by Lars Schutz
‘There – there you are,’ murmured Miriam. She blinked at him dazedly. She was lying on her stomach on top of Tamara’s battered body, which had broken her fall like a pillow. All she had was a little blood on her forehead.
Jan breathed a sigh of relief, sensing all the tension drain from his body.
‘Can you stand up?’ he asked.
‘I – I think so.’
He tried to help Miriam to her feet, but she couldn’t put any pressure on her right ankle. Even if it was broken, she’d been incredibly lucky. At least he’d been able to save her.
‘Sorry this happened,’ whispered Miriam, giving him a hug.
He stroked her hair. ‘You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.’
‘Up here!’ came a yell from the top of the basalt wall. Ichigawa and Stüter were standing at the edge, waving down.
‘The kid’s got a guardian angel who’s doing a bloody good job,’ observed the Chief Superintendent.
‘You can call for back-up now,’ said Jan, and Stüter gave him the thumbs-up.
It was over. It was really over.
84
Jan watched the ambulance leaving to take Miriam to hospital in Hachenburg. A broken ankle and a slight concussion – that seemed to be all she’d suffered. And the roofies Tamara had given her probably meant she’d remember little of what had occurred.
As he walked back towards the basalt wall, which was now swarming with police and forensics techs, he kicked away one of the stones that formed the ‘Z’.
The alphabet would forever remain unfinished. Tamara’s words were still buzzing in his head.
The only language that matters is the language of death.
He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. Death was unavoidable. But everything that happened before it was in the hands of human beings, consisting of letters that could only organise themselves. Tamara had understood death, perhaps, but never life.
Beneath the frozen waterfall, Stüter and Ichigawa were having an animated exchange of words. Even from a distance, Jan could see the deep furrows on Anita’s brow.
‘He’s not disputing that the operation was a success,’ she said.
‘Who?’ asked Jan, stepping up to them, although he thought he already knew the answer.
‘The Commander. He made a report to the prosecutor then took out his frustration on me.’ She sighed. ‘The usual blah-blah. We broke a whole list of official rules. They’re very sorry, but they’re going to have to start disciplinary proceedings.’
Stüter shrugged. ‘They can do what they like! I still say we did the right thing.’
‘I don’t dispute that,’ replied Anita in a dull voice. ‘But I’m not exactly looking forward to explaining the whole thing to the press.’
‘Why wasn’t my P99 loaded?’ Jan asked Stüter.
‘Think I’m giving someone like you a loaded weapon?’ he replied. ‘It was only so you’d feel safer. In hindsight it’s lucky for you I didn’t. Still, sorry. It was stupid of me.’
‘Well, Stüter, I suppose I should be grateful you have such a low opinion of me.’
‘It’s Rolf. My name is Rolf.’ Stüter held out his hand.
Jan took it, surprised. ‘Jan.’
‘Finally burying the hatchet, then,’ said Anita. ‘I’m holding a press conference with the prosecutor and the Minister for the Interior in an hour. After that it’s back to Koblenz. I’ll leave you to tidy up here, Herr Stüter.’
‘You can call me Rolf too,’ he replied.
‘As you can probably imagine, I’m not fond of long goodbyes,’ said Anita, giving them both a stiff hug and pressing a dry kiss onto Jan’s cheek. ‘This was one of the most disorganised, appalling and ignominious cases I’ve ever worked on. But I’m glad I took it.’
‘I think you speak for all of us,’ said Jan.
‘All right. Merry Christmas, then.’ She turned to go but threw one last look back at Jan. ‘Keep in touch, when you’ve got time.’
Stüter nudged him after she was gone. ‘Something going on there?’
‘Between me and Anita?’ Jan laughed, amused. ‘The only thing going on there is a ceasefire.’
‘You’ve made peace with your local area at last,’ said Rolf. ‘Maybe you’ll even come back from time to time.’
Yes, thought Jan. Maybe he could finally make peace with the past and come back to Westerwald sometime.
Shaking hands once more, they said their goodbyes. With measured steps, he walked back through Bacher Lay, listening as the snow crunched under his boots and the wind rattled in the branches.
He was overcome with the sense of having always belonged here. That this was a place he could call home.
85
21st January
The University Hospital in Siegen. Jan hadn’t been there since December, but he’d kept in touch with Rabea’s doctor by phone. Now he was striding down the endless corridors of the Intensive Care Unit.
In the past few weeks he’d had no time to visit. The disciplinary process demanded all his strength, and he was still visiting Kathi in Westerwald regularly to help her come to terms with Maik’s death and his true identity. It was therapeutic not just for her but for himself as well. On one of his trips he’d made a detour to see Tugba. Since getting out of hospital she’d been living with her sister but hoped to return to teaching in February. Listening to her talk about her students had reminded Jan that it was all worth it.
Christmas and New Year he’d spent with Miriam. Quiet parties they’d used to catch their breath. Afterwards he’d helped her and the Mainz police to arrest the guy they called Diver, who’d been pursuing her for so long.
He’d also visited Dr Sapkowski’s practice in Frankfurt and looked at Tamara’s files. Her psychiatrist had evidently learned too much about her life – presumably the reason she’d killed him.
Her apartment was where Tamara had kept the things she’d taken from Gero’s widow after his death. A whole library of DVDs and cassettes, sorted alphabetically by the child’s name. Children from Eastern Europe and from difficult backgrounds. The first alphabet. Jan still didn’t know whether Maik had also been part of Gero’s alphabet.
The smell of disinfectant burnt his nose. His trainers squeaked on the linoleum floor. He hated hospitals. Now another right turn. Three doors and he was at Rabea’s room.
Today was the first time she’d been capable of conversation, although she was obviously very confused. Her family, who had been with her at the time, had called him straight away.
He knocked at her door without expecting an answer and stepped inside. In her room he sat down on the visitor’s chair, next to the table of get-well-soon cards and flowers. He kneaded his hands and lowered his eyes.
Her face was still pale, a little sunken. The ash-blonde hair was neatly combed but dull. At the corners of her mouth he could still see the rebellious twist he’d liked when they first met.
He couldn’t help thinking about what had prompted him to give her the job back then. It was the inexplicable, still unsolved disappearance of her sister, Marie, nearly twenty years earlier.
Her sister. His brother.
Both he and Rabea had lost someone to the dark side of human psychology early in life. They were different from the rest of the world, and more similar to each other than outsiders might think.
He reached for her hand, stroking her delicate fingers. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you,’ he whispered.
‘Wi – without who?’ A breath. Nothing more. Blinking, she opened her eyes, which were sticky with sleep. ‘Oh my God!’
He shifted forwards on his chair. ‘It’s okay, you’re safe.’
She swallowed drily. Coughed. Her body doubled up. The ECG spiked.
‘Jan, is that you? The alphabet . . . You, you’re “Z”!’ She tried to sit up.
‘Everything’s fine.’ He squeezed her hand tighter. ‘The alphabet will never be finished.’
Acknowledgements
A for Acknowledgements
What could be more fitting for a novel like this than to say thank you in alphabetical order? The following, then – from A to Z – are the people who made this book possible by giving me their time, their confidence, their knowledge or simply the space to write in peace for many, many hours.
F for family and friends: Adil, Brigitte, Carissa, the people on the German Writers’ Forum, Klaus, Moritz, Renate and Roger.
F for four-legged friend: Felix. I’ve got another treat for you.
P for Police Station, Montabaur. My thanks go to the press department, and especially to Andreas Bode for his generous help.
U for Ullstein. Here I’d like to thank Heide Kloth, Ingola Lamers, Katrin Fieber and Lara Gross.
W for Wortunion. Many thanks to my agent Ilona Jaeger, to Jeannette Wistuba and Patrizia Barth. You gave an eternal doubter back his faith.
And, not least, W for Westerwalders: Astrid, Filou, Henrike, Niklas, Simone, Thomas and Tristan.
I have tried to depict Westerwald and the job of profiling as authentically as possible. However, this is still a novel meant for entertainment purposes, so where necessary I have always prioritised dramaturgy over fidelity to the facts. If any errors have crept in, they are mine and mine alone.
Lars Schütz
Düsseldorf, November 2017
About the Author
Lars Schütz was born in 1992. He works as a copywriter for a large advertising agency in Düsseldorf. The Alphabet Murders is his debut thriller.
First published in Germany in 2018 by Ullstein Buchverlage GmbH, Berlin
First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Manilla
This ebook edition published in 2019 by
Manilla
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Copyright © Lars Schutz, 2018
The moral right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN: 978-1-78676-863-7
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