Deep Pain

by Marcus Hünnebeck

  In the days before Sandra’s disappearance, he had noticed something was wrong. But even back then, Spannberg’s vendetta had kept him on tenterhooks, so he had failed to put thumbscrews on Sandra. He had been too tired for that in the evening. An unforgivable mistake that he would never make again. He imagined her panic when he inevitably showed up unannounced in her new life. To take what she had denied him. Krumm sipped his beer. With the back of his hand, he wiped the corners of his mouth. Once Spannberg was in custody and he had tracked down Sandra, he would work overtime to spend a lot of time with his ex.

  9

  Till had been sitting at his desk for five minutes when the office doorbell rang. Once again, Chief Inspector Krumm stood at the front door, and, again, Till opened it without asking why he was visiting.

  “I did not expect to see you again so soon,” Till said. Like the day before, he led Krumm to the visitors’ corner, where the inspector immediately sat down.

  “I did a lot of thinking last night,” Krumm said. “And then this morning I had an interesting conversation with the chief. The public expects results. Spannberg could be in some fucking third-world country, but I’m supposed to track her down as soon as possible.” He sounded offended.

  “I hope you don’t think I’ve found out anything since last night,” Till said. “To be honest, I haven’t found the time to think about it. My clients come first, unless the Hamburg police hire me.” Till stepped to the black-painted sideboard, which had a coffee machine on it. “Care for some caffeine?”

  “That would be nice.”

  While the machine was working, Till secretly observed the chief inspector, who blatantly looked around the office. Was he hoping to discover traces of his ex?

  Till returned to the couch with two filled coffee cups. He handed one of them to his guest and sat down. Without any visible pleasure, Krumm took his first sip.

  He did not take up Till’s hint at hiring him for a fee. “How do you help clients when they want to go underground?” Krumm said.

  Till blew slightly into the cup and sipped on it. He enjoyed making the policeman wait. “There is no general answer to this question.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I must first distinguish whether it’s a man or a woman who wants to go into hiding.”

  “What’s the difference for you?”

  “The motivation for taking such a radical step. Remember one thing: going underground means leaving your previous life completely behind you. Men usually do this to avoid commitments. Repaying old debts, alimony claims, things like that. Women, on the other hand, very often want to disappear from the radar of a violent ex-partner.” Till waited for Krumm to glance at him, but the chief inspector quickly looked into his coffee cup instead.

  “How intensively do you check the background stories of your clients? For example, to prevent you from helping a murderer escape?”

  “Of course I check certain details. But first and foremost I rely on my instinct. Just like you as a detective in dealing with criminals, I have also developed a sense for when people lie.”

  Krumm snorted in disbelief. “That’s enough for you?”

  Till smiled. “You can’t do our job without knowing people.”

  “Albrecht was probably similarly negligent. He paid for it with his life.”

  Instantly a retort burned on Till’s tongue, but he suppressed it with a heavy heart. He didn’t want to upset the chief inspector too much. Having an enemy in the police force could unnecessarily complicate his professional life.

  Krumm drank the last of his coffee. “Okay. Hypothetical for you. A woman comes to you claiming to be stalked by her ex.”

  “First, I would ask you if she reported the man.”

  “I doubt Spannberg would have said yes.”

  “True. Jonathan would have asked to see the report. So let’s assume that this alleged stalking victim gives a good reason why she can’t file a complaint.”

  Krumm nodded.

  “Then I would give her advice for the coming weeks,” Till said. “Pay cash for purchases, avoid social networks, spread false information. I would help her get prepaid phones, use temporary e-mail addresses, request virtual phone numbers.”

  “Is that all you can tell me?” Krumm said. “I’ll never find her like this.”

  Till also emptied his coffee. Was the policeman talking about the murderess, or his ex? “Then I need specific information about the person you’re looking for,” Till said, deliberately omitting a name.

  Krumm hesitated. “That kind of puts me in a corner. The details are sensitive.”

  “Should I sign a non-disclosure agreement?” Till said.

  The chief inspector sighed. “We suspect Spannberg has an accomplice.”

  “Wow! The public doesn’t know about that yet. What makes you think so?”

  “She seems to spy on the victims and their habits for weeks or months. That takes time when you have to do everything on your own. In the current case, for example, she knew Florian Werner’s parents were out of town. She also deposited an e-bike in the basement of the neighboring house. It definitely did not belong to anyone in the household. With this knowledge, we inspected the old crime scenes again and came across clues that also suggested escape plans.”

  “But you have no idea who’s helping her?” Till asked. “After all, she kills people whose only crime is to have some sort of connection to three imprisoned murderers.”

  Krumm’s eyebrows knitted together. “No. We found no evidence that there were people in her life before the rape who could be considered accomplices. And what she did after the prison riot is largely unknown to us. She moved several times. Former neighbors hardly remember her. In the various hideouts we’ve identified since her escape, there was no evidence of an accomplice.”

  “Someone willing to help her commit murder must be very close to her.”

  Krumm nodded. “We’re sure that if we find him or her, we’ll also catch Spannberg in the net.”

  “What else can you tell me? Personal?”

  “In all the accommodations, we found a lot of unpackaged soap. Also pieces of soap in the garbage, hardly used. Seems maybe she’s a germophobe.”

  “Triggered by the rape?”

  “We suspect so.”

  “Is the soap of a certain brand?”

  “The private label of a well-known drugstore chain.”

  “Then her apartment won’t be far from the nearest store in this chain.”

  “Yes. At least that was true of the hideouts we’ve discovered so far.”

  “What else have you got for me?” Till asked.

  Krumm scratched the back of his head. “She’s from Lower Saxony, not Hamburg.”

  “Small town or big city?”

  “Hannover,” Krumm said.

  “From Hanover to Hamburg. Jonathan has often recommended his clients go underground in big cities anyway. With Spannberg’s past, he certainly didn’t deviate from that. Do you know what hobbies she pursued before the prison riot?”

  “She used to own a riding share here in Hamburg. She quit two years ago.”

  “When she started making concrete plans for revenge,” Till said.

  “We suspect she quit due to financial reasons.”

  “No,” Till said. “Women and horses, that is a very special bond. I have met clients who would rather starve than give up riding. What else do you have?”

  “She had some cabaret subscriptions before the incident. But she quickly canceled them after the rape.”

  “Probably because she couldn’t stand people laughing anymore. Are her parents still alive?”

  “No.”

  “Siblings?”

  “She was an only child.”

  “Traces of pets in the last known homes?”

  “Negative,” Krumm said.

  Till asked for more details, but the information Krumm gave him was not very revealing.<
br />
  “Okay, I’ll think about it. I’ll do some research on the internet and get back to you. But you shouldn’t expect miracles. Someone who’s enlisted Jonathan’s help will not be easy to find.”

  Krumm’s cell phone rang. He reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and pulled it out. “I have to get this. It’s my partner.” He put the phone to his ear. “What is it, Bastian?” He listened and seemed more dissatisfied with every second. “Shit! That’s not what we agreed. I’ll be in my office in ten minutes.” Krumm ended the call without a word and put the phone back in his pocket. “I have to go. The sooner you call, the better.”

  “I’m doing everything I can,” Till said.

  The inspector left the office in a hurry.

  Till looked after him. Had he told him too much? Among other things, Krumm’s ex had proven to be a passionate volleyball player. Would Krumm now scour all German volleyball clubs above a certain playing level? Till hoped that Sandra had taken his tip to give up the sport.

  He waited five minutes to see if Krumm would return, then sat down at the PC and called up Facebook. Almost all the police officers he knew personally or professionally did not use social media under their real names. Nevertheless, many of them still used the platform. From Krumm’s ex, Till knew the name under which the chief inspector operated his profile. Gerade Aus 82, a corruption of his surname in combination with his year of birth. Till typed the name into the search field. At the top of the results appeared the police officer’s profile. He had not posted a single photo of his own face. However, Till saw two photographs of Krumm from behind, shirtless, playing sports. Much more interesting, however, was the link to a video platform posted the evening before. Gerade Aus 82 had linked to a video for a classic song, “Every Breath You Take” by the Police.

  “Shit,” Till whispered softly.

  He skimmed Krumm’s posts over the last few months. Nothing since Christmas. In any case, Krumm had shared very little in public last year. He had only eighty-seven virtual friends. Maybe he shared his posts exclusively with them. But he had been much more active in the time before Sandra’s disappearance. Till even found a posting that showed two intertwined hands. Krumm and Sandra?

  He returned to the linked video. The song, which some people mistakenly thought was a romantic love song, told of a person who watched his partner’s every move, her every breath.

  Was it a coincidence that Krumm posted the link yesterday? Or was he hoping to gain control over his ex again soon?

  10

  Till Buchinger and Jessica Sturm met for lunch at their favorite Italian restaurant in Hamburg’s St. Georg district. After they had selected from the lunch menu and ordered mineral water, Till reported on the chief inspector’s second visit.

  “Can we do anything with the information?” Till asked. “You knew Jonathan’s MO better than I did. He taught you much more.”

  The waitress brought them oven-warm bread and a homemade dip next to the large bottle of mineral water. She poured them a drink and promised that the food would be served in ten minutes at the latest.

  Jessica reached for the bread, dipped a piece in the eggplant sauce, and chewed with relish. “Spannberg was born in Hannover? Pretty generic German accent in that region.”

  “That means she could be hiding anywhere in Germany. In contrast to someone with a Low German accent, who would stand out like a colorful Bavarian dog.”

  “Good for her, bad for us.”

  Till nodded. “Let’s concentrate on her hobbies. Equestrian sports, cabaret.”

  “I guess you can ride in any major city.”

  “So do you agree then that Johnathan recommended a big city to her?”

  “One hundred percent,” Jessica said. “A big city plant like her? There is no alternative.”

  Till also ate a piece of bread. They were not fishing entirely in the mud, but there was another possible complication. “I learned from Jonathan to recommend subletting apartments.”

  “He gave me the same tip,” Jessica said. “And the clients are not supposed to contact real estate portals or real estate agents, but to look for notices in supermarkets. Or keep an eye on newspaper ads. Ideally, they should change their address several times in the first year of their disappearance. From one sublease to the next.”

  “Krumm fears Spannberg may have an accomplice,” Till said.

  “The accomplice could then rent the apartment in question. That doesn’t make it any easier for us.”

  Till grunted. “This is going to be tough.”

  “Time consuming. You know I’m in the middle of this messy…”

  He reached over the table and touched her hand. Jessica shouldn’t have felt guilty. Her current clients needed her attention too. “I owe him more than you do anyway,” Johnathan said.

  “Bullshit! He was my partner.”

  “Without his support I wouldn’t have been able to bear Antje’s death. I’ll find Spannberg. That I promise. And as soon as I find out where she’s hiding, I’ll get word to Krumm.”

  Jessica frowned, but did not contradict him. Till sensed how much she worried about him locating the murderer alone. Nevertheless, she agreed with his assessment. Krumm’s Facebook post from the previous evening had a threatening character. At all costs, Till had to avoid giving the chief inspector ideas on how to track down his ex.

  Till re-examined all the previous clues. Big city, equestrian sports, drugstore chain, cabaret scene. Maybe there was a supermarket nearby, where apartments were available. Not much to start with. Still better than mud.

  11

  She squirmed on the wooden table, which wobbled under her weight. One of the men clasped her throat with his muscular forearm and, with his free hand, held her right arm.

  “Go, shooter! Easy bull’s-eye,” he said, laughing.

  A second man held one of the woman’s legs and pawed at her breast again and again.

  Finally, the third man approached the table. “Not my type,” he said, “but the devil eats flies in times of need.”

  Spannberg awoke, bathed in sweat and thrashing against hands that weren’t there. Breathless, she sat up in bed.

  Would the dreams ever fade?

  She freed herself from the thick blanket. Her nightgown was sweaty, dirty. She went into the bathroom, where she turned on the hot water in the shower. Since it took time to reach the desired temperature, she used the toilet first and then took off her nightgown, which ended up in the laundry basket. She took out a bar of soap from the cupboard, unpacked it, and put it on the shower tray. Finally, she stepped under the hot water jet, which almost instantly drove away the shivering.

  As she soaped her body, she thought of the three prisoners. She had built up a relationship of trust with all of them and had learned a lot of personal things about them. Nevertheless, the bastards had not hesitated to use her in order to satisfy their urges. They would suffer for that. Helplessly watching as more and more people in their lives died. They could do nothing to stop her, just as she had been unable to prevent her own assault.

  Spannberg took the shower head in her hand and let the jet massage every inch of her skin. Although almost all of her potential victims lived in Hamburg, it had been absolutely necessary to disappear from the scene. In the Hanseatic city, the cops would have found her at some point. Here in Saxony, Spannberg was able to hold out undisturbed. Only to return gloriously and execute the remaining people on her list. She just wondered how long she needed to wait. Days? Weeks? Or, worst case, months? Until then, she had to live under the radar. Maybe her soul would recover a little during this time.

  ***

  An hour and a half later, Spannberg had completed her daily sports program and showered for the second time that day. A look in the refrigerator told her it was time to stock up. She also wanted to drive to downtown Leipzig to buy tickets for a cabaret event. Unfortunately, it was out of the question to order them by email. She took one
tip from the late Jonathan Albrecht to heart with particular care: always pay cash, never with a credit card.

  Outside, temperatures were just below the ten-degree mark. In the middle of winter, spring was trying to bud.

  She decided on a lined, hooded sweat jacket. At first she would walk to the city. The box office of the cabaret promoter opened at ten o’clock. This early in the morning, she would probably run into very few people. On the way back, she could buy groceries.

  Spannberg put on the hood and checked herself in the mirror. In combination with the scarf, which was still seasonally appropriate, only her eyes were visible. Satisfied, she turned away and stepped to the apartment door. She took a look through the peephole, then left the apartment and quickly crossed the hall. At the front door, she looked left and right. No one. With her head bowed, Spannberg hurried away.

  12

  Ronald Bäcker was still sitting in his car after the doctor’s visit, informing his employer that he was unfortunately unfit for work the rest of the week. Just as he finished the phone call, he saw the front door of the apartment building open. Marcel’s subtenant came out. Given the weather, she was dressed surprisingly warm. She wore a hood and a scarf that covered most of her face. She also looked around conspicuously before heading off down the street.

  Bäcker watched her until she disappeared from sight. She seemed like a person who was hiding. Hiding from what though?

  He had liked his new neighbor very much when they met by chance. She was completely his type. His last relationship had been a while back, and in its final phase it had taken some unpleasant turns. Besides, it would be extremely convenient to get involved with a woman who lived in the same place. He could be a good friend to her. If his assumption was correct, she desperately needed a confidant. Someone to look after her. Someone to protect her in a dangerous situation.

  But before he would take such a risk, he needed to find out more about her. Ideally even what she was fleeing from. A guy maybe? A jealous ex?