And yet fatigue weighed her down like lead. She sat in her car at the side of the road under a shady tree. Could she afford to close her eyes, even for a moment? She had arrived too early anyway to enter the house now.
Spannberg yawned. Her eyes fell shut. A car drove past her, and she snapped awake. Then in the next moment she was dreaming.
***
Three quarters of an hour later, children’s voices tore Spannberg from her sleep. Disoriented, she looked around. Three boys were playing soccer in a small garden plot, loudly celebrating every goal they scored.
After she had shaken off the drowsiness, she felt more refreshed. The short sleep had done her good, but she had been idle long enough.
She thought of her next victim. Hopefully their routine remained the same. Otherwise she would not know how to carry out the murder.
Spannberg inspected the surroundings. She was on the lookout for people who did not belong. She didn’t notice anyone and left the car. The house where her victim lived was two blocks away. Yet she did not park any closer to the building. Should the cops surprise her, an escape on foot would be more promising. Her destination was the basement of the apartment block. The gray building came into view. Spannberg stepped under the canopy and tried to push open the front door. When that failed, she pressed the top bell.
After a few seconds, someone answered.
“Hello?” an older voice said over the intercom.
“Müller, elevator tech,” Spannberg said. “Can you open the door for me, please? I need to inspect your elevator.”
“Of course. Don’t break it, young lady. I need it later.”
The resident laughed at his own joke and buzzed her in. In case he decided to verify her story, Spannberg got into the elevator. She pressed the third-floor button on the control panel, but then left the car. The doors slid shut and the elevator started moving without her. Spannberg went to the stairs and scurried into the basement. Here, she would lurk patiently yet purposefully, like a praying mantis.
26
Ulla Dickrich stood at the stove, stirring the Bolognese sauce. Her grandson Taylor loved spaghetti Bolognese more than anything else, so she cooked it for him at least twice a week. Although the homemade sauce smelled good, it needed to simmer for another half hour before it was perfect.
Time enough to spend with the boy. He sat at the kitchen table and colored in a book. After school, the ten-year-old always looked to spend time with her and keep her close—as if he wanted to make sure she didn’t disappear from his life.
Who could blame him?
Taylor’s mother, Sophia, had been hospitalized for two months for depression. Not for the first time in recent years. To be precise, she had been fighting depression ever since her partner had been arrested as a wife-killer. When Sophia talked to Taylor on the phone, Ulla would often listen in. Until now, she had gotten the impression that therapy had not improved her daughter’s condition.
But much worse was Taylor’s father. He was in prison for life. With this stigma, his son struggled through childhood. Classmates cut him off because of it, and the boy reacted by withdrawing.
Sometimes Ulla wondered if it wouldn’t be better for Sophia and Taylor if they moved away from Hamburg to start a new life. But for that, Sophia would have to get her depression under control.
Ulla sat with her grandson and kissed him on the head. The boy looked up from his coloring book and giggled.
“What was that for?”
“Because I love you so much. “
“Me too, Grandma.” Taylor beamed at her, and Ulla’s heart grew heavy. What would become of the boy if she could no longer take care of him? Ulla had now twice postponed a long overdue hip operation. Eventually her hip would finally quit, and she would have to go to rehab for weeks.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Orange juice.”
Ulla rose again. At the moment her painkillers were working quite well, and she could move almost without restriction. Such days were rare enough. She went to the refrigerator, but there was no more orange juice.
“Have you had any juice today?” she asked.
“Right after school. I put the bottle in the trash.”
“Well done.” Ulla turned to the supply closet. There was no more juice in there either. “Oh, dear.”
“What is it, Grandma?”
“We’re out of orange juice.”
“Aw.” The boy started to pout. He reminded Ulla of Sophia, who reacted similarly when she didn’t get her way.
“But I’m pretty sure there are at least six bottles in the cellar,” she said, stirring the Bolognese sauce. “You coming down with me?”
The boy shook his head vigorously. As much as he clung to her, he avoided going to the cellar. “It’s spooky down there.”
“I don’t think so. Besides, I’d be with you. You could help me carry it.”
“I’d rather not,” Taylor said softly. He drew particularly fine lines in the coloring book with a red pencil and seemed to concentrate intensely.
“You promise not to do anything stupid while I’m gone?” she said. “Especially not to touch the stove?”
“I promise.” As before, Taylor kept his eyes lowered and he continued coloring.
“Okay. I’ll be in the basement,” she said. “I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.”
“See you soon.”
Ulla went into the hall and opened the closet. She took out the shopping basket, which could carry at least three or four bottles. Then she left the apartment. In order not to strain her hips too much, she would take the elevator instead of the stairs.
27
Franka Spannberg sat in the cellar and waited. The building had a bicycle cellar, where the bikes gathered dust in the winter. It was the perfect place to wait.
She heard the elevator and looked at her watch. Was it finally time? She held her breath. The elevator sounded as if it were moving upward at first. But then the noises stopped for a moment and finally reversed.
“You can do it,” she whispered to herself. This murder would not be easy. “You can do it!”
The elevator noise stopped. Shortly afterward, someone opened the cellar door and switched on the lights. Spannberg listened to the footsteps approaching in the corridor and she shrank back. With a clink, someone put a key into the lock of the cellar door and turned. The basement door squeaked as it swung open.
You can do it!
28
Superintendent Dellhorst looked up from his paperwork when Dorfer entered the office. Buchinger was with him. “What are you doing here, Dorfer? I thought I’d made myself clear.”
“You did. This is Till—”
“I know who he is. Or do you think I’m so ill-informed about the investigation that I don’t recognize the man Spannberg held hostage?”
“Sorry,” Dorfer said.
“What are you doing here?” Dellhorst repeated.
Dorfer told him what had happened since he left headquarters. Then he played the sound file. Dellhorst listened with a frown and stared at Buchinger.
“A fake?”
“I swear on my wife’s grave,” said Buchinger. “I would never work with a murderer.”
“Otherwise I would’ve arrested him already,” Dorfer said. “But that’s not the point. I was wondering why Spannberg sent me this message today of all days.”
“Well?”
“She’s back in Hamburg,” Dorfer said. “It’s certainly no coincidence that she sent me this file shortly after I left Mr. Buchinger’s office.”
“From a Polish cell phone number nonetheless. Isn’t that more in line with our theory?” Dellhorst asked.
“Spannberg probably got off the train at the border. Maybe she used the border crossing to buy a prepaid cell phone. Or she had already organized it beforehand. I bet my career on it: She is back in Germany and she’ll strike soon. The file is supposed to cause confu
sion. Distract me. She had no idea you were going to suspend me.”
Dellhorst sighed. “Dorfer, do you think I make these decisions alone? The chief of police took part in the conference call. Most of the participants in the conversation have a much higher salary level than we do. This special task force, this KEG, it’s going to bring in the harvest. There is no way to change that. You have to see the advantages. If Spannberg continues to murder, nobody will tear our heads off. The KEG takes responsibility.”
“When will the Wiesbadeners arrive in Hamburg?” Dorfer asked.
“Monday morning.”
“And until then, we’re in charge, right?”
Dellhorst pressed his lips together. Dorfer hoped he recognized the dilemma. If Spannberg killed in the next few hours after Dellhorst suspended the provisional head of the SOKO, it would fall back on him.
“What did you have in mind?” Dellhorst asked.
“Seven potential victims live in Hamburg. We must warn them that Spannberg may have returned. It’s our fucking duty to protect them.”
“Do you have a single shred of evidence to support your theory?” Dellhorst said. His gaze flitted between Dorfer and Buchinger.
“No,” Dorfer said. “But we had the right instinct with Florian Werner, and we had no tangible evidence then either.”
“The weekend is just around the corner,” Dellhorst said. “Do you know which second division game is scheduled for Sunday? HSV against Pauli. There will be countless overtime hours. Where are we going to get the officers from the LKA to guard seven potential targets around the clock? It’s impossible.”
“If we don’t do this, the blood of innocent people will be on our hands.”
Dellhorst shook his head. “Don’t be so melodramatic.” He turned to the computer and typed on his keyboard.
“Was that it for us?” asked Dorfer, unsettled.
“Don’t be so impatient!”
The printer kicked on.
“I’m canceling your overtime cutbacks for today,” Dellhorst said. “You will remain on duty until the KEG takes over.”
“What are you printing?” Dorfer asked.
“The addresses of the people we identified as being at risk. I’m sure you don’t have them memorized. Go out to the people you need to talk to and ask them to be extra careful. Any of them who can leave town for the weekend should do so. But that’s all we can do for now. If what you fear is true and there’s another death, we’ll have to reconsider.”
Great, Dorfer thought. Dellhorst is just pulling his head out of the noose in case I’m right. Afterwards he claims he did everything possible to protect the people in danger. He suspected that his superior would not be able to accommodate him any further.
Dorfer took the sheet of paper from the output tray and held it up. “May I give them your cell phone number in case they have questions?”
“Of course,” Dellhorst said. “Now go! No time to lose.”
Dorfer and Buchinger left the office.
“What a bureaucrat,” Buchinger whispered. “That way he’ll be off the hook if anything happens.”
“I know.” On the run Dorfer looked at the list. “Let’s go to Eppendorf first. A potential victim lives near the university hospital.”
29
Her memory had not deceived Ulla. After the last big purchase, she had stored six bottles of the mild orange juice in the cellar. The six-pack was still shrink-wrapped. With her key, she scratched open the packaging and tore out three bottles, which she put in the shopping basket.
She heard a noise behind her. In a stooped position she looked over her shoulder to the entrance of her personal storeroom. A woman stood at the door.
“Hello, Ulla,” her neighbor Jutta said.
“Hello, Jutta.”
“That you don’t get back problems stooped over like that. It’s amazing!”
Ulla straightened up. “Well, you know. I have a different cross to bear.” She picked up the shopping basket and left her storeroom.
“How’s your hip?”
“Today’s okay, but I’ve got to run. I have food on the stove.”
“For Taylor?” Jutta asked.
Ulla nodded.
“Enjoy your meal. We’ll see you around.”
The neighbor went to her own storage and unlocked it.
“See you soon.”
Basket in hand, Ulla went to the elevator.
30
The man had closed the cellar door again. Nevertheless, Spannberg heard him. He was still down here. Only a few meters away from his killer-to-be.
The man’s name was Stefan Schütze, the oldest son of her tormentor Thorsten Schütze. Stefan was twenty-one years, the product of Thorsten’s first marriage. The father probably found it amusing to name his son so that his initials were SS.
Stefan was a strong man. Spannberg had found out that much. He worked out every day in his own basement. Why he didn’t go to a gym was unclear. He cultivated normal friendships and was not a socially isolated person.
Of the murder victims so far, Schütze was the most dangerous opponent. In a fair fight Spannberg would have no chance against him. He was physically superior to her. So she would have to take him by surprise.
A clunking sound came from the basement room. Spannberg imagined a man lying on a weight bench in front of her, lifting weights. Or was he standing upright, able to crush her head with a dumbbell?
She hesitated. Should she focus on easier victims? For example, little Taylor Dickrich? Since she didn’t know whether she could kill everyone in the little time she had left, Spannberg concentrated primarily on the direct descendants of the inmates. These deaths would wound her tormentors the deepest.
Under no circumstances could Schütze see her coming. Otherwise her chances of killing him would be nil.
Again a clang resounded from the basement room. She took a deep breath and held it. Fifteen times she heard a soft clink, followed by a louder sound—as if weight plates were colliding. After a short pause, the brighter clink continued, accompanied by grunting.
When the grunting started—that was when she needed to strike. And just hope he didn’t stand upright.
She pulled the rope from her jacket pocket. If he was lying down, she would wrap it around his neck and stay out of reach.
Spannberg rose from her sitting position.
You can do this!
31
Dorfer parked near the entrance, in front of the house where one of the potential victims lived. They had already warned the woman in Eppendorf, who had promised to be especially careful in the next few days. She had even sounded sincere. However, she couldn’t comply with Dorfer’s request to leave Hamburg. She had to work that weekend.
From the Eppendorf district they drove to Southern Barmbek to warn the next potential victim.
“Hopefully we’ll be lucky again and meet him,” Till said.
“According to our information, he only works late shifts,” said Dorfer.
They got out and approached the apartment building. They found the man’s name listed in the second highest row of placards.
Dorfer pressed the bell. Nothing. He and Till looked at each other, then Dorfer turned his attention back to the bell plates. He jolted the door impatiently.
“Last year, with the huge debate around data protection regulations, they floated the idea of no longer writing names on doorbells,” Till recalled.
“Ridiculous. I hope it never comes to that.”
Just as Dorfer was about to ring for the second time, the intercom crackled.
“Who is this?” asked a female voice.
“Chief Inspector Dorfer. I urgently need to speak to Mr. Schütze. Is he in?”
“Uh, no, uh, yes, wait, come up. He’s in the, um…”
The loud buzzing of the door opener drowned out the last few words.
“What did she say?” Till asked.
“I didn�
��t get that either,” said Dorfer.
They entered the hallway.
“Stairs or elevator?” asked Till.
“Elevator. Third floor.”
32
Spannberg stood in front of the door. At the moment it was quiet in the workout room. She waited. It took a few seconds before the clanking started again. Immediately, she pushed the door handle and opened the gray cellar door.
Her hope was fulfilled. Stefan Schütze lay on a weight bench, his head pointed toward the exit so that he could only see her if he craned his neck around. In his hands he held dumbbells, each equipped with six weight plates.
“Honey?” he asked without looking back.
Spannberg approached him, knelt, and wrapped the rope around his neck. Only now did Schütze realize that his girlfriend had not entered the room.
He tried to hit Spannberg with his left dumbbell. She dodged to the side. Clanking, the dumbbell fell to the floor. Mercilessly, she squeezed the air from him. The man groaned, a horrible sound, strangulated by the rope. He dropped the second dumbbell with the intention of standing up, but the rope strapped him to the bench.
“Die!” Spannberg said. She grunted with the effort to keep him pinned down.
The man resisted desperately. He struck backwards, but his position limited his range. Apparently he noticed this and changed strategy. He tried to turn on his side. Spannberg compensated, shifting her center of gravity back a little. Schütze grabbed his throat, trying to pry at the rope. But it had already dug itself so deeply into his skin that he couldn’t wriggle his fingers beneath it.
He stretched out his hands uselessly in the air, and then his arms flopped down on either side of the weight bench. His mouth opened, his eyelids fluttered and closed, and he lay still. Nevertheless, Spannberg continued to pull the rope until her arms trembled and she could no longer hold the pressure.
Deep Pain Page 13