Cut: The international bestselling serial killer thriller

by Marc Raabe

  ‘Yes,’ Liz says and swallows.

  ‘How long now?’

  ‘A . . . a while . . .’

  ‘Why did you have to interfere here?’ The question floats through the room like a ghost, as if Valerius were here and there. ‘I was entitled to his death. It was mine, damn it. It was my death! I wanted to see him die. His arrogant expression, his gentlemanly posturing, his fondness for all of these pictures here, all the big titles. Temptation, hell, paradise – nothing but a shitty facade, empty drivel. What do you know about temptation when your name is Victor von Braunsfeld, when money pours out of your arse like diarrhoea. When you can buy everything for your paradise. When you are too cowardly for any temptation that can’t be bought with all the money in the world. Hell, Liz, it’s only fascinating when seen from the outside. I would have pushed him in, taught him humility. He should have been looking into my eyes as he perished. And you, you just had to interfere, just like that, you get between me and my death.’

  ‘I . . . I’m sorry,’ Liz says, her voice shaking. ‘I understand that –’

  ‘You understand nothing. Nothing! It’s all just pathetic drivel.’

  ‘If my father had left me in a psychiatric clinic for thirty years –’

  ‘Psychiatric clinic?’ Val hisses. ‘I wasn’t in a clinic. Oh no.’

  Liz is silent.

  ‘He told you that, right?’

  Liz nods automatically and then realises that he can’t see her in the dark.

  ‘I knew it,’ Valerius whispers.

  Apparently, he didn’t need her answers at all. Or he can see me, shoots into her head.

  ‘You let him make a fool of you, Liz, like all the others. He was always very big on that.’

  ‘What . . . what do you mean?’

  ‘With a psychiatric institute he would’ve had too much to explain. He would have had to say that I was his son. Would have had to sign documents with his own name. He would have had to stand by me,’ Valerius whispers. His voice seems to be dripping down from the ceiling, right into Liz’s ear. ‘No, Liz. He built me a prison, a cell, just for me. He locked me up there alone for almost thirty years.’

  ‘Oh god,’ Liz breathes out the words.

  Valerius laughs quietly. ‘You know it first-hand. I made sure you got to spend some time there. A cellar, carved into the rocks in the middle of Switzerland.’

  Liz’s throat constricts. The house near Wassen. Von Braunsfeld held his son prisoner for thirty years in the cellar of his own Swiss chalet, built specifically for that purpose, without anyone knowing about it.

  ‘He may as well have buried me alive. He would’ve done better to kill me, but he was too much of a coward for that. He just pretended I was dead. After he had built the house, he never set foot inside it again. Do you know what he did? He bought me a nurse with his fucking money. Her name was Bernadette, a frustrated old hag who brought me food and toilet paper. The greatest excitement was a few books, cheap novels or medical texts – if didn’t matter. That was the only topic I could discuss with her: medicine. And why she never finished her studies. And then she just dropped dead one day. Boom. Over. And no one noticed. How could they? There was no one there. So, I went hungry. The only thing I had was running water. For forty-three days. Do you know what that’s like? Then came Yvette. The next nurse, or maybe prison guard is the right description. She never opened the door, not a single goddamned time. And believe me, I would watch and linger every time someone knocked, every time!’

  ‘How . . . how did you get out of there?’ Liz stutters, shocked.

  ‘I knew that Yvette was just as lonely as me. She was younger than Bernadette. That was his mistake – he should’ve got me another old hag. When you’re young, you can’t keep a man locked up in a prison for decades and also lead a carefree life. So, we talked; somehow, it was almost like a marriage, except that the bars were always there. And she never got too close to the bars. Never. Just this one time last year, in October, only very briefly. I grabbed her. The space between the bars was big enough for my arm. And the foolish woman was so careless, she had the key on her with all of the other keys to the house. When I stuck it in the lock, I nearly broke it. It would hardly turn.’

  ‘And Yvette? What . . .’

  ‘I could have killed her. The desire was almost overpowering. But it was . . . it couldn’t happen. I locked her up in my place. And later I was glad. I could use her when you came, I had someone that could take care of you.’

  Liz is dizzy. With both hands, she feels her way around the column just to get away from his voice. ‘What do you want with me?’ she whispers hoarsely.

  ‘You already know,’ Valerius quietly exclaims. ‘I want you to die for me.’

  The fear burns like acid on her skin. ‘Why?’ she asks.

  ‘I’ve already told you.’

  ‘Because of October 13th?’

  ‘Yes, but now it will have to happen sooner. Your fault. This is all your fault.’

  ‘What happened on October 13th?’

  ‘He never told you about it, did he?’

  ‘No.’

  Silence.

  Suddenly, the light in the crypt is glaringly bright and Liz has to close her eyes.

  ‘Look at me,’ Valerius demands.

  Liz squints past the column and sees him and his split face.

  ‘Your Gabriel is the reason I became this monster. And your Gabriel is the reason why my father locked me away. I was young, just learning to spread my wings. I was ready. Ready to enter his world. I would’ve flown higher than he ever had, much higher. I had only just begun. Until he came, your Gabriel. The name alone! I should have known. A fucking archangel.’

  Chapter 49

  Berlin – 28 September, 6.57 a.m.

  ‘And this von Braunsfeld,’ Gabriel asks, ‘now what is that –’

  ‘Stop, stop, in there!’ David waves his arms around and points left.

  Gabriel spins the steering wheel and makes a sharp turn from Kronprinzessinnenweg onto Wannseebadweg. The worn tyres of the Saab 900 skid across the wet asphalt.

  ‘God, shit. Can you please not drive so fast? I have to give the car back in one piece.’

  ‘Mhm. So, what’s he like, this von Braunsfeld? Why did Liz interview him?’ Gabriel presses on the accelerator.

  David holds tightly on to the door handle and looks at the dashboard, where the speedometer needle is continuously climbing. ‘He’s on the German top ten list, the man is a billionaire.’

  ‘And how did he make his billions?’

  ‘It’s hard to say specifically, but it started in the seventies and eighties in publishing, and then later in the private television market. He also has shares in DEW.’

  ‘The energy company?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Gabriel stops talking as he steers the Saab through a right turn and grazes the kerb. There’s a crunching sound and the car jumps left. David holds his tongue.

  ‘Didn’t you say he fired you? So, he was also your boss?’

  ‘I worked for TV2 like Liz. The station belongs to his media group, but Liz was always freelance, while I had a permanent job.’

  ‘Great,’ Gabriel mutters. ‘And you know who still works for TV2?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Yuri Sarkov. Python handles all security systms for the station.’

  David looks at him from the side. ‘You mean that Sarkov and von Braunsfeld know each other? But how is that part of it?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but somehow it all goes together. That house at Kadettenweg 107 that von Braunsfeld’s ex-wife owned was empty for over thirty years. Yuri tried everything to keep me away from it. And then this whole thing with the film that I allegedly stole from the safe there . . . Why is Yuri after a tape that was in von Braunsfeld’s ex-wife’s safe? It must have been the same film that Val had been looking for in Dad’s lab. What the hell is on there? And, most importantly: what does Liz want with von Braunsfeld,
and why is she suddenly free?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ David says. ‘And what I also don’t understand is: if Liz was really kidnapped, why hasn’t she called you now that she’s free? That would be the first thing I’d do.’

  Gabriel makes a face. ‘Because I don’t have my mobile any more. Instead, I’ve been dragging hers around with me everywhere, but there’s no way for her to know that. Maybe she tried calling my old number at first. I know she also asked that Pierra woman for your number . . .’

  ‘But what does she want from von Braunsfeld? Do you think that von Braunsfeld is Val? Maybe that’s why Sarkov didn’t want to give a name.’

  Gabriel shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so. Von Braunsfeld is too old.’

  The Saab nearly flies onto the bridge to Schwanenwerder and Gabriel takes his foot off the gas. ‘Where to now?’

  ‘Just keep going straight over the bridge. Then you’ll end up right on Inselstrasse.’

  The tyres tear through a puddle, throwing a metre-high wave out on either side of the car.

  ‘What happened with von Braunsfeld’s wife?’ Gabriel asks.

  ‘A tragic story,’ David answers. ‘Jill, his wife, is, or rather, was from Canada and a real beauty. The two were the perfect couple and the tabloids practically mobbed her. She played along and went to all the parties and galas and whatever came up. At some point, her public appearances got more and more infrequent and she essentially just went into hiding. The papers wrote about their separation and divorce in the seventies. When it first began to get ugly between the two of them, she swerved off the road in her Mercedes Cabriolet and flipped over several times. She was killed on the spot. Later, they determined that her blood-alcohol level was well over the limit. The whole thing was swept under the rug by the coroner. Apparently, she had long-term booze problems. And at the end of the seventies, their son disappeared, too.

  ‘They had children?’

  ‘A son, yes. Hang on, what was his name?’

  Gabriel slows down without thinking about it. He can picture the photo on the mantelpiece in the house on Kadettenweg – the black-haired and hauntingly beautiful woman with dark shadows under her eyes and the young blond man. ‘The son is missing? How come?’

  ‘No idea. The way people just disappear. It was right after his eighteenth birthday. Damn it, what was his name?’ David furrows his brow. ‘Well, whatever. In any case, he was probably celebrating and then went off somewhere and has been missing ever since. But they never found a body.’

  Gabriel nods, deep in thought, and drives slowly along the narrow bridge. The metal grate in the asphalt at the end of the bridge rattles as the tyres drive over it.

  ‘Bloody hell, I can’t remember anything,’ David complains. ‘The boy’s name . . . hang on, something Roman, Mark . . . Markus. That’s it. Markus Valerius von Brauns—’

  Gabriel slams on the brakes, stopping the car in the middle of the street. Thin, light-grey clouds billow out of the exhaust.

  ‘Valerius?’ Gabriel whispers. ‘Oh god. Val! Of course.’

  Gabriel pulls over and switches off the engine. ‘What house number?’ he asks hoarsely.

  ‘I don’t know, I think it’s fourteen. A double-wing iron gate. The house is light brown brick.’

  Gabriel throws open the door and storms down Inselstrasse.

  ‘Hey! Hey, wait,’ David calls. He gets out, closes his door and Gabriel’s and then hobbles after him. ‘Why aren’t we taking the car?’

  ‘You want to park in front of the house and honk?’

  ‘You really want to go in there?’

  Gabriel doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even turn around.

  David stops. ‘Gabriel, I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Then stay here and watch your Saab.’

  ‘It’s not my Saab,’ David shouts and looks at Gabriel.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ David finally groans. Then he starts limping onward. Soon, Gabriel is standing in front of a gate that is opened a crack. On each of the stone gateposts is an oblong camera. Gabriel stares up at them and then pushes the gate. It swings open silently and David watches as Gabriel slips through.

  Chapter 50

  Berlin – 28 September, 7.24 a.m.

  The sun breaks through the clouds in the south-east for a moment and shines down on the villa. The shadows of the surrounding trees stretch towards the brick building and leaves swirl down to the ground like confetti.

  David hurries after Gabriel. He can feel the bandage pressing against the wound in his leg, but the medication numbs the pain. Giving it a wide berth, they run around the villa and approach from behind.

  David feels the sweat on his palms, cold and slippery. What the hell am I doing here? He thinks about Sarkov and the last words he said to him that day. Miserable coward. The contempt in his voice had clung to him.

  ‘You see that?’ Gabriel whispers.

  David flinches. ‘What?’

  ‘The door.’ Gabriel points to the terrace door at the back of the villa.

  David peers in that direction. ‘It’s open,’ he mumbles, surprised.

  ‘And what do you think?’ Gabriel asks.

  ‘I don’t like it. Not at all. Either von Braunsfeld is sitting in there, happily clueless, eating breakfast and left the door open to get some air, or it’s a trap. But either way,’ David whispers, ‘if we go in there, we’re in trouble.’

  Gabriel stares at the open door and nods, thinking.

  David sighs with relief. Despite all of the madness, apparently Gabriel is still capable of learning and, unlike before, open to sensible considerations – even when they come from his little brother. And now? What will you tell him now? To go to the police?

  ‘Does von Braunsfeld have any staff?’ Gabriel asks in a muffled voice.

  David shrugs. ‘He probably couldn’t live in such a big place without any help. But I have no idea when they’d show up. From what I know, the old man really values his privacy. But I wouldn’t –’

  ‘We’ll risk it,’ Gabriel mutters and hurries toward the villa, crouched down the whole way. The wet, freshly cut grass rustles beneath his feet. It must have rained a lot overnight.

  ‘Hey! Wait –’ David says, but Gabriel has already reached the villa. Under cover of the windowless basement, he stays close to the brick wall and sneaks over to the staircase.

  ‘Fucking shit,’ David hisses. He clenches his fists and limps up the stairs after Gabriel. Taupe curtains blow gently in the breeze. The swishing sound they make is eerie in the silence.

  ‘The coast is clear,’ Gabriel whispers and then enters the living room.

  As David steps through the open doorway, it feels like he’s crossing a line. There’s no turning back now.

  He continues following Gabriel through the living room and his eyes dart from one painting to the next. Monet, Renoir, an unmistakable Picasso over in the corner. Alarm bells go off in his head. No one with such valuable paintings would leave the door open like that! It’s also just as cold inside as it is outside. Without a sound, Gabriel opens the door to hallway. A lively gas flame flickers in an antique lantern hanging from the ceiling of the marble hall. There is a wrought-iron railing along the matching marble staircase leading upstairs and then another, much smaller staircase leading down into the cellar. Gabriel freezes on the spot, seizes David hard by the arm and points down the cellar stairs.

  At the foot of the stairs are two large animal carcasses, apparently dogs, in the middle of a large black puddle.

  Gabriel’s hand is like a clamp on David’s forearm and it keeps him from running out of the house.

  Without batting an eye, Gabriel holds his finger up to his lips, points to himself and then down to the cellar. Then he points to David and indicates that he should stay where he is.

  David nods. It’s hard for him to swallow. His throat is dry. He looks at Gabriel as he climbs over the dogs without making the slightest sound. As he disappears through the cellar door, his face
is tense and pale. He’s just as scared as me, David thinks. With a soft, echoing click, the cellar door closes and the silence takes hold of David.

  Miserable coward, Sarkov whispers in his head.

  He looks up; his eyes follow the railing to the first floor. He reluctantly starts moving and tries to control the ugly monster inside of him that’s rebelling with all its might.

  Each step is a shot aimed at the monster. Each step a bite out of the monster.

  On the first-floor landing, David stops and looks around. The light is switched on, as if someone had just been there. There is a hallway in front of him with eight doors, four on each side.

  Everything inside of him screams: get out of here!

  The open door, the dead dogs, the crushing silence. But he can’t take his eyes off the doors. There is a shiny brass door handle on the left in front of him with a couple of dull spots, maybe a greasy handprint.

  David cautiously turns the handle and the door swings open. The light is also on in this room, where a heavy antique writing desk sits in the middle of the space. David steps into the room as if drawn by a magnet and looks around – and then freezes.

  On a grey chaise longue by the door he sees Yuri Sarkov, tied up like a parcel and lying there with his eyes wide open. And those eyes are looking at him.

  Pull yourself together! He’s tied up!

  David suppresses his impulse to run and quietly shuts the door. His knees tremble as a feeling somewhere between triumph and uncertainty comes over him. He cautiously removes Sarkov’s gag.

  ‘Glad you’re here, David,’ Sarkov gasps.

  ‘Really?’ David asks.

  ‘Listen, David, no matter how angry you are – you’re really angry, aren’t you? I can see it in your face. No matter what, we have to get out of here. Otherwise we won’t make it.’

  ‘To be honest, I couldn’t care less if you make it.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, David. Believe me, this is all too much for you. Is Gabriel here?’

  David narrows his eyes. ‘He’s looking for Liz downstairs.’

  ‘Untie me. We have a better chance of getting out of here in one piece if we’re together. We have to warn him.’