But she was too messed up. It felt as if she’d been hit sideways by a tornado. The tears just wouldn’t stop. Bitterly, she cried herself to sleep.
Chapter
Thirty
For all Stefan’s training, it had been hard getting the man out of the box. Hugo had helped him. They’d worked together enough in Afghanistan and were accustomed to scraping up shit: bomb victims, acid attacks, obstructed fistulas from the local women, all kinds of crazy stuff. Hugo had been a top-rate nurse, absolutely dedicated. But the war had changed him, had changed them; the hideous meanness of dirty fighting, so many lives pointlessly ruined. Now Stefan didn’t know what he was doing. Times change, he thought.
Stefan knew stuff from the wallet. That Tomek was Polish, twenty-four, O Rh. negative, allergic to penicillin, and he’d suffered so badly lying untended in the hard metal box that he’d managed to get first-degree pressure sores around his spine. The skin was permanently red, wouldn’t go white when prodded. Didn’t look serious at first glance, but he’d seen what could happen to untreated bed sores.
He closed his eyes. Around the fleshy genital region, where the guy had urinated and lay trapped in his own shit, it had advanced to the second stage. He’d ignored the superficial head injuries, the cigarette burns on his tongue, but he’d grimaced when he got out the PVC gloves and cleaned him up. It hurt Tomek to be touched on his buttocks even with baby wipes; ulcers had already formed.
Stefan’s face had darkened at the sight of the maltreatment.
‘Who cares?’ Hugo had said roughly, ‘he’s going be harvested anyway. This patient is destined to die.’
Stefan had ground his teeth at that. Hugo had changed so much that he didn’t know who he was any more. What they were doing was terrible, but he’d expected high-tech drips, to administer saline, change the occasional adult nappy. Tomek was being treated as badly as a neglected lab animal. And he was so out of it, he couldn’t speak up for himself.
Stefan had carefully showered the man down with lukewarm water, placed him in clean cotton and made him comfortable on a makeshift bed in the old machine room. Every two hours, without fail, he carefully changed the man’s position, rubbed in special lotion to improve the skin texture and packed foam around the injuries to rest them as much as possible. He also inserted a saline drip and a catheter tube and neatly bandaged the man’s facial wounds.
It was exhausting. Most of the time Stefan longed to call an ambulance. There were times his every action seemed pointless. The patient would only be alive until enough donors had been matched for the major organs. It ran counter to all his training.
But, he told himself, if the pressures sores advanced to the fourth and final stage the organs would be compromised. The patient could get septicemia, gangrene, or renal failure. He could die before his organs could be utilised.
Whatever the outcome, it was his responsibility to keep the man healthy, for now. If he told himself that often enough, maybe he’d begin to believe it.
Hugo came quickly to Hans’s office. Although he acted the wild party boy, in reality he was sharp and ruthlessly efficient.
Hans observed with distaste Hugo’s sagging jeans, the T-shirt stained with beer. But as soon as he came in and saw Elli on the floor he sobered up. The efficient nurse in him sized up the situation.
‘Annoyed you, did she?’ he said impassively. He had an uncanny way of reading a situation. He bent down, felt her wrist to determine her pulse, examined the wound and shone a torch into her eyes.
Hans watched everything he did with tolerance. Most of the time he saw the world without colour; it was hard for him to understand why other people got so emotional about so little. He could relate to Hugo’s genius for rational thinking. Neither of them had time for trivialities.
‘How long has she been out?’ asked Hugo. He didn’t seem interested in who had struck her.
Hans looked carefully at his watch. ‘I hit her thirty-seven minutes ago. She went out like a light.’
‘She’s got concussion,’ said Hugo, looking carefully at the wound. ‘The problem is that she’s been hit right at the back of the neck, where the brain stem is.’
‘But it’s not bleeding much, is it?’ said Hans, with a little yawn. ‘She’ll be able to recover if I leave her outside a hospital?’ His face was stiff; he spoke like a robot just learning to talk. With Hugo he didn’t need to mimic; he’d sussed out his condition the first time they’d met.
‘It would be better actually if she had an open fracture,’ said Hugo neutrally. ‘The skull is hard and brittle, so it can’t expand to repair the damage. And there’s no room for extra blood if she’s got a bleed.’ He closed her eyes manually and turned to Hans. ‘If you want her to live she needs a hospital: CT scan, the works.’ His face was serious. ‘And if she wakes up and identifies you as her assailant then you’re in big trouble.’ He looked pointedly at Hans. ‘Make up your mind quickly.’ He smiled and raised his eyebrows expectantly.
‘Shit!’ said Hans, drinking a gulp of whisky. ‘I don’t need this right now.’
‘The organs of addicts are less attractive,’ said Hugo, kneeling next to Elli’s body. ‘And if blood tests show she has hepatitis or HIV they’re of no use at all.’ He looked down at her as if she were already a corpse. His voice was neutral. ‘But most likely we’ll be able to make money from her.’
Hans frowned. He played with his fingers pensively like a piano player warming up.
Hugo looked at him. ‘It’s not as if there’s going to be any hard feelings, is there? You don’t give a shit about anything.’
Hans still said nothing.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then, shall I?’ said Hugo. He was clumsy, but effective at getting what he wanted. The speed at which he and Hugo had started doing business was startling. Hugo sold people: live ones for work, and soon-to-be-dead ones for organs. He didn’t mess about getting poor people to sell a kidney; the bastard wanted the lot.
Hans felt a twinge, as if he’d just eaten something that disagreed with him. Elli had annoyed him, but he’d only wanted to teach her a lesson, hadn’t meant to whack her that hard. The thought of her body, which he’d enjoyed, being cut up and sold was startling. He felt like a small grain of sand facing the merciless force of an oncoming storm. Should he just succumb to the inevitable ruthlessness? When he closed his eyes he felt the rush of the wind, the spray from the roaring waves. This was real life. The weak were nothing but prey.
He couldn’t work out which option was less trouble. ‘Could she recover?’
Hugo shrugged his shoulders. ‘Without a CT scan it’s impossible to say, but she’s been out a while and one pupil’s blown so there’s definitely a bleed in there.’ He stood up, poured himself a whisky. ‘Don’t think of the girl, think of her organs. There’s a lot of money lying there,’ said Hugo with a shrug of his shoulders.
Hans frowned. It was unsettling meeting someone who gave less of a shit than he did. He was used to being the sociopath without empathy. Hugo was going to make him a shedload of money, but he was so calculated he made Hans feel almost human. The guy would sell his grandmother for a pair of new shoelaces.
‘And there’s another problem,’ said Hugo slowly, sipping his drink. ‘This gay-killer in the papers. You realise that could be Lars, right? I read they’re taking DNA samples from lorry drivers. If they catch him, it will lead the police straight to us.’ Hugo smiled. ‘Looks like you’re going to have to lose your rag again.’
Hans paled. ‘Leave Lars out of this!’ he said in an angry voice. Hugo stood up and rubbed his hands. He gave Hans a funny look. Hans ignored him. Could Lars have already become a disorganised killer on the outside? He couldn’t afford to have police sniffing around, not now! He bit his lip in frustration. He couldn’t explain it to Hugo, but he still needed Lars. He didn’t want to get rid of him…couldn’t. Hugo would never understand.
He sighed. Hugo was the one who’d introduced him to human trafficking. The margins wer
e much higher than dealing in drugs or prostitution. But Hugo was a cocky fuck. He wasn’t loyal like Lars. Sooner or later he’d become a problem like a ripple far out at sea that eventually becomes a huge wave that will knock you off your feet.
He could feel the burn of the whisky as it went down into his stomach; imagined his whole body being tossed around in a stormy ocean. Part of him longed to be swept away, to finally feel something other than his pithy bond with Lars.
‘Phone Stefan,’ said Hans finally. ‘See if he’ll take her.’
‘Another one for the fire,’ said Hugo.
Hans didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. But that didn’t worry him.
The thing inside Lars had evaporated. All the funny tingling had gone from his legs. Now he just wanted to sleep, but he had something to do first. The English bitch had outrun him, but he’d show her.
He turned back in the direction of the B6 and shot off towards Garbsen. He decided to make an impromptu drop-in on Inspector Koch. Not only could he see if they had any leads on the gas station murder, he wanted to wangle Frannie’s address out of him. Although Koch was police, he was a good ’un. And he had to admit he was curious to know how close they were to his trail.
He smiled, licked his lips. His brown eyes shone brightly. They couldn’t do without him, and good ol’ Onkel Fritz knew a lot about the latest murder. Ha ha. He laughed, wiped his mouth. Softly, softly does it. Mustn’t let his tongue run away with him.
Inspector Koch was grey-haired but energetic and instantly offered him a coffee and a filled brötchen when he arrived. When the other officer had gone out of the room he put a generous slug of whisky into Lars’s drink. They grinned. Both of them drank heavily on the job.
‘So I heard about this so-called gay-killer?’ said Lars, taking out a cigarette.
‘Yeah, we’ve had a lot of missing men in a certain age range, and some of them a confirmed type, if you know what I mean,’ said Koch, with a sly grin. He made a slack hand signal, then stopped himself. ‘No offence, eh?’
Lars grinned like a pup having its tummy tickled. ‘So you got any evidence? Going to making any arrests soon?’
Koch twirled himself in his swivel chair. ‘There was something. One of the CCTV cameras at the gas station recorded a lorry parked up around the estimated time of death.’
Lars tried not to flinch, to keep the smile on his face broad. ‘Aha,’ he said with a flourish.
‘We sent it off to a special lab in Hamburg, got to have it enhanced and shit. But it’s a significant clue.’
‘So why do you think this guy’s doing it?’ said Lars, hoping his voice didn’t sound too strained.
‘Lustmord. The guy gets off on it. This was a crime of passion, if you like that kind of thing,’ said Koch with a sly grin. ‘But it’s early days yet.’ He looked down at the floor. ‘Actually, we’re collecting DNA samples from all known lorry drivers to eliminate people. Would you mind letting me scrape your cheek while you’re here?’
Lars laughed and drank his coffee in one slurp. ‘Not at all, mate,’ he said grinning from ear to ear. ‘Be my guest.’
Koch took out the necessary kit. Swiftly he took the sample and put it in the mail tray to be sent off to the lab.
Inwardly Lars was reeling. He knew his DNA would be all over the guy they’d found. It was only a matter of time. He felt his head go tight, as if a migraine was going to spring itself on him.
So, now he had nothing to lose.
‘You know that English woman that had an accident because of me?’ Lars broached the subject lightly. His eyes looked soft, as if he couldn’t hurt a fly. ‘I’ve been feeling bad about it – could you give me her address? I want to send her some flowers or something.’
Koch’s prematurely lined face grinned and he tapped on his keyboard. ‘And they say the age of chivalry is dead.’
Lars made himself give a little smile, but inside his rage was screeching at full volume. He’d show the bitch not to play games with him. Before he was done with her she was going to be very sorry indeed. He’d show her she had no hiding place.
Chapter
Thirty-One
Frannie woke up to the blazing heat of mid-afternoon. Although she’d slept over eight hours, she still felt exhausted. The memory of last night hung heavy on her. Kurt’s betrayal still stung. Her stomach felt volatile, as if it might erupt. The physical after-effects of her night in the field were kicking in. Even though she’d drunk nearly a litre of Evian it still felt as though she’d eaten sand. Her whole body was one big ache, and she found her ankles had swollen cruelly in the heat. She’d be lucky if she had a pair of shoes in the house that fitted.
On the way to the bathroom she had to kick her way through the unwashed clothes piled up on the floor. Her personal items were fighting for space with Kurt’s on every flat surface. She sighed, rubbed a hand over her face. She was fat with his child and he was more distant than ever. All around her was evidence of their crumbling relationship. And now he’d been with Dorcas. She grimaced.
In the night she’d fantasised about taking a hammer to his car, cutting up all his clothes with scissors. But if she did these things he’d only feel sorrow for his mangled objects. What she wanted, what she needed, was for him to care about hurting her. That was the problem with Kurt: he made a fetish of his possessions but somehow hurt feelings didn’t count. He worried about how she’d damaged his car, but not at her terror of being in the cornfield.
Frannie had just finished dressing when the doorbell rang. A young dark-haired man stood on the doorstep grasping a bunch of flowers. There were beautiful red gerberas and pretty pink carnations. Frannie smiled.
‘Frau Snell?’ the young man said with a smile.
Frannie nodded.
‘For you,’ he said, ‘I hope you enjoy them.’
Frannie took the flowers into the kitchen. Perhaps Kurt did care after all. Maybe this was his way of saying sorry with a gesture. When she was putting them in a vase she noticed the little Interflora card. She opened it and read:
Dear Frau Snell,
I wanted to apologise for causing you to have a car accident.
With best wishes,
Lars Stiglegger
Frannie’s eyes widened in alarm, and she let out an anguished howl. He knew where she lived! He could be outside right now. And because he’d sent her a nice note with flowers, she could hardly complain to the police. He was letting her know he was on to her. The bastard knew what he was doing.
With trembling fingers she punched in Dorcas’s number. She’d been putting it off, but now she had no choice.
Dorcas picked it up after one ring.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ said Dorcas, angrily. ‘I’ve been up half the night waiting for you.’
Frannie was taken aback by the venom in her voice; she’d been expecting an apology. All her terror and fury from last night surged up in her. She could strangle the bitch.
‘You’ve been with my husband! What the hell have you done?’ screamed Frannie. If Dorcas had been there she would have slapped her.
‘I’m a sex worker, Frannie, it’s what I do,’ said Dorcas in a weary voice. ‘I didn’t charge him, and we didn’t do anything you’d be interested in.’
‘You didn’t treat him like a client! What is he, your new lover?’ Frannie’s eyes filled with tears. Her hand holding the phone was shaking uncontrollably.
‘I think Anna and Tomek are dead. That I might be next!’ said Dorcas in such a desperate voice it chilled Frannie to the bone. ‘I was in such a bad place, I would have done anything to get out of it.’
‘But why Kurt?’ asked Frannie. She spoke in such a hurt voice that even Dorcas started getting upset.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Dorcas. Her voice broke off. ‘I was vulnerable and he was frustrated… it just happened.’ Her voice trailed off, as if she was trying to hide further details.
Frannie didn’t want to listen any more, had to resist the urge
to slam the phone down. But they had Hans and Lars on their backs. She coughed, tried to put it aside and make her voice neutral.
‘We’ve got stuff to talk about,’ she said, strained. ‘At the club I didn’t get a copy of the email. I read it, but Elli went mental so I couldn’t forward it, and then Lars…’ Her voice broke off for a second, she let out a sob. ‘He was waiting outside in the car park.’ She stopped, burst into tears. ‘He followed me and I had to drive into a cornfield and hide. I was there the whole night.’ Reliving her ordeal, she couldn’t stop herself from crying. She was shaking, with her head in her hands.
Dorcas made little noises of comfort. ‘Are you alright?’ she said, eventually.
‘Yes. I tried to phone you but there was no signal and when I came back, Kurt…’ Frannie broke off and Dorcas tutted.
‘Frannie, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that to happen. I asked him to come over because you were meant to be coming here.’
Frannie took a deep breath. At this moment she hated Dorcas for what she had done. She swallowed. It was taking all her willpower just to speak to her.
‘There’s more,’ said Frannie, her voice rising. ‘Lars just sent me flowers through Interflora.’
Dorcas spluttered her trademark, ‘What? You have to get out of there,’ she went on, her tone urgent. ‘Just pack a bag and drive to me. Lars or Hans could attack us at any time.’
‘I have no car.’ Frannie started trembling.
‘Call a taxi, then. Just do it!’
Frannie had to sit down suddenly. Her heart was racing furiously.
‘Just get here as fast as you can,’ said Dorcas, ‘I’m going to start packing now. We both have to get away.’
‘What shall I tell Kurt?’ said Frannie, still hesitant.
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