kind of drug that’s pushed on the street, is it. Anyway, don’t expect she’d want to broadcast her problems to the world. But where would she have got it?’
‘There are quite a few rehab clinics in the Munich region,’ said Balthasar. ‘Do you have any idea which one it could be?’
‘The woman said it was about a half hour journey from the flat and situated near a forest, far away from any houses.’
‘Well, Munich doesn’t have any remote clinics near to any woods,’ Jon remarked.
‘Half an hour from Schillerstraße and you are outside Munich. Depending on the traffic and time of day you could get to Fürstenfeldbruck, Anzing or maybe even Starnberg. The last two places in particular have a lot of wooded areas.’ Jon was typing enthusiastically in the background. ‘But there aren’t any rehab clinics out there.’
‘You mentioned Starnberg,’ said Balthasar. ‘There’s a very exclusive country beauty resort near there. There’s a well-known rumour that it’s actually a rehab clinic.’
‘What’s the place called?’
‘Meadows Beauty Resort.’
‘There’s a website with very little information,’ said Jon after searching for a moment. ‘A photo of the main building, an email address and a phone number. Then some text about micro-needling, HydraFacial and laser treatments. Nothing about withdrawal.’
‘Could be a cover,’ said Nik. ‘Having absolutely nothing online would be suspicious, so it’s better to have a website saying nothing.’
‘How can we get in?’ asked Jon. ‘It’s not like we can call up and ask about Kathrin Glosemeier or ask when the next prostitute party is.’
‘If the resort really is that exclusive, I won’t get near the entrance before security picks me up.’
‘Then we should have Nik referred,’ suggested Balthasar.
‘I don’t drink that much beer these days.’
‘Money wouldn’t be an issue,’ said Jon.
‘But money on its own isn’t enough,’ Balthasar explained. ‘With this kind of place, you need to have a pretty good contact, or something of the sort.’
‘Do you know anyone?’
‘I’ll need to ask around,’ said Balthasar. ‘But I think there’s one person who could help.’
‘The quicker the better.’ Nik suddenly heard a strange noise, like a rope being pulled tight and squeaking over wood. It was coming from the staircase. ‘Wait a minute.’ He stood up, turned on the hall light and opened the flat door. The noise got louder. One metre above the staircase on the next floor up he saw Roswitha hanging with a rope around her neck, jerking frantically as she struggled to breathe. Her
tongue was hanging out of her mouth and her face had turned blue. She had a cut on her forehead, her eyes were swollen and her lips were burst. Her fingers were cramping up around the noose and her legs were flapping as she tried to reach the bannister to stabilise herself. Nik shot forward, untied her lower legs and lifted her up. ‘Help!’ His voice echoed up the staircase. ‘Somebody help!’ he called out. But there was no answer. He looked up. Roswitha’s head hung lifelessly to the side. She’d stopped breathing. ‘Jon! Balthasar! Call an ambulance!’ Someone on the floor below opened a door. ‘A knife!’ Nik screamed. ‘Bring me a fucking knife!’
It seemed an eternity before he was able to cut the rope and lay Roswitha on the floor. He tried to resuscitate her but she wouldn’t breathe. At some point, a paramedic pushed him out of the way and put an oxygen mask on her. Soon after, she was on her way to hospital, still unconscious.
Chapter 8
The crime scene investigators packed away the rope and looked for fingerprints on the rails. The blue light from the police car blinked through the window in the staircase, its usual glare softened somewhat by the falling snow. It was particularly heavy tonight, as if it was trying to erase the evil act with a layer of purity. Nik sat on the floor outside his flat, watching the group of investigators and playing subconsciously with the locket around his neck. All of a sudden, Danilo and his boss were amongst the group. He hadn’t even noticed them come into the building.
‘Everything OK, Nik?’ asked Naumann.
‘No, it’s not,’ Nik answered, irritated. ‘A young woman was just murdered outside my front door, and when I noticed, it was too late.’
‘She’s still alive, Nik. But she’s in a coma,’ said Danilo.
‘Yeah, well, it’d be better for her if she was dead. Whatever’s waiting for her on the other side can’t be worse than this.’ He turned to his ex-colleague. ‘Did you see the mess she was in? Bleeding from her head, her face swollen from being hit?’
‘Did you know her?’
‘No,’ Nik answered. There was no use in telling the truth. They wouldn’t be any help. And anyway, he couldn’t trust anyone as long as Tilo’s partner was still out there.
Broken Glass Page 13