Deep Pain

by Marcus Hünnebeck

  Spannberg reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out her pistol. The boy’s girlfriend squealed in horror.

  Florian stared at the gun. “What do you want?”

  “To kill you. Unfortunately, the fucking cops are getting in my way. You’re fucking lucky! Girl, you go outside into the hallway.”

  “Wha… what?”

  “Into the hallway!” said Spannberg. “Now!” In order for her diversion to work, Florian had to be alive, at least for the time being. This was the only way she could secure Clara’s cooperation.

  “Why?” Florian asked.

  “Because I say so. Hurry up! I also need the key to the basement.”

  “It’s hanging in the hall.”

  “Forward. Move!” Spannberg drove the teenagers down the hallway. Next to the apartment door, she discovered a key box.

  “First of all, give me the basement key.”

  Shaking, Florian opened the box.

  11

  “Shit!” Krumm said. “Florian or whoever ignored the call.”

  “Now do you believe me?” Dorfer said.

  Krumm thought feverishly. Should one of the two teenagers die, it would probably be the end of his career. He would rather scare the murderer away than risk everything. He reached for the radio, which connected him to the entire task force.

  “Team Leader Bravo, come in.”

  “This is Team Leader Bravo.”

  Dorfer hit Krumm’s arm, then gestured toward the building. The door of the Werner family’s apartment had opened.

  “Just a second,” Krumm said into the radio. He stared through the second-story window front.

  Florian’s girlfriend stepped into the hallway. Despite the distance, Krumm could see she looked scared. Scrambled, scattered, she didn’t seem to know what to do. In the hallway, she turned around and looked at something just outside their field of vision.

  “Team Leader Bravo. We have a hostage situation. The killer disguised herself as a pizza delivery guy—”

  “Person,” Dorfer interjected.

  “—and she gained access to the apartment. We need to—”

  A loud explosion shook the air. A ball of fire rose from the moped. The windshields of surrounding vehicles shattered and alarm systems went off.

  “What the hell was that?” Krumm said.

  Over the radio, Team Leader Bravo said, “She detonated a bomb in the moped.”

  Distracted by the explosion, Krumm had ignored the hallway for a few seconds. Inside the building, the person dressed in red, who no longer wore a helmet but a hood, ran downstairs with Florian’s girlfriend. They had already arrived on the second floor. No trace of the boy.

  “She’s trying to escape!” Krumm said. “Team Leader Bravo, stop her!”

  “We’re advancing cautiously,” replied the head of operations. “Possibly detonating a second explosive device.”

  Krumm understood the prudent approach. Nevertheless, he would have preferred to stop the murderer himself. A dead kid could cost him his career, but so could her escape.

  “The moped is destroyed,” Krumm said. “Where would a second explosive device be hidden?”

  “Hallway,” Dorfer suggested.

  Through the window, the person in red disappeared from sight with her hostage. They had reached the first floor, hidden now by the frosted glass of the front entrance. In the various apartments, residents stared out their windows at the burning vehicle and the heavily armed police approaching the house, submachine guns drawn.

  12

  Spannberg’s research had revealed that the Werners’ apartment block connected to the neighboring building via a basement door. The houses shared a bicycle room and a room for the laundry machines. This was her best chance to escape.

  She shoved the girl, hitting her in the back. Only with difficulty did she stay on her feet.

  “Faster!” Spannberg said.

  “I can’t!”

  They reached the cellar.

  “Sit on the floor, hands on your head.”

  The girl followed the order promptly. Spannberg rammed the key into the lock and opened it.

  “It would be better for you to sit still and keep your hands up. The cops are about to come storming in. “I don’t want them to think you’re me and shoot you by mistake.”

  Without paying further attention to the girl, Spannberg stormed forward. There were half a dozen bikes in the bicycle room. Determined, she pushed the black e-bike into the passage. There, she shucked the red delivery outfit, under which she wore black clothes. She would be hard to recognize in the dark.

  A rumble drifted down from the first floor. Cops storming the building.

  “She’s down here!” cried the girl.

  Spannberg ran with the bicycle to the back exit of the neighboring house. All cellar doors could be opened with the same key. She jammed it into the lock.

  No cops waiting for her outside. Spannberg carried the bicycle up five steps to the sidewalk. A good twenty meters away, she saw five policemen at the back.

  She swung herself onto the saddle of the e-bike and rode off. The motor of the bike kicked in and gave her a boost, throwing her back in her seat.

  The cops called after her. Because of her professional experience, Spannberg knew they would never shoot in such a confusing situation. She pedaled harder, darting out into the main road without looking left or right.

  Brakes squealed, horns blared. A Volkswagen swerved, and she saw the horrified look of the driver, felt the slipstream of the car as it whipped her hair across her face—felt the heat radiating from the engine compartment, it was that close. The front tire of her bike hit the curb, but then jumped it. She landed on the sidewalk unharmed.

  Spannberg drove to the right. The change in direction sapped her speed, which she quickly regained thanks to the motor. Sirens wailed, and blue light burned through the darkness. In one hundred meters, she could turn off the road onto a dirt track. If she reached that, she would escape.

  Gasping with exertion, Spannberg pushed the bike’s engine to a high-pitched whine. When she shoved the handlebars to the left, the rear wheel kicked out. Only with the help of the brakes did she keep it under control. Spannberg pedaled again and shot along the trail. Two hundred meters later, she allowed herself a glance back. For the time being, she had left the cops in her dust.

  January

  1

  Jonathan Albrecht sat in his favorite armchair, brooding. Since he had passed the age of fifty-four years ago, more and more often he found himself doing nothing after an exhausting day of work. Sometimes his head felt completely empty, but mostly he thought about the future.

  Already three weeks into the New Year, and of course nothing had changed. He never had understood people who expected a simple flip of the calendar to bring about positive transformation. 2019 was lousy? Then just wait for the bucket of manure 2020 has in store for you. That’s what he had told an acquaintance shortly before New Year’s Eve, someone who had been complaining excessively about the past twelve months. If a person wanted to change, he had to start with himself and not put too much stock in the promise of a brand new desktop calendar.

  Jonathan, for example, had recently been thinking more and more about taking his savings and emigrating to Thailand. There, he would surely meet a wonderful Thai woman who wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. Here in Germany he was not kept by relatives, but at best by friends like Till and Jessica, his business partner. Since he had been single for nearly half a decade, he was guaranteed to have some quirks that German women would find unbearable. For example, this sitting around in an armchair. Or his soccer marathon sessions in front of the TV, where he watched practically every live broadcast game.

  The cell phone on the coffee table rang and tore him away from his thoughts. Jonathan clambered from his chair, afraid he would miss the caller. He managed to pick up in time, although the caller ID did not report a numb
er. Maybe a client.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Mr. Albrecht?” a woman asked, sounding worried.

  “Yes. To whom am I speaking?”

  “Marlene Zimmermann. I live in the house opposite your office. It’s on fire.”

  “My office?” he said, barely able to comprehend what she was saying.

  “Right. I’ve already alerted the fire department. But I’m sure you’ll want to get there as soon as possible…”

  “Thank you! I’ll be there in five minutes. Thank you very much.”

  Jonathan shoved his cell phone into his pocket, ran into the hallway and put on his winter boots. He tore a lined jacket from the coat hook. Without putting it on, he flung open the apartment door, but immediately flinched back. The baseball bat knocked him out anyway.

  ***

  A pounding in Jonathan’s head woke him up. His face felt shattered. His right eye, when it opened, stuck together for a moment, sealed with some kind of crust. He groaned and groped for his nose, where he felt a crusty, partially congealed mess. He could smell it, as well. Taste it. Blood.

  His wrist hurt too. He tried to stretch out his hand but couldn’t. He was handcuffed to the radiator. He looked around the room. On the floor next to him he saw white towels with which someone had wiped up blood.

  “Welcome back to the living,” a woman said. He recognized the voice. The woman on the phone. What had she called herself?

  Jonathan raised his eyes as she entered the living room. He recognized her immediately. She had visited him in November because she needed to go into hiding because of a violent ex. He had helped her.

  Had the ex discovered her? Was Jonathan in this situation because of him? He looked past her but didn’t see anyone with her.

  She seemed to read his thoughts. “We’re alone,” she said. “No reason to panic.”

  Jonathan did not understand any of this. “Untie me,” he said.

  “Sorry. I can’t.”

  “What is this? Why are you doing this?”

  “I will be grateful to you for the rest of your life. Really, I promise.” The woman crouched down, far enough away that he had no chance to grab her with his free hand. “Maybe I should introduce myself,” the woman said. “My name is Franka Spannberg.”

  Stunned, Johnathan studied the woman. “No. That’s impossible.”

  “Impossible?” she said. She grabbed a hunk of her long, blond hair and pulled. The hair tore away. Next, she took the wide-frame glasses off her nose. Both had clearly disguised her actual appearance, conspiring with thick blush and black eye shadow.

  Smiling, the woman—she was Spannberg, he could see that now—pulled the false teeth out of her mouth.

  “Shit!” Johnathan said.

  “Don’t swear. The wig is as real as it can be. Not everybody can tell.”

  “I should have seen that.”

  “Be honest. You’ve been needing glasses for a while now, but you’re too vain, aren’t you? You can tell by looking at you a bit.”

  Unfortunately, she was right. He wasn’t proud of it. “What do you want from me?” Johnathan said.

  “To express my gratitude. When I barely got away from the cops, I was panicked. I knew they would find my hideout eventually. Simply disappearing from Hamburg seemed too dangerous. It’s easy to make mistakes on the run. You helped me. Going into hiding was the best option I had. You helped me realize I could just stay and constantly change address.”

  “Why come back?” Johnathan asked.

  Instead of answering, Spannberg said, “You know what I was thinking about on New Year’s?”

  He shook his head.

  “I was afraid someone might find out we had a business relationship.”

  “Even if they did, I had no clue where you were headed. For security reasons, I never know. I only give my clients tips. Advice.”

  “Oh, but with your help, the cops would find me for sure. I have to prevent that from happening.”

  “I won’t say a word. To anyone. I promise I won’t.”

  “That’s not enough for me.”

  “Please!” Johnathan said.

  He looked around frantically. At the same time, he considered crying for help. But he lived in a finished attic, and the tenants below him were currently on vacation.

  The woman reached for something out of sight. Seconds later she held a razor in her hand. Slowly, she opened it.

  “No!” Jonathan said. “Spare me, please.”

  With cold eyes, she stared at him. “I have begged for my life and dignity once before. It didn’t change anything. The world is cruel.”

  “Help!” Johnathan shouted.

  Spannberg grabbed the bloody towel and smothered him with it. He tried to strike at her with his free hand, but couldn’t muster the strength. He felt the blade, cold as her eyes, press against his neck. Then, with a sloppy, jagged slash, she cut his throat.

  2

  Spannberg jumped back, dodging the gush of blood from Albrecht’s throat, shielding some of it with the towel. He screamed for help once more, a ragged, articulate yawp at first, but a gargle by the end. Seconds later, his head sank forward till his chin rested on his chest.

  Spannberg felt pity for him. The death of the private investigator was a necessary evil. Collateral damage. She almost wished there had been an alternative. But a black spot corrupted Albrecht’s soul. About twenty years ago, he had helped the murderer Thorsten Schütze locate a woman, whom Schütze tortured for weeks before the police finally arrested him. Schütze later was sentenced to life. He wasn’t the only guilty party. Albrecht, for his part, could never claim to be completely innocent. Negligent, perhaps. Apathetic, even. But not innocent. He had paid too little attention to which clients he offered his services.

  Carelessly, Spannberg threw the towel to the ground. She donned the blond wig and thick glasses, then went into the hall where Albrecht’s jacket was lying. Inside she found a bunch of keys. She slipped them into her trouser pocket. Since Albrecht was the only tenant on the top floor, she could leave the apartment safely. The house had an elevator, which she summoned. On the way down, she prayed quietly that no one on the first floor would meet her. Fate answered her prayers.

  ***

  Ten minutes later, she entered the private investigator’s office, which was not on fire. The phone call had only served to distract Albrecht and to make it easier to overpower him.

  After a short hesitation, Spannberg turned on the light. After all, it was only half past six. Not at all unlikely for someone to still be working at this time. She sat down at the PC and booted it up. It was not password protected. Efficiently and quickly, she checked documents created within the last few months. She found nothing that could incriminate her. She shut down the computer and opened the file shelves, too, inspecting them one by one. Nothing. Finally, she removed the accelerant from the bag she had brought with her and distributed it between the two rooms. Even if there were traces somewhere that pointed to her, hopefully the fire would destroy them.

  At the door, she lit a match and tossed it into the room. She was gone before the whoosh of fire could even stir her hair.

  Spannberg had a long drive ahead of her. And at the end of it, her new hideout. She would live there for the next few weeks. Soon, though, she planned to return to the Hanseatic city to continue working through her death list.

  3

  Till Buchinger’s office sat on a small side street not far from Outer Alster Lake. He often used the paths there to collect his thoughts. Sometimes he walked with clients, whenever he sensed they felt uncomfortable in a closed room.

  Property by the lake did not come cheap. But shortly after the wedding, Antje and he had taken out term life insurance on each other for half a million dollars. Since her death, Till hadn’t needed to worry much about money. He would’ve worked three times as hard to keep Antje alive, so that the insurance money would never have been paid out
in the first place, but life had its own designs. He could only honor her now, and it had been Antje’s dream to have a place near the lake.

  That Monday morning, Till sat at his desk writing a final report for a client. The man had hired him to track down his missing daughter, who had disappeared after a family dispute. Till had discovered profiles of her on two internet platforms and had found contact addresses relatively easily in this way. However, he would only give the father the e-mail address. In his eyes, the adult daughter had the right to decide for herself whether she wanted to receive visits from her parents.

  He was just beginning the last paragraph of the report when the office doorbell rang. Till glanced at the small monitor, which was automatically activated by the bell. Outside the front door stood a man whom Till recognized immediately, although the two had never spoken to each other before.

  What did he want?

  Till activated the intercom. “Hello?”

  “Good morning, Mr. Buchinger. I am Chief Inspector Ludger Krumm. Could you spare me a moment?”

  Till did not inquire about the reason for the visit. Had another inspector been standing outside the door, he would not have inquired either. He pressed the button that disengaged the door lock, went to the office door, and waited for the inspector.

  “Good morning,” Krumm said again, extending his hand.

  Till returned the firm handshake. “Can I see your badge for a minute?”

  Krumm obliged.

  “Come in,” Till said. He led the policeman to a cozy visitor’s corner. “Have a seat. How can I help you?”

  Krumm sat on the sofa for two. “This is about the murder of Jonathan Albrecht,” he said.

  The name of his dead friend hit Till unexpectedly like a blow to the solar plexus. He let himself fall into the armchair. More than a week ago, his world had stopped for the second time, thanks to death. Because of the murder investigation, Jonathan was still not buried. The police had not yet released the body.