Broken Glass

by Alexander Hartung

  ‘The girl’s name is Roswitha Sowa,’ said Danilo. ‘We’ve already got her fingerprints in the system. She’s been picked up numerous times for illegal prostitution. Does the name mean anything?’

  Nik shook his head. ‘Maybe you should ask her pimp.’

  ‘We will,’ said Naumann. ‘Do you know why she was here?’

  Because somebody wasn’t happy I’d asked her questions and they wanted to send me a message, Nik thought to himself while shaking his head slowly.

  ‘Does someone in the building get regular visits from prostitutes?’

  ‘I barely know who lives here and I couldn’t care less what they get up to. But I know none of them would’ve tied a rope around that girl’s neck and hanged her for the sake of it.’

  ‘We can’t rule out suicide.’

  ‘Bullshit, Danilo,’ said Nik. ‘You obviously didn’t see the look in her eyes when she cramped up. Pulling hopelessly at the rope and trying to catch a breath. She was scared to die and tried as hard as she could to save herself.’ He turned to Naumann. ‘Let the investigators inspect Roswitha. They’ll find signs of that. Then lose the bullshit suicide theory and find the evil bastards who did it.’

  ‘We’ll do everything in our power to—’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ interrupted Nik, standing up and going into his flat. ‘I’ll come into the station tomorrow and give a statement. Don’t bother me again tonight.’ He pushed the door shut and called Jon.

  ‘How’s it looking?’ asked Jon.

  ‘Not good. Roswitha’s in a coma. Five seconds earlier and I could’ve saved her.’

  ‘How did this happen? You were at the prostitutes’ place just a couple of hours ago.’

  ‘I was careful,’ said Nik. ‘Their pimp was the only man there and I spoke to Roswitha quietly in the hall. The other women couldn’t have heard a thing, even if they’d put their ears up to the door. I’d hoped the girls were tight . . . that nobody would say anything. Apparently that was a fucking stupid idea.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘Yes, it is, Jon,’ Nik responded. ‘If I hadn’t gone to that flat and spoken to Roswitha, she wouldn’t have ended up battered and fighting for her life in hospital.’ He sat back down on the couch. ‘Whoever’s behind the disappearances and Kathrin’s death wanted to warn me and show me who’s in charge. They wanted me to know they’re watching me and that they’ll sabotage every attempt I make to find out who they are. And they definitely can’t risk Roswitha waking up again.’ Nik sighed. ‘Look, Jon, I’ve no idea what you’re capable of with your money and computer skills but that girl has to be admitted into another hospital under another name. You’ll get whatever you want from me.’

  ‘I’ll deal with that,’ Jon promised. ‘Nothing’ll happen to her. But first of all we need to get you out of your flat.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. Nobody’s going to put a rope around my neck and chuck me over a bannister.’

  ‘That’s not what I mean, Nik,’ said Jon. ‘As long as they know where to find you, we can’t get on with the investigation. The pimp you beat up won’t have been given the same instructions as the owner of The Palace. Someone followed you.’

  ‘I would’ve noticed.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t. Not with today’s technology,’ said Jon. ‘The transmitters these days are minuscule and can be easily stuck to clothes. Your follower can be three streets behind you and they still won’t lose you. Your flat might not be bugged but your car’s got a tracker on it that you just can’t see.’

  ‘So what d’you suggest?’

  ‘I’ve got a flat you can go to. You’ll be safe there. I’ll send the address to your new phone. Check your clothes for transmitters and don’t take anything that isn’t essential. Don’t take the car, and slip out during the night. Go by taxi or public transport so no one can follow you. And lastly, you’ll need a new look. We were going to do that to get you into the rehab clinic anyway, so we’ll just do it a bit sooner.’

  Nik let out a crabby groan. Jon’s suggestions all made sense. He just really didn’t want to go to the hairdresser.

  ‘I can’t be seen in public,’ Jon continued, ‘so I’ll ask Balthasar to drive you around. I need to deal with Roswitha. Her attacker won’t take long to find out where she is. And they won’t mess up a second time.’

  ‘All right,’ said Nik. ‘Hope you’ve got a big fridge in this flat.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll be satisfied.’

  It was strange waking up in someone else’s bedroom, but Nik was sure he could get used to his new luxury accommodation. There was a deluxe box-spring bed, the water from the showerhead didn’t spurt in every possible direction and he could follow the latest news on a small screen in the bathroom while he brushed his teeth. The living room was equally as lavish. There was a projector instead of a television. The surround sound was exceptional, and Jon had signed up for every streaming service money could buy. And most importantly, the freezer would fit enough food for a month and you could slide a whole crate of beer directly into the bottom of the fridge. But the material joy didn’t last for long. As soon as he woke up, pictures of Roswitha came flooding back to him. He thought about her blue, bloodless face and the cut on her head. About all the punches she must have endured because she’d spoken to him. Jon had at least managed to get her on a different ward and changed her name in the hospital database. That gave Nik a slight sense of peace but he still felt guilty.

  It was eight in the morning. Balthasar would be there in a minute to pick him up. He was in charge of getting Nik ready for his visit to the exclusive addiction clinic, whatever that might entail. Nik got dressed and finished off another coffee from the automatic machine before shuffling his way outside. The pathologist was standing beside a yellow Z4 Cabrio with white leather seats and a wooden dashboard. As if that wasn’t eccentric enough, he was wearing black and white striped trousers and a white blazer with one blue arm. Underneath that, he wore a dark blue shirt, which clung to his belly, and on his feet he wore light beige loafers. He had blusher on his cheeks and his bald head looked like it had been oiled.

  ‘Hello, Nik,’ Balthasar said, hugging him.

  Nik was so flabbergasted by the pathologist’s appearance he went along with the hug. ‘Please tell me this wasn’t what you meant when you talked about pimping me up,’ Nik said, looking Balthasar up and down.

  ‘Oh, Nik, you don’t have the figure for Jean-Paul Gaultier.’

  ‘What a pity,’ mumbled Nik as he got in the car. The smell inside was so strong he almost choked. ‘What is that stench?’

  ‘It’s called “Wow!”. It’s one of my favourite scents,’ answered Balthasar with pride. ‘Very aromatic, with a hint of vanilla.’

  ‘Did you spill it on the floor or something?’ Nik scrunched up his nose and let down the window despite it being freezing outside.

  ‘No, I always add it to my screenwash so I can stay fresh during the ride.’

  Nik was about to make a comment but Balthasar started the engine and pushed down hard on the accelerator. The car flew forward. They avoided a collision with a truck only because the driver slammed on his brakes. Balthasar then did a one-eighty on the street. Nik clawed at the armrests and frantically tried to put on his seat belt.

  ‘Fucking wanker!’ bawled the truck driver, while Balthasar smiled and gave a casual little wave. Before reaching their destination, Balthasar went through three red lights and took a shortcut down a one-way street in the wrong direction. When they stopped, Nik was shaking and only just managed to suppress the urge to make the sign of the cross. At least the drive had woken him up.

  ‘We’ll start with the hair.’ Balthasar pulled him into an old, beautifully restored block of flats. The entire ground floor was filled with expensive shops and Balthasar pushed open one of the doors, gesturing for Nik to follow him. He found himself in an entrance area made of light marble; the ceiling was covered with small lights that gave off a war
m white light. The only dash of colour came from the large flowers placed in gold, thigh-high vases. The look was completed by a Mies van der Rohe-style sofa which sat underneath a shop logo made out of silver. God only knew if it was a hairdresser or an exclusive boutique.

  Nik jumped at the sound of a screeching voice. ‘Balthasar!’ called out a man with the pitch of a teenage girl at a boy-band concert.

  ‘Charles!’ Balthasar cried back, equally as excited. He kissed the small, slim man on both cheeks. The hairdresser had long dark eyelashes and brilliantly white teeth and appeared to have the same taste in clothing as the pathologist, but instead of trousers he was wearing a long skirt that went all the way down to his black loafers. He wore a long-sleeved top with a bizarre pattern and a high, tight collar. His short, white, wavy hair had been combed over to the left and his head was shaved at the sides. Below that he had sideburns which snaked down his cheeks before merging into a full dark beard that had clearly been dyed.

  ‘This is Nik,’ Balthasar introduced him. ‘Your job is to turn this man into a good-looking, well-groomed upstart.’

  ‘I’m the best hairdresser in Munich, my dear, not a miracle worker,’ Charles said, inspecting Nik’s hair.

  ‘He needs to play a role for a couple of days.’

  The hairdresser sighed loudly. ‘I hope you’ve got an unlimited credit card with you. I’ll need an Ayurvedic weekend myself when I’m finished with this one.’

  ‘Excuse me. I’m standing right here.’ Nik was pissed off.

  ‘Oh! He can talk,’ remarked Charles. ‘Well, that’s a surprise. I was scared for a second he was going to swing from chandelier to chandelier, banging his chest triumphantly.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be fooled. He’s not far off,’ added Balthasar.

  Nik straightened up, raising his right index finger. ‘If you two don’t shut the fuck up, someone’s getting a smack in the face.’

  ‘Oh! All these violent threats. How old-fashioned.’ Charles placed his own index finger on his lips and shook his head. ‘But I must admit, I do like the rough, unrestrained type. Steered back on track, he could really be something. I mean, he’s certainly strong.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Balthasar. ‘He eats far too much pork and onions for that. And I know how strongly you react to seeping odours.’

  ‘Tragic.’ Charles sighed. ‘Well, before we start changing his dietary habits, let’s get started with the hair.’ He pushed Nik into a room with a marble floor and sunlight streaming in through the windows. Six white leather chairs stood in front of large mirrors. Each chair had its own wash basin and individual chandelier. One quick shove and Nik was sitting in one of the chairs.

  ‘Hmm, I think I’ll have to use gloves for this bushy undergrowth. I only just had my nails done. Balthasar!’ He waved towards a chrome fridge. ‘Be a doll and grab a bottle of Prosecco. I won’t get out of this alive without alcohol.’

  ‘Got any beer?’ asked Nik.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Charles, appalled. ‘We are a respectable salon.’

  While Charles worked, Nik was forced to endure an almost unbearable monologue about haircuts, care products, styling and various other beauty-related topics. After an hour of torture, as pretty much each hair on his head was being individually wrapped in tinfoil, Nik longed for his old hairdresser across the road from his flat. He was short-sighted, eternally grumpy and drank too much, but at least he didn’t blabber on about mind-numbing drivel and only took ten minutes to cut his hair.

  It was a further hour before a disgruntled Nik was allowed to leave the salon. A visit to the hairdresser was usually a chance for Nik to think about work but the men’s incessant talking, punctuated by effeminate giggles, had almost driven him crazy.

  ‘A new man!’ said Balthasar as he got into the car.

  ‘I’ve no idea why you need two hours for a man’s haircut.’ Nik folded down the mirror on the passenger’s seat. ‘Colour, shorter at the sides and a razor to the back of the neck,’ said Nik. ‘Could’ve done that myself.’

  ‘Well, you’ve only ever been to crappy barbers, so you wouldn’t know the difference,’ said Balthasar with a soft laugh. ‘But the professionals recognise the work of a master and that’s what counts.’

  ‘Can we just go and buy some clothes so I can get back to investigating?’

  ‘Oh, we’re not just buying clothes,’ Balthasar said, starting the engine. ‘We’re going to one of the best men’s outfitters in the city.’ He waved a platinum credit card in the air. ‘So please, try not to bite or shoot anyone.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. You’re first on my list for shooting right now,’ Nik retaliated with a smile.

  Balthasar slammed on the accelerator and Nik flew back hard against his seat. ‘Let’s go!’ cried the pathologist, going through the first red light of the trip.

  There had been no new leads over the last few days. Nik couldn’t bring himself to question anyone else for fear they’d suffer the same fate as Roswitha. According to the reports on the CID server, his colleagues hadn’t found any more clues. No one in the building had seen or heard anything before Nik had found Roswitha. The majority of fingerprints on the bannister were from the people living in the block and the others weren’t in the database. The only DNA on the rope belonged to Roswitha, who was still in hospital in a coma. The only positive thing to happen was that Balthasar had found a contact to get Nik a referral for the rehab clinic. Nik didn’t know whether Jon had paid a generous sum to get it but he also didn’t care. The Meadows Beauty Resort was the best lead they had and money didn’t seem to be an issue for Jon.

  It was odd travelling with leather suitcases, packed neatly with made-to-measure suits, designer shirts and brogues. Nik had barely recognised himself when, wearing a dark grey suit, a silk tie and a pocket handkerchief, he’d looked in the mirror in the changing room of the ridiculously expensive shop Balthasar had insisted they buy his clothes from.

  Well, you certainly ain’t no Tom Ford, but it’s an immense improvement for someone who normally looks like a homeless person, had been Balthasar’s comment. Jon had also given him a Breitling watch that cost more than Nik’s entire yearly wage.

  In keeping with his character, Nik was driven to the clinic in a limousine. He attempted to look bored and sipped on a brandy from the mini bar. But as soon as they’d got out of the city, he started mentally recording every detail.

  After leaving the A95, they drove for a while along a quiet country road before turning down a narrow track. The clinic owners had probably planned the bumps and twists to deter unwanted guests. The CCTV started after the third bend in the road. Nik spotted a camera hidden in a wire fence that was overgrown with plants and bushes. Only a very observant passer-by would notice it, as it had been painted green and was well camouflaged. Nik knew the camera model. It had a very high resolution, a good zoom and an infrared function that could pick up lots of details even in very low light.

  A minute later and they were approaching the beauty resort. There was very little to see from the outside. The place was surrounded by a four-metre-high wall plastered smooth and painted, which, in turn, was surrounded by high trees, cut back on one side to prevent the branches overhanging the wall, while the side facing the forest had been left to grow naturally. It would be impossible to scale the wall without any kind of aid. The only way in and out of the grounds was through a large gate with an intercom system and camera.

  The driver said Nik’s cover name, Nikolas Kirchhof, into the microphone and the gate opened. Nik had wanted to keep his own forename so that there was no chance of giving himself away if he introduced himself as Nik. And he’d been more than happy to get rid of the ‘u’ in Nikolaus. He’d taken Jon’s surname as that would match the money transfers. Nikolas Kirchhof was a bored, drug-addicted playboy who’d been referred by his parents.

  The gate was made of long steel poles staggered vertically one on top of the other so nobody could squeeze between them or see through them. After t
he gate was fully opened, they went down a walled drive which had space for just one car, until they came to a second gate. The gate opened on to what looked like another world.

  The drive was laid with light stone slabs and led past a large fountain, fed with water from a man-made stream that ran from the woods, which was still flowing despite the temperature being well below zero. The clinic building itself was a large manor house with a white façade, elegant plastering and bright red bricks. The walls were adorned with small, warm lights that made you forget about the dreary January weather. A bed of vibrant roses ran alongside the fountain. You could only tell they were artificial if you looked very hard.

  As the car stopped at the main entrance, a young woman opened his door, while an Eastern European-looking man unloaded his suitcases from the limousine boot.

  ‘Welcome to The Meadows, Herr Kirchhof,’ the woman said, bowing slightly. ‘My name is Pia. I’ll be making sure your stay with us is as comfortable as possible. If you ever need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.’

  Pia was a combination of a model and a fitness instructor. She was about a foot smaller than Nik, with long blonde hair that had been pulled into a neat ponytail. She wore a beige outfit that showed off her sporty figure but was still professionally appropriate. Her make-up was subtle and she wore a very delicate, fresh perfume. Nik guessed she was in her mid-twenties. Her skin was flawless and she had a friendly, genuine smile. Her blue eyes glittered in a way that suggested she was more than just a receptionist.

  ‘Now, if you’d like, I can show you to the check-in area.’

  ‘Thank you, that’d be great.’ Nik stepped out of the car. He remembered Balthasar’s prep talk: polite but not too friendly, consider the biggest luxuries to be the norm, have special requests but don’t be too eccentric, etcetera, etcetera. The lecture might have given Nik a headache but he seemed to know what he was talking about. If only Balthasar had had undercover experience, he would have been perfect for the rehab job.