Deep Pain

by Marcus Hünnebeck

  Mrs. Keller inspected her work, nodded, and came to him. “Beautiful flowers.”

  “Thank you. You know I have the best florist in the world. How’s your daughter?”

  Mrs. Keller told him about the difficulties her child faced as a single mother. The son-in-law had run off with another woman, leaving her to raise the children alone.

  “Maybe she should move back to Hamburg,” Till said. “Then you would be near her, and you’d both live in the most beautiful city in the world.”

  “I suggested that to her as well. She’s considering it. Julius is going into secondary school this summer, so that would be the ideal time. On the other hand, she has reservations about tearing him out of his environment. The boy can hardly deal with his father’s lack of interest, let alone being uprooted.”

  Till understood the dilemma. Sometimes he took on assignments to track down family men in hiding. The children in particular could never comprehend why the fathers stopped contacting them. Often enough, the kids blamed themselves, which made it even harder for them to cope with the separation.

  “Were you here on All Saints’ Day?” asked Mrs. Keller.

  “As a Catholic ex-Rhinelander? A matter of honor!” Till said.

  Keller smiled. “There’s nothing like cherished traditions. By the way, I haven’t asked you for weeks: When will there be a new woman in your life? Is there anything happening on that front?”

  Till hesitated with the answer, which would probably never change. “I can’t do that to someone, to constantly compare her to Antje. Even if it was only subconsciously.”

  “Mr. Buchinger, you are still so young. Man is a herd animal. He needs other people. I would love to introduce you to my daughter. Perhaps I will one day.”

  Till smiled. “I’m convinced your daughter is a great person. Don’t do that to her. Or in the near future you may never want to see me again.”

  Mrs. Keller sighed. “Well, I hope you find a new partner who’ll win your heart. What do you say to St. Pauli? It’s not looking bad this season.”

  Till grinned. Not only about the abrupt change in topic, but also because Mrs. Keller was a huge Pauli fan. She and her husband used to own season tickets and had followed the soccer club through various leagues.

  The two talked about the season so far, then Till looked at his watch and stood up. “Shall I walk you out?”

  “Only if you’ll be so kind,” she said.

  Gallantly, Till stretched out his arm.

  ***

  Jonathan Albrecht was already sitting at the table, which he had reserved at the restaurant two days earlier. He raised his hand. Till nodded at him, took off his lined jacket, and hung it up on the coat rack near the door. A receptionist greeted him.

  “Good evening. Do you have a reservation?”

  “My friend took over. He’s already here.” Till pointed into the restaurant.

  “Wonderful. Then I wish you an exquisite evening.”

  “Thank you.

  With blue and white as the dominant color, the restaurant had a maritime theme. Ships in bottles lay on the shelves, and fishing nets hung from the ceilings. The motifs of the paintings on the walls revolved around seafaring.

  Jonathan stood up as Till approached, and the two men embraced.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Till said. “Got a bit off track.”

  “No problem. The waitress has already taken care of me. I believe she thought I’d been stood up by a date.” Jonathan pointed to a bread basket with three dips, already liberally sampled. Next to it was a pint of wheat beer, half empty, foam forming lace inside the glass.

  Jonathan and Till met fifteen years ago. At the time, Jonathan had been the same age as Till was today. Till had dropped out of college at the time and had kept his head above water with odd jobs as a private detective. It had been Jonathan who had taken Till under his wing to show him the way of the manhunt. Although he knew they would eventually become competitors, Jonathan taught him all the tricks. Over the years, their working relationship developed into a deep friendship. Till had not hesitated to ask Jonathan to be his best man. And on Antje’s last days, Jonathan had spent many nights on the couch at the Buchingers’ to support his friends.

  A waitress joined them, and Till ordered a black beer.

  “Now that you’re finally here, I can go to the bathroom,” Johnathan said. “I’ve had to pee pretty badly for a few minutes now.”

  Till grinned. “Go on, you old fart! Before we can never show our faces here again.”

  “Please watch my phone.”

  “Take it with you,” Till said, grinning.

  Jonathan scrunched up his face. “Ew.”

  They chuckled, and Till watched his friend go. He noticed that a man with broad shoulders got up from the bar and followed Jonathan. Hopefully one of the stalls is free, Till thought, amused. He knew that his friend could only use urinals when no one was standing beside him.

  5

  Jonathan Albrecht entered the antechamber that led to the two restrooms. On the way there, he noticed a man get up from the bar, presumably to also visit the washrooms, but Johnathan was too far ahead of him to hold the door open out of politeness.

  In the men’s room, he looked at the three stalls, all of which were unoccupied. Behind him he heard the bathroom door open and close. He entered the middle stall, but as he was turning to lock the door, someone slammed into it, trying to bull his way through.

  Johnathan forced the door shut and fumbled with the lock as the door bucked against him.

  “What the hell?” he said, finally getting the lock to engage. “Plenty of other stalls, buddy!”

  The stranger slammed the door with his fist, then threw himself against it. The door shook in its frame.

  “What do you want?” Jonathan said, trying to think. Should the guy force his way into the stall, he would be trapped.

  The man spoke. A rough voice. Gravelly. “She took all my money, you know that? Emptied my bank account and ratted me out to the tax office. Now you’re going to tell me where that bitch is.”

  Again the stall door shuddered. Jonathan put the pieces together pretty quickly. He helped people disappear for a living, but he had only helped one customer go into hiding in the last few months. He personally had witnessed a phone call in which the husband had hurled vulgar insults at his wife. However, the drained bank account came as news to him.

  He braced the door, praying it would hold. If only he hadn’t left his cell phone on the table. Should have listened to Till, but he was too old fashioned.

  With his full weight, Johnathan’s attacker threw himself against the stall. “I’ll kill you!”

  “Even if you torture me, I couldn’t tell you where your wife disappeared to,” Jonathan said, appealing to the man’s common sense.

  “Liar!”

  “No, I gave Melanie tips, that’s all. The clients choose the location. I’m not involved. To avoid this exact situation.”

  “I don’t believe a word you say!”

  The door jumped hard this time, bruising Jonathan’s shoulder. He looked around desperately. Toilet paper, a plastic toilet brush—no suitable weapon.

  Could he stick the brush in his eye?

  6

  Till Buchinger looked across the restaurant toward the restrooms. Jonathan had been missing for quite some time, especially for someone who just needed a quick bathroom break. And he wasn’t the only one taking his time. The man from the bar: he had followed Johnathan to the toilets and had not returned either.

  Till pursed his lips, reflecting on the barfly’s posture, the way the gentleman carried himself to the restrooms. Till hadn’t paid much mind to the man’s demeanor at first, but his gait had seemed angry, as if he were mad that he had to pee. Or mad at something else.

  In his profession, Johnathan easily made enemies. Till knew this all too well. He scooped up Jonathan’s cell phone and strode toward the washrooms,
deciding he’d better take a look. As soon as he opened the first door to the antechamber, he heard the rumbling of the stall door. Heard Jonathan shouting.

  “What’s going on here?” Till said, barging into the men’s room.

  The barfly, a big dude, broad shoulders, probably two hundred and sixty pounds, threw himself against the middle stall. The whole structure jolted and seemed to come to rest at a slightly different angle.

  “Help!” Jonathan said.

  “Fuck off!” the barfly said, glaring at Till.

  The guy seemed to be bursting with strength, like his clothes might pop at the seam. This meant he had strength, but maybe not speed.

  “All right,” Till said, raising his hands. “None of my business.”

  “Door’s right there!” the guy said.

  “All right, all right.” Till took a step back toward the exit, keeping his hands raised. The stranger made the mistake of concentrating on the stall door again.

  Till shot forward. As expected, the big guy reacted too slowly. Till buried his shoulder into the barfly’s massive body and jerked his head upward, striking his attacker’s chin. The guy staggered back and lost his balance, sitting down hard on the blue tile floor.

  “Jonathan, come out!”

  Dazed, the barfly tried to pick himself up. Till pounced. He wrangled the guy onto his stomach and twisted his beefy arm behind his back.

  Jonathan came out of the stall, shaken. “You got him under control?”

  “Yes,” Till said, but barely, red-faced and grunting. “Get a waiter! Have them call the police.”

  Jonathan ran from the room.

  “Get off me!” the barfly said, trying to push himself up off the ground.

  With his free hand, Till grabbed the guy’s hair. “Stay down! Or I’ll break your nose against the tiles.”

  The man cried out, a cracked, frustrated roar, but in its passing he began to deflate. Jonathan returned, followed by a waiter.

  “What’s going on here?” the waiter said.

  7

  Franka Spannberg returned home. In her shopping basket she held two pizza boxes. She had picked up the pies from the pizzeria, but would not eat them. She set the basket in the kitchen and took off her down jacket. Then she went into the bathroom, where she opened the medicine cabinet above the sink. There she stored her individually wrapped pieces of soap. Her stock was gradually dwindling. Only a good two dozen packs left. She would remedy that tomorrow morning.

  Spannberg took out a bar of soap. She first opened the outer packaging and then tore open the inner foil. She threw both in the trash. Next, Spannberg turned on the tap. She soaped her hands until she felt she had removed any traces of dirt and any grease from the pizza boxes. Done, she tossed the bar of soap in the trash along with the packaging, and then returned to the kitchen. She set the oven to a low temperature and placed the pizza boxes inside, unopened.

  Taking her seat at the kitchen table, Spannberg turned her thoughts toward Florian Werner. The teenager was the nephew of the murderer and rapist Karsten Hansen. Hansen had mentioned the boy’s name during therapy sessions. Apparently, Hansen had maintained a normal relationship with his sister, Florian’s mother, up until his arrest. He seemed to hold the boy close to his heart, as if he thought he could live vicariously through the boy and somehow be saved. Which is why, tonight, Florian would die.

  Spannberg’s victims—past and future—were related to the three men who had broken her soul. In the first killings, the connections between victim and inmate had been weak, but now it was getting personal. Spannberg’s tormentors would learn about the deaths of their loved ones in prison and they would be helpless to do anything about it. Spannberg had a fantastic memory for names. She also kept detailed minutes of every single therapy session she had held with the inmates before the riot. Now she was spinning those names up in her web.

  Tonight it would be Flo’s turn. That’s what Hansen called him. Flo. Florian’s parents were in Madeira for a week, leaving Flo all alone, and the boy was taking full advantage of it. Spannberg had overheard him in front of the school, planning the night with his girlfriend. The kids had no idea they were being watched, and no idea their plans would be interrupted.

  Spannberg reached for her laptop and started it. She called up a website that could be used to send SMS messages. She typed in Florian’s cell phone number, then her own number—a prepaid connection that she would use solely for this purpose. Finally, she wrote the message and hit send.

  8

  Instead of retiring to bed immediately as Florian had hoped, Clara preferred to do a little gaming. Florian had read that the girl should set the pace the first time, so he started the computer.

  They gamed for a while. Clara was good, but she also needed help. Florian liked teaching her how to play.

  After a while, his phone hummed. Florian paused the game. “Got a message.”

  “From who?” Clara asked.

  He shook his head, not recognizing the sender of the SMS. He opened the message and skimmed. “Cool,” he said. “You want a pizza? They’re doing some kind of promo.”

  “Which place?”

  “ ’Dear Florian!’ ” he said, reading the message. “ ’For you as a registered customer, we have an irresistible offer today. Order two pizzas free of charge until eight p.m. at this number. All other products you order will cost the normal prices. There is no minimum order value, and you pay no delivery fee. After eight p.m. the offer expires. Best regards, your Delivery Hero team.’ ”

  “Why?” Clara said.

  Florian shrugged. “I’m sure they’re hoping people will order more. Do you feel like pizza?”

  “Always. A tonno without onions please.”

  Florian dialed the number. After a few seconds, a female voice answered.

  “Delivery Heroes, Claudia speaking. Calling about our free offer?”

  “Right. I’d like a tonno without onions and one pepperoni.”

  “Anything else?” the woman asked.

  “That’s it.”

  “Your shipping address, please.”

  Florian gave his address, and the telephone operator promised him delivery within twenty-five minutes.

  “Brilliant!” said Florian. “In half an hour, we’ll be eating our free pizza.”

  “Cool,” Clara said. “Let’s keep playing until they get here.” She smiled at him and added, “Then we can do something else.”

  9

  A moped stopped in front of the Werners’ building. The driver dressed in red directed his vehicle into a small parking space.

  “Oh no,” Dorfer said.

  “Don’t lose your nerve,” said Krumm. “This is just a food delivery.”

  Dorfer was not convinced. The delivery guy got off his moped, but did not take off his helmet. Instead, he took two pizza boxes from a motorcycle case.

  “As I said before. Just pizza delivery.”

  “Why doesn’t the driver take off his helmet? Is it a guy or a woman?”

  “No idea,” Krumm said. “Can’t tell by the way he’s dressed.”

  Dorfer concentrated on the delivery person as he or she was buzzed in through the front door. Spannberg’s height was five foot seven. One could easily mistake her for a small man.

  “That’s her,” Dorfer said.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Instinct! That’s her.” He pulled out his binoculars and aimed them at the second-story window.

  “If we arrest an innocent man now, we’ll blow the surveillance,” Krumm said.

  “Worth the risk. Give the order.”

  Through his binoculars, Dorfer saw the door of the Werners’ apartment open. Krumm must have seen it, too, because he leaned forward.

  “Do you need more proof?” Dorfer asked.

  “They’re two teenagers. Aren’t they always hungry for pizza? It seems logical to me.”

  “Either you give the
order, or I will.” Dorfer grabbed the radio.

  “I have another idea,” Krumm said. He picked up his phone.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “The boy. I claim I need to speak with the delivery guy. It’s urgent.”

  Krumm punched in Florian Werner’s cell phone number. It started to ring as the delivery person entered the apartment and the door swung closed.

  “Spannberg’s in!” Dorfer said.

  10

  “Thanks for letting me come in,” said Spannberg. “You have to confirm briefly that you received the pizzas free of charge. Don’t worry, just a signature.”

  “Let’s go to the kitchen,” Florian suggested.

  Spannberg followed him. “I’ll just put the bag down. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  She put the delivery bag on the floor and took off the helmet. The two teenagers watched this without much interest.

  “Where did I put the damn form?”

  Spannberg reached under the pizza boxes and grabbed the electric shock device with which she would incapacitate the girl. All she cared about was Hansen’s nephew. She stopped when Florian’s cell phone rang.

  “Are you expecting a call?” asked Spannberg.

  “Not really.” Florian pulled the phone out of his pocket. “Unknown number. I’m not answering that.”

  But Spannberg already felt a crawling sensation across the nape of her neck. Why did the boy receive a phone call now, of all times? That could not be a coincidence. Were the cops watching the apartment? She had made provisions for just such a scenario. But how much time did she have?

  Spannberg straightened up again. She had neither a piece of paper nor the boxes in her hand.

  “Won’t you give us the pizzas?” Florian asked. He had ignored the call.