Score one for you, she thought.
‘You’re not the only one with a professional conscience,’ he said. ‘I’m just as eager to find that bastard as you are. Except that no one has paid me to travel to France.’
Score two.
‘Okay. I’m sorry. I’m a little bit on edge at the moment.’
‘Why?’ A pause. ‘Don’t tell me … don’t tell me he has shown up again?’
‘I have to go,’ she said.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Take care of yourself.’
‘Okay.’
He hung up and looked over to the harbour. He hadn’t gone to work today. He’d taken the day off to finish assembling his furniture. This rain …
Then he thought about the money in his bank account. The money that had already been deposited in exchange for his information. And which had enabled him to pay off some of his debts. Not as much as he would have liked, but it was something at least. He checked the time and dialled the other number. The one that had nothing to do with the police.
43
Getting Ready
‘Do you feel all right, Gustav?’
Hirtmann looked at the boy lying in the hospital bed. Then he went over to the window. He could see the white roofs of Hallstatt. The clinic was on a hill above the village.
‘Yes, Papa,’ said Gustav behind him.
‘That’s good,’ he said, turning around. ‘It will be this evening, you know.’
This time the blond child said nothing.
‘You mustn’t be afraid, Gustav. Everything will be fine.’
‘Let’s go,’ said the man with the yellow cap. ‘Take your suitcase.’
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
He was fed up with all the secrecy. He had spent the entire afternoon and evening yesterday pacing his room like a wild animal, before eventually drifting into a sleep filled with nightmares.
‘To the clinic,’ replied the blond man.
‘What do you do for a living?’ asked Servaz.
‘I beg your pardon? I’m a nurse,’ said the man, seeming surprised. ‘At the clinic. What a question! They asked me to welcome you.’
‘And our little drive yesterday, to see whether I was being followed: was that also to welcome me?’
The man gave him a disconcerting smile as he locked the door. They headed towards the tiny lift.
‘I follow the instructions I’ve been given, that’s all,’ he said.
‘And you never ask any questions?’ asked Servaz, as the door closed on the lift, which was far too small for two adults.
‘Dr Dreissinger simply told me you were well known in France and you didn’t want any … publicity, paparazzi – that sort of thing.’
To Servaz’s great relief the doors opened almost immediately, and they went over to the little reception area to return his key. He thought about what the blond man had just said. Something occurred to him.
‘Why would I need to avoid publicity?’ he asked. ‘What do you normally do at your clinic?’
Yellow-Cap looked at him, astonished.
‘Well, facelifts, nose and eyelid jobs, breast enhancement, implants – even phalloplasties and labiaplasties … that sort of thing.’
It was Servaz’s turn to look stunned.
‘You mean we’re going to a plastic surgery clinic?’
They drove only a few hundred metres along the cobblestoned streets, up to the top of the village, then pulled into the clinic’s little car park. Yellow-Cap got out first and opened the boot, then handed the suitcase to Servaz, who now had butterflies in his stomach. He had read online that a liver transplant was a complicated, delicate operation, both for the living donor and the recipient. Scared to death? Yes, you could say that. For reassurance, he reminded himself that Hirtmann was far too fond of his son to hand him over to anyone inexperienced.
His son. He still couldn’t get used to the idea. He was here to give part of his liver to his own son. Phrased like this, it sounded like science fiction.
‘What is phalloplasty?’ he asked suddenly as they were walking across the car park and climbing up the steps to the entrance.
‘Surgery to the penis.’
‘And labiaplasty?’
‘The inner labia. They are reduced in size, when they’re too big.’
‘Charming.’
Lothar Dreissinger was a living advertisement for cosmetic surgery, of the before and after variety. He embodied ‘before’: he was one of the ugliest men Servaz had ever seen. His nose and ears were too big and too fleshy, his eyes were too small, his jaw too narrow, he had the lips of a toad, his skull was bald and pointed like an Easter egg – and in addition to all this, he had yellow, bloodshot eyes, and pitted skin as if he’d had smallpox in his youth.
Servaz wondered how this was supposed to inspire his clients to hurry to the operating theatre.
He was wearing a doctor’s coat over a white shirt and his manicured hands, by contrast, were beautiful. Servaz noticed them when he crossed them under his chin.
‘Did you have a pleasant trip?’ he asked in English.
‘Does it matter?’
The director of the clinic stared unpleasantly at him with his yellow eyes.
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘All that matters is that you are in good health.’
‘You have a very fine clinic here,’ remarked Servaz. ‘Cosmetic surgery, is that correct?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Now, answer me, are you qualified to perform this type of operation?’
‘Before I converted to this more … lucrative … activity, it was my specialisation, you understand. My reputation had spread well beyond the borders of Austria.’
‘Do you know who I am?’ asked Servaz.
‘The child’s father.’
‘And besides that?’
‘No, and I don’t care.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘About what?’
‘About this operation.’
‘That Gustav needed a transplant. As quickly as possible.’
‘And what else?’
‘That you were shot in the heart a few months ago. And were in a coma for a few days.’
‘And this doesn’t worry you?’
‘Why should it worry me? It was in the heart, not the liver.’
‘Isn’t it a bit … risky?’
‘Of course it’s risky. Every operation has a degree of risk.’
Dreissinger waved his fine pianist’s hands.
Servaz felt a twinge in his stomach.
‘But the fact I had a heart operation two months ago: doesn’t that considerably increase the risk?’
‘Not for the child: the donor could be deceased, and that is actually the most common procedure.’
‘And for me?’
‘For you without a doubt.’
His tone was almost jocular, and Servaz felt his throat go dry. He doesn’t give a toss whether I die or not.
‘You are sheltering a murderer,’ Servaz said suddenly. ‘And not just any murderer.’
The surgeon’s face went blank.
‘Did you know?’
Dreissinger nodded.
‘So, why?’ asked Servaz.
The little man seemed to hesitate.
‘Let’s just say I’m indebted to him …’
Servaz raised an eyebrow.
‘What sort of debt could warrant taking such a risk?’
‘It’s difficult to explain.’
‘Well, try anyway.’
‘Why should I? Are you a cop?’
‘I am indeed.’
Dreissinger stared at him, stunned.
‘Don’t worry,’ Servaz said, ‘I’m not here in my capacity as a cop, but to give you my liver – as you know. Well?’
‘He killed my daughter.’
The answer came without the slightest hesitation. Servaz looked at the little man, not understanding.
Fleetingly, a veil of sadness came over his ugly face. A moment of weakness that quickly vanished: now Dreissinger stared fixedly at him again.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘He murdered her. At my request. Eighteen years ago.’
Servaz looked at him with growing disbelief.
‘You asked Hirtmann to kill your daughter? Why?’
‘You see, Monsieur Servaz, you only have to look at my face to understand that nature is not as perfect as some people maintain. My daughter was as ugly as her father, and it made her very … depressed. But, as if that were not enough, she was also afflicted with a rare, incurable disease that caused her unbearable suffering. To this day there is no treatment. I spoke of it with Julian one day. And he offered to do it for me. I’d envisaged it myself on several occasions. But in this country only passive euthanasia is tolerated, and I was afraid of going to prison. As I told you: I’m indebted to him, and can never repay what I owe him.’
‘But you could go to prison for this, too.’
The surgeon’s eyes narrowed to two slits.
‘Why? Do you intend to expose me?’
Servaz did not reply but he felt as if he had swallowed a refrigerant: on the operating table this man would have his life in his hands, and as he had said, the donor could just as easily be dead.
‘Would you like to know more about the procedure?’ asked Lothar Dreissinger, in honeyed tones.
Servaz nodded cautiously. He was not too sure he did.
‘We will start by removing your liver. Then we will perform the hepatectomy—’
‘The what?’
‘The exeresis or ablation of Gustav’s diseased liver. This involves sectioning the ligaments and blood vessels – the hepatic artery and the portal vein – as well as the biliary ducts. However, because of his hepatic insufficiency, we have to be particularly vigilant, because there could be problems with coagulation. And the last stage is to transplant the organ. Priority will be given to re-attaching the blood vessels, in order to irrigate the organ again. Then the ones that conduct bile. Finally, before we close up, we will insert drains to evacuate any blood, lymph or bile that might have accumulated. Obviously this is all under general anaesthesia. An operation like this can last up to fifteen hours.’
He was not sure he had grasped all of Dreissinger’s medical English, but he didn’t like the sound of any of it. And where was Hirtmann? And Gustav? He had not seen either one of them since he’d arrived. Yellow-Cap had brought him straight here.
‘We will spend the morning conducting a series of tests,’ added the little man. ‘And then you will rest until it is time for the operation, and you won’t have anything more to eat for the rest of the day. No cigarettes either, obviously.’
‘And when will the operation take place?’
‘This evening.’
Servaz raised an eyebrow.
‘Why this evening? Why not tomorrow? When it’s daylight?’
‘Because that is when my biological cycle is at its peak,’ answered Dreissinger with a smile. ‘Some people are morning people, others are night people. I’m at my best at night.’
Servaz didn’t say anything. Frankly, he felt a little bit out of it. And this guy sent a chill down his spine.
‘Someone will take you to your room. I’ll see you again in theatre. Give me your phone, please.’
‘What?’
‘Your phone, give it to me.’
Lothar Dreissinger waited until the steps had faded down the corridor before he left his office and went through the next door. It led to a tiny room stacked with shelves with dozens of binders and labelled boxes. There was a little window at the back. A tall figure stood out against the backdrop of mountains, looking out of the window.
‘Are you sure he’s in a fit state to undergo the operation?’ asked the surgeon, closing the door behind him.
‘It is his liver you want, I think,’ answered Hirtmann, without turning around. ‘And it would be even easier with a dead donor, wouldn’t it?’
He did not see Dreissinger slowly nodding his head. The reply was not altogether to his liking.
‘And supposing the guy survives – what will happen if, once he gets home, he denounces me: have you thought of that? You didn’t tell me he was a cop!’
His great friend shrugged.
‘That’s your problem. You will have his life in your hands in theatre.’
Dreissinger gratified him with an ill-tempered grunt.
‘If he dies, I will have to report his death, and they will ask me for an explanation. There will be an investigation. Sooner or later, the truth will come out. I cannot allow that.’
‘Well then, let him live.’
‘And besides, I’ve never killed anyone,’ added the Austrian, tonelessly. ‘Shit, I’m a doctor. I am not … like you.’
‘You killed your daughter.’
‘No!’
‘Yes. I was merely your tool; you’re the one who made the decision. You’re the one who killed her.’
The surgeon fell silent. Hirtmann turned around. As always, the director of the clinic felt a cold draught down his spine when that electrifying gaze focused on him. A taser shock would hardly have produced a greater effect. He handed Hirtmann the cop’s phone.
‘On the other hand, my dear Lothar, you must be aware that if anything should happen to Gustav, I don’t think you’ll be long for this world.’
Lothar Dreissinger felt a sudden, writhing panic in his stomach. But he suppressed it.
‘The operation is tricky enough as it is, Julian. I don’t think this sort of threat is very helpful.’
Hirtmann cackled.
‘Are you afraid, my friend?’
‘Of course I’m afraid. I will be eternally grateful to you for what you did for Jasmine. But the day you die, I will sleep better at night.’
A roar of laughter filled the small space.
That morning, Officer Reger came out of the Pension Göschlberger with a smile on his lips. His French colleague would be pleased. This was the fifth hotel, and he’d already hit the bull’s-eye. He did not think, however, that it was so urgent that he could not stop off at Maislinger’s for a cappuccino and a pastry.
Once he’d finished his little treat he began walking towards the Dreissinger clinic. The hotel manager had recognised not only the man in the photograph, but also the one he had left with that morning: Strauch. A local guy. He worked as a nurse at the clinic. Reger had known him since childhood. He walked up the steep little street with a smile on his face: this morning was certainly a bit more exciting than his typical day.
Servaz looked at the bed next to his – his was by the door, the other one by the window – as he entered the room. A child’s bed. Clearly it had been occupied, but at the moment it was empty.
He glanced quickly out at the rows of cars in the small car park and the branches moving gently beyond the window, scratching at the grey sky, then as soon as the person who had brought him there had left, he bent double and removed a little prepaid mobile from his sock. He had figured they would take his phone away; Hirtmann trusted him only so far, and temporarily. He gazed around the room, saw another door and opened it: a tiny bathroom with a toilet. He lifted the lid of the cistern, then lowered it again and went back into the room.
The strip light above the bed.
He reached up and ran his hand over the strip, then behind the plastic casing. There was a hollow space against the wall. He made sure the sound on his device was still switched off and that there was a signal, slipped it in, took a step back, made sure it was invisible, then began to get undressed as he had been told to do, to put on the hospital gown that was waiting on the bed.
Reger greeted the woman at reception with a smile. Her name was Marieke. He knew her well: they belonged to the same bridge club. Marieke was divorced and bringing up her two children on her own.
‘How are the boys, Marieke?’ he asked. ‘Does Matthias still want to be a policeman?�
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‘He has the flu,’ she replied. ‘He’s in bed.’
‘Ah.’
Marieke was a pretty, slightly plump blonde and Reger had had a brief affair with her after her divorce. He put the photograph the French police had sent him on the counter.
‘Tell me, do you have a patient who looks like this?’
Marieke suddenly looked slightly flustered.
‘Yes, why?’
‘When did he get here?’
‘This morning.’
This confirmed what the hotel manager had told him. Reger was feeling more and more excited.
‘And do you have his room number?’
She checked her computer and gave it to him.
‘What name is he registered under?’
‘Dupont.’
He felt even more excited. A French name.
‘Call Dr Dreissinger for me, please,’ he said, taking out his mobile phone, which rang before he even had time to do anything. ‘Hello?’ he said, annoyed.
He listened for a few seconds.
‘An accident? Where? On the Hallstättersee Landesstrasse? Where exactly? Is it serious? I’ll be right there.’
He switched off his phone and looked at Marieke, distraught.
‘Tell the doctor I will stop by later – I have to go.’
‘Is it serious?’ she asked.
‘Seems like it: two cars and a lorry involved. One dead.’
‘Local people?’
‘I don’t know, Marieke.’
Through the binoculars the windows of the clinic were perfectly visible. They were wide, tall windows that ran the entire length of the room, so that when the blinds were not lowered, the interior of the room was also visible, neon-lit even though it was daylight. He supposed that when the rooms were unlit, it must mean they were vacant.
Jiri counted half a dozen occupied rooms, on this side anyway. The Lada was parked 50 metres from the clinic, next to a stone wall with a slight overhang. Sitting at the wheel, he moved his binoculars from one window to the next. Suddenly he paused. The French cop. He had almost missed him because the first bed was empty and the cop was in the background, in another bed.
He focused on the first bed. A child’s bed. Jiri felt his interest increase exponentially.
He wondered where Kirsten was. He had tried three times to reach her with his prepaid phone but there had been no answer. And Gustav? And Hirtmann? They had all suddenly disappeared. He couldn’t sit still. He was dying to see Gustav, and he could no longer ignore his anxiety: he was afraid of seeing him for the first time on the operating table. It terrified him far more than his own presence in the same place, or his own anaesthesia: he had suffered far worse.
Night Page 35