by Marc Raabe
Jonas snaps his head around. The forty-ton lorry bursts through the underpass like a monster and shoots into the crossing. The Mercedes star is as big as Jonas’s head and directed right at his chest. Jonas’s mouth hangs open with fright; it looks grotesque, almost as if he’d hoped to swallow the lorry at the last minute. It’s too late to scream. The impact sounds like hitting plastic, like kicking a dustbin.
Gabriel stops mid-motion, freezes. From a few metres away, he sees Jonas hurled into the air like a weightless doll made of straw, only to immediately fall beneath the fully-loaded lorry one second later. The vehicle shakes briefly, but hardly more than a bulldozer driving over a rat.
The lorry only comes to a screeching halt after another hundred metres.
Chapter 31
Berlin – 16 September, 9.16 p.m.
David rinses the toothpaste down the sink and looks at himself in the mirror. Tired green eyes with dark circles underneath them. He rubs his hand on his chin to see if his intentional stubble still looks intentional.
He can hear the television through the open WC door – an advertisement for a women’s razor. He thinks of Shona, whom he hasn’t seen in two weeks and has plans to meet this evening. She was ambushed with a job that’s monopolised her time. It wasn’t a problem for David, since Gabriel’s sudden appearance had thrown him into a deep depression. When the police were standing at his door while Shona was there and explained that there was a search warrant out on his brother because he was suspected of murder, and for fleeing from custody and armed hostage-taking, he felt the ground fall from under his feet.
He digs his electric razor out of the drawer. The device only offers him a tired buzz before stopping. Cursing under his breath, he opens the drawer in search of the power cord, as he squints at the time: 9.17 p.m.
At least Shona’s call had given him a little breathing room. ‘Sorry . . .’ Her voice sounded annoyed. ‘I’m still at work. The usual. Terrible meeting and now everything has to be different. Everything blue will be green and round will be square . . . I just can’t make it before half past nine.’
‘Are you sure you’ll even make it by half past nine?’
‘If not, then I’ll pour a drink over the keyboard. Half past nine at the Santa Media.’
Somehow, time ran away from him. Applause comes from the television.
The doorbell buzzes. Shona? He glances back at the clock. Twenty past nine. David furrows his brow. They had plans for the Santa Media, one of the popular after-work drinking spots, but there was no talk of picking him up. The woman is unpredictable! He grins, slips on his shirt while walking and tries to button it quickly, but the lights are off in the hall. His finger automatically lands on the button for the intercom. ‘Hi. Just come up, I’m almost ready.’ He buzzes open the building door, opens the door to his flat in advance – and then jumps with fright.
In the doorway is a pale, slender man with thinning grey hair and accountant’s glasses. ‘Good evening, David,’ the man says. His face is in partial darkness; the lighting of the corridor gives him a strange aura. For a moment, David thinks it’s a police officer, maybe an inspector, in front of him. But don’t they always identify themselves?
‘Do we know each other?’
‘No, but we have a shared acquaintance. Your brother. Is he here?’
‘No. Sorry. We don’t have the best relationship.’ The man raises his almost hairless eyebrows.
David makes out the slender figure. He must be in his sixties. His hands are in the pockets of his short, light-grey trench coat and the right pocket bears the outline of an unmistakable shape: the barrel of a gun.
David’s heart skips a beat. The man seems to be able to read his thoughts. He pulls his hand out of the coat pocket without the gun and shows it to David. ‘Your brother is a dangerous man,’ he says apologetically.
David takes a step back. ‘What do you want?’
‘May I come in?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m in a hurry.’
‘Don’t you want to finally get answers to your questions?’ the man smiles, joyless and calm.
‘What questions?’
‘Everyone has questions, but you have a few in particular, don’t you? And your brother can’t give you the answers. He says he can’t remember that night. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to.’ The eyes behind the small glasses focus on David’s face, waiting for a reaction. The thinning hair shines like wire against the light. David has a bad feeling; he wonders how he knows everything – and, more importantly, what he knows. Without saying anything, he opens the door and lets the man in.
The man acknowledges this with a smile, nods at him politely and enters. His pale, colourless eyes dart across the parquet floors, walls and furniture. In the living room, he sits on one of the two grey sofas and crosses his legs like it’s his own home.
David watches him silently. With his smooth grey trench coat and his pale skin, he almost disappears on the sofa. An accountant, David thinks, were it not for the gun in his coat pocket.
‘Nice flat you’ve got here. A bit empty, but nice.’
David grimaces. ‘What do you know about my parents’ death?’
The man ignores the question and gestures to the rectangular stain on the wall. ‘Where has the lovely Dali study gone? I thought you had it right there on that wall.’
David stares at him, mouth hanging open – and then closes it again.
‘Gone? Like everything else?’
‘Who the hell are you?’ David whispers.
‘Your brother worked for me for a long time,’ the man says. ‘A very long time.’
David considers the man without saying a word.
‘They screwed you, David. That settlement was a damned disgrace. Treasure Castle was your format. You should have let it go to trial. Your chances weren’t bad at all.’
‘What do you know?’ David says.
The man shrugs. ‘You don’t like to fight, right?’
David’s uneasy feeling grows stronger. ‘What the hell do you know about the night my parents were murdered?’ he asks in a husky voice.
‘How deep in debt are you now, David? Two million? Three?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘With the mortgage on the flat, the losses from the property fund, the legal fees and the remains of the settlement, it might actually be three million on the button, isn’t that so?’
‘Why do I have the feeling,’ David asks, ‘that you know more about my life than I do?’
The man leans forward. ‘Listen, David. To be honest, I really don’t understand why you aren’t angry. You have every reason to be. They made a fool of you and stripped you naked . . .’
David’s mouth is suddenly bone dry. He wants to say something, but nothing comes to mind. All of a sudden, he thinks of Shona. He looks at the stove in the kitchen: 9.23 p.m. She will be furious.
‘I can help you, my boy. I can help you climb out of it.’
‘You?’ David looks at the man sceptically and then lets out a bitter laugh. ‘How do you propose to do that? Give me the three million?’
The man chuckles and shakes his head. ‘No, certainly not. I’ll give you something much better. Something you need far more urgently.’
‘I can’t imagine what that could be.’
‘I’ll give you back your self-respect, my boy. Your pride!’ Full of energy, the man’s eyes flash from behind his glasses. ‘I could give you back the rights to your format.’
David stares at him. His hands get clammy, his heart beats faster. ‘I . . . I’m not sure I want to hear what I’ll have to do for that.’
‘You just have to tell me where I can find Gabriel.’
‘Didn’t you just say that he works for you? So why don’t you know where he is?’
‘I said he worked for me.’
‘What does that mean?’ David asks, even though he’s already got an idea of what it means. ‘You gave him the boot?’
&n
bsp; ‘In a sense.’
‘Just so I understand correctly – first you kicked him out and now you’re looking for him?’
‘Let’s just say that a few things have changed. In any case, I need to find him.’
‘Why?’
The man hesitates for a moment. ‘He stole something, something very important. I need to get it back.’
David goes silent for a beat, then sighs, turns around and goes into the open kitchen, steps behind the counter, and leans heavily on it, as if he needs support.
‘So,’ the man says, ‘you help me and I’ll help you.’
David takes a deep breath. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to find him yourself. I can’t help you.’
The man’s eyes widen in feigned astonishment. ‘Are you serious?’
‘He’s my brother,’ David says. ‘Have you got a brother?’
The man looks at him. At first, he seems as if he’s lost his train of thought. Then he sighs, ‘I was afraid of this. You trust Gabriel.’
‘He’s my brother,’ David insists.
‘Then why did he lie to you?’
‘He . . . he is . . .’ David stops.
‘Or maybe you don’t consider silence a lie?’
David looks at the man, examines him. ‘How do you know what happened back then?’ he whispers.
‘Tell me where to find your brother and you’ll find out.’
‘I don’t believe a single word that’s come out of your mouth.’
‘It’s very simple,’ the man explains. His grey eyes are like pebbles – hard, smooth and lifeless. ‘You give me a little information and I will answer the most pressing question of your life.’
‘You’re lying,’ David says and swallows. ‘There was no one there that could have seen anything, except Gabriel . . . and the one who shot . . .’
The man smiles and nods.
David suddenly feels like he’s walking on an incline and is completely unbalanced.
‘There is a lot of material,’ the man says. ‘Much more than you think. The files, psychiatric evaluations, records form therapy sessions. A real goldmine when it comes to Gabriel’s dreams and nightmares – and his subconscious.’
David is dizzy and has to close his eyes for a moment. ‘Even if I wanted to tell you,’ he finally mutters, ‘I don’t know where he is.’
‘Do you actually know who it is you’re protecting?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Do you believe your brother? I mean, do you trust him?’
David looks away from the man and runs his hand across his face.
‘The one who shot your father . . .’ the man says slowly, emphasising each individual syllable, ‘. . . that was your brother.’
David’s heart stops.
Silence. No breath, no heartbeat, not even a thought.
Then his heart begins working again, pounding, hammering in his chest. ‘That’s . . . that can’t be.’
‘What can’t be?’ the man snorts. ‘That an eleven-year-old would shoot his father?’
‘I don’t believe a word of it.’
‘Look at your brother. What do you think? Why is he the way he is?’
‘He lost his parents. Isn’t that enough?’
‘You also lost your parents . . .’ The man’s gaze bores into David. ‘But you’re still a normal person. You’re calm, not violent . . . quite unlike Gabriel . . .’
David could feel the ground opening up beneath him. Gabriel’s fights at the Elisabethstift home, the attack on the director at Falkenhorst, the drug abuse, the mental hospital – all the madness. Suddenly everything seems to make sense. ‘Prove it,’ David says softly.
‘Tell me where to find your brother. Then you get the file – and your proof.’
David is chilled to the bone. He coughs, stomach acid rises in his oesophagus and a sour taste spreads through his mouth. The question comes out without his being able to stop it. ‘And – did he also shoot my mother?’
‘Have we got a deal?’
‘I don’t know,’ David mutters weakly, ‘if I can do that.’
‘Oh, you can. You just have to want to. But don’t tell him that I was here. Don’t tell him what I’ve told you. He would deny it anyway. He trusts no one. But you know that better than anyone.’
‘I . . . I have no idea if he’ll actually contact me again. I think he has other things to worry about.’
‘Because he broke out of custody? Believe me, that is exactly when one needs friends and relatives. He will call. Sooner or later.’
‘What are you going to do,’ David asks, ‘when you know where he is?’
The man shrugs and looks at David with an impervious expression. ‘I just want to find him. And I want to get back what he took from me. That’s all.’ The man gets up, surprisingly agile for his age, and leaves a business card on the grey sofa. On the thin white cardboard is a phone number and nothing else.
‘Ask for Yuri,’ he says. Without looking back, he disappears into the corridor. The blue walls cast a coloured glow on his drab coat.
Then the door slams shut and there is silence.
Chapter 32
Berlin – 18 September, 4.34 p.m.
Gabriel puts down the Berliner Zeitung and pours the remainder of his coffee into the sink. The boiled black concoction that the receptionist at Caesar’s claimed was filter coffee tastes terribly bitter. Despite the caffeine, he is heavy with fatigue, as if the pull of gravity has tripled.
The persistent buzzing of a fly that got caught between the window and the curtain in his room is getting on his nerves. It reminds him of the swarm of flies over Verena Schuster and the cloying stench.
Yesterday, the police finally found her already highly decomposed body. Shortly before that, the body of a young man who had been run over by a forty-ton lorry was identified as Jonas Schuster. The officers wanted to inform his mother and found her body spread across the kitchen table in her flat. The Berliner Zeitung cites the police spokesman, who explains that this is ‘one of the most heinous acts of crime in recent Berlin history.’
Gabriel places the empty mug on the scratched square table, rolls the paper up into a firm tube and quietly pushes the curtain aside. The orange and pink autumn sun shines softly into the room, as if the last few days never happened.
With a swift flick of the wrist, Gabriel swats at the fly with the newspaper. The buzzing ends instantly and a twisted black lump lands on the windowsill.
Gabriel lies back on the bed and sinks deep into the saggy mattress. His right shoulder has been hurting more since Jonas kicked it, his eyes burn from fatigue and the dusty air.
Ever since Jonas Schuster was run over by the massive lorry, time has been passing painfully slowly, but also far too quickly.
At least now he has a description of Liz’s kidnapper: white, around fifty years old, blond hair, the right half of his face is disfigured and he has a prosthetic hand or arm – so, a man who would have a very difficult time hiding, at least, if you knew where to look for him.
But Jonas’s death lost Gabriel his only chance to lure Liz’s kidnapper out. Now all he has left is to dig back into his lost memories, into the farthest, darkest corners of his mind, in the hope of finding something that connects him to this man.
For three days, he’s been racking his brain and sleeping very little or not at all. Even when he does manage to drift off, it’s a restless, exhausting sleep that’s full of nightmares that raise more questions than they answer.
Gabriel stares at the ceiling, but no matter how hard he tries, October 13th is and remains a blind spot.
Enough of this madness, Luke.
I can’t stop. Not any more.
It’s not worth it. Look at yourself. Do you know what you’re up against?
Spare me.
What can I say? I’m attached to your madness. Free yourself at last. She is dragging you down. Nothing more.
You really are an ar
sehole.
You confuse cause and effect. She’s hurting you, not me.
Better to hurt than to feel nothing at all, like you.
We know each other well, don’t we?
Gabriel clenches his fists.
It’s hopeless.
I’m not David.
No, certainly not. You’re Luke.
You sound just like my psychiatrist.
Careful, you wouldn’t want me getting angry!
And you, kindly stop constantly calling me –
The shrill ring of the mobile cuts through the silence. Gabriel tenses. Unknown number appears on the screen.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Gabriel.’
Gabriel inhales sharply. He knows immediately that it’s him.
‘I’m surprised that you took care of my work for me.’ The voice sounds calm and cool.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Gabriel replies. ‘What work?’
‘That useless boy,’ the voice chuckles. ‘Do you regret it already?’
Gabriel remains silent, although he would prefer to scream.
‘I would have regretted it. Cheap revenge, a lack of self-control. It would torture me. So fast, so short, that’s nothing to me. Revenge is worthless when it ends so quickly. And then the price. . .’ He laughs again. ‘How will you find me now? Me and your girl?’
‘Who the hell are you?’ Gabriel asks.
‘You can call me Val.’
‘Val,’ Gabriel repeats. Finally, a name. ‘Is that German or English?’
‘Don’t try to get me caught up in a conversation about my name. It’s amusing, but pointless. You know, I had to think for a while about what to make of the fact that you don’t know who I am any longer. And honestly, I think this is all much better than I’d hoped. A real scavenger hunt. A scavenger hunt in your mind. God, that must be exhausting. Do you have nightmares? A warm welcome to my world. You really don’t remember anything, do you? And even after the boy told you what I look like . . . He told you, didn’t he? One doesn’t forget my face so quickly. Did he tell you what I did with the other boy?’