Starke’s cell phone rang.
“Hello?” he said, and then listened for a while. Starke’s face remained unreadable. “I’ll tell him.” With these words, the Leipzig chief inspector ended the call.
Dorfer lowered his head. “Were there any deaths in the explosion?” he asked.
“Two colleagues.”
“Ludger?”
“Yes. I’m very sorry about your partner.”
“How did it happen?”
“The explosive charge was placed under Bäcker’s body. Your partner lifted the body to identify it, which triggered the explosion.”
“Oh, God.”
“Did your friend have family?”
“Fortunately no wife, no children. His parents are still alive. I met them a few times. Good-hearted people with bad health problems. Ludger’s father has cancer, his mother has very advanced arthrosis. I don’t know how to tell them this gently. I have to call my wife.”
“Do that.”
“What’s next?” Dorfer asked.
“The manhunt for Spannberg is in full swing. Railroad stations and the airport are on high alert. In addition, the federal police are viewing video material from the main train station and the airport. We’re concentrating on the train station.”
“Roadblocks?”
“Traffic controls, yes. Roadblocks, no.”
“She’s already over the hills anyway,” Dorfer said. “Excuse me.”
Starke nodded and left the car. Meanwhile, Dorfer called his wife.
17
Till checked the navigation system. Twelve minutes until they reached the train station.
Spannberg had repeatedly asked him questions on the way in an attempt to keep the conversation going. Till, for his part, had preferred to give mostly monosyllabic answers. At every rest area sign, he feared that she would ask him to pull off. But they traveled to Berlin without delay.
“Your current situation is very similar to what I experienced in prison,” said Spannberg. She had kept previous topics fairly light. What was Till’s opinion of Leipzig? What were his favorite places in Hamburg? Now he wondered why she was steering the conversation toward topics that were much more grave. “I was convinced that I had to die,” she continued. “Just as you now believe that I’ll shoot you in cold blood. I can see it in your eyes. You keep looking at the pistol in the mirror.”
Till met her eyes in the rearview. “Frankly, I’m hoping for an opportunity to overtake you,” he said.
Spannberg laughed. “That would be very stupid, and you would not succeed. Back in prison, by the way, I longed for death. Just to escape the pain.”
“I certainly don’t wish to die.”
“Then you’ll surely be glad to hear that our trip does not end with your death—provided you behave wisely.”
Could he believe her? Or was she simply trying to disarm him? Would she shoot him in the head immediately after arriving in Berlin?
She continued to stare at him in the mirror. “In the parking garage, drive directly to the lowest floor. No matter how many free spaces you notice on the way.”
***
Via the Tiergarten Tunnel, Till reached the parking garage a few minutes later. He waited in front of the electronic gate, lowered the window, and took a ticket. In the rearview mirror he noticed Spannberg had covered the gun with her jacket. Although Till no longer saw the muzzle, he had no doubt it was still pointed at him.
He drove to the lowest level. Here, too, numerous spaces were already occupied.
“Go all the way to the back,” Spannberg said. “Park by a wall and don’t do anything stupid.”
At a snail’s pace, Till rolled past the parked vehicles.
“Over there,” Spannberg said.
Till immediately saw the parking spot. On the driver’s side, a wall bordered the niche, with two gaps to the right.
“I’m sure you’re a good driver,” Spannberg said. “So, nice and close to the wall.”
Till followed her direction. To survive this, he had to obey. Or catch her in a mistake. If she made a mistake, he could capitalize on it. But Spannberg remained strapped in and out of his reach. He parked the car.
“Engine off, lights out,” she said. “And don’t get the bright idea of taking off the seatbelt. Seatbelts save lives, you know.”
How long before she shot him? At the moment, Till saw no witnesses. A perfect opportunity for her.
“Now,” Spannberg said, “very slowly, stretch your right arm back. I’m going to handcuff you. It’s going to be pretty uncomfortable, but it’s still better than dying.”
Hesitantly he followed her instruction. She bent forward a bit toward the back seat and took a pair of handcuffs out of her backpack. The chain between the cuffs seemed longer than normal police handcuffs.
Till stretched his arm backwards, and Spannberg slapped the cold steel shackle around his wrist.
“I have nothing against you. Although you tracked me down, I’m going to let you live. But I strongly advise you, do not continue your search for me. Next time, I won’t be so generous. Left arm.”
Till surrendered. She pulled his hand towards her until he groaned in pain. Only then did she put the second cuff on him.
“Good,” she said, mocking him. “I hope for your sake that we never meet again.”
In the rearview, Spannberg pursed her lips and blew him a kiss. Then she opened the door and left the vehicle.
Till breathed easier. His situation was painful, but he would survive. That was all that mattered.
As far as his sitting position allowed, he watched Spannberg escape. She headed for an exit with her eyes lowered. Then she opened the door and disappeared.
Till leaned a little to the left in his seat to relieve his arm. Then he tried to blow the horn. A hopeless undertaking. His only hope now was that someone would park nearby and notice him. Otherwise he would still be shackled to the car seat tomorrow morning with numb limbs.
18
Spannberg walked up the steps of the parking garage, which led directly into the train station. At the top, she studied the information board to find out which trains left in the next few minutes. From track two, an EC was about to depart. Perfect for her. She went to an available ticketing machine and bought a pass, which she paid for in cash. Doubly careful, she positioned herself in front of the monitor so that no camera could record her entry. Did the computer system store when each ticket was sold and at which machine? Probably. And with all the station’s video surveillance, she knew the cops would track her down eventually.
But the later this happened, the better.
She wondered if Buchinger could believe his luck. He had survived. Of course she had not spared him out of pure charity. Spannberg needed him for her plans. That was the only reason he was still alive.
The machine spit out the printed ticket. She took it from the slot and went to the escalators. The train would depart from one of the lowest platforms in six minutes.
From the escalator she saw the EC entering, but since there was no reason to hurry, Spannberg took her time, keeping her eyes low. When she arrived at the bottom of the escalator, an automatic announcement told the passengers to get on the train. She entered one of the cars.
The seats in second class were only half occupied. Spannberg sat down in an empty seat and kept an eye on the doors, which closed shortly afterward. There was a jolt in the compartment, and then the train departed.
She picked up her smartphone and stopped the dictation function that had been recording everything since the departure in Leipzig. The battery level was only twelve percent. Spannberg played back the recording. Buchinger’s voice issued from the speaker, muffled because her phone had recorded him through her jacket pocket. With the right software, it would be no problem to improve the sound quality. The conversation provided enough material for her plans. Satisfied, she stopped the recording and looked out the window.
&nb
sp; 19
Two gaps to the right of Buchinger’s car, a white car drove into the parking spot. Three quarters of an hour had passed since Spannberg’s disappearance. Till’s shoulder joints hurt like hell. If he wasn’t freed soon, he would sustain permanent damage.
Four people occupied the white car. Two adults in the front, two teenage girls in the back. The car doors opened almost simultaneously.
“Help!” Till said, hitting his head against the driver’s window. Every movement hurt. “Help! I’m tied up!” Another blow. “Help me!”
The driver of the white car looked over at him.
“Please open the door. I’m tied up!”
Hesitantly the man approached the passenger side.
“Help!” Till said.
The passenger door opened. “You all right?” the guy asked.
“Call the police. I was kidnapped a few hours ago by Franka Spannberg in Leipzig. She handcuffed me. Franka Spannberg. The police will know who that is.”
The man looked behind Till’s seat. “Oh, God. You poor thing.”
“Dial 911.”
The man turned away. “Eva-Maria! Where’s your cell phone? We have to call the police!”
The woman opened her handbag, rummaged through it, and finally handed the phone to her husband. “You do it!”
He took the phone. “What’s your unlock code?”
“Four zeros.”
Seconds later, the man was explaining the situation to an officer on the other end of the line. The phone call lasted only minutes. Apparently, the name of the murderess worked wonders.
“They’re sending in federal officers,” the man said. “You’ll be free in a minute.”
“I hope so,” Till said. “Thank you. I don’t know how much longer I could have held out. What’s your name?”
“Martin Holz. This is my wife, Eva-Maria, and our daughters, Josefine and Helena.”
“I hope I’m not ruining your evening.”
“Don’t worry,” said Holz. “This comes first. We’ll stay until the police get here.”
One of the girls grumbled sullenly. Till concentrated on his breathing to block out the pain in his joints.
“Isn’t Spannberg that former prison psychologist?” asked Mrs. Holz. “Didn’t she kill a lot of people in Hamburg?”
“Yes,” Till said.
“How did you get in her way?”
“It’s a long story.”
Because the distraction was good for him, he began to tell the Holz family about his journey over the last few weeks. But after only a few minutes, blue light illuminated the underground parking garage. A patrol car with federal police markings approached them. Holz raised both hands to draw the policemen’s attention.
20
Friday morning Bastian Dorfer waited for his superior, Dellhorst, to inform him about their next steps. Dorfer had returned from Leipzig late Thursday, angry and sad. The murderer had tricked them again. The fact that it had happened to the head of the Hamburg SOKO, of all people, must have been a happy coincidence for Spannberg. If she now felt safe because of this, she would quickly realize her mistake. Dorfer would not rest until she was in prison.
There was a knock at his office door.
“Come in!”
Dellhorst entered. He looked at Krumm’s half of the desk. “Holy shit,” he said softly.
Dorfer swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. His anxiety over Krumm’s death would probably continue for a long time. Just the emptiness in the office got to him.
Dellhorst withdrew Krumm’s chair, but changed his mind and took a seat in one of the visitor chairs.
“I was at Ludger’s parents’ house last night. Both are gravely ill. When they learned of the death of their only son, their last will to live seemed to leave them.”
Dorfer shivered.
“No idea how they’ll cope with the funeral. That fucking…” Dellhorst stopped, cleared his throat. “I do have news. Spannberg has bought herself a ticket to Warsaw. Her trail gets lost at the Polish border. She didn’t get off at any German station.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Dorfer said. “She’s never fled abroad before.”
“Well, video surveillance suggests that this time she has. Firstly,” he said, counting the points on his fingers, “the recordings from the train station clearly show a connection to Poland on the information boards. Secondly, we can see her walking to the corresponding track. Third, she gets on the train. And fourth, she has relatives in Poland.”
“Then why not just disappear there in January?” Dorfer asked. “Instead, she waits in Leipzig like a spider in a web, ready to defend herself at any time.”
“We suspect that in January she still hoped to resume her killing spree,” Dellhorst said. “But now things are different. Now she probably realizes we won’t let up, and so she prefers to save her own skin. Besides, last time, she had more time to prepare for going underground. This time we forced her to act spontaneously.”
“I’m not convinced,” Dorfer said.
“Don’t have to be.”
The authoritarian undertone did not escape Dorfer. He scratched his forehead. “What’s going to happen now?”
“Spannberg murdered people in Hamburg and Saxony. She also left Buchinger in Berlin and—”
“Don’t tell me the BKA is taking over the investigation,” Dorfer said.
“Not the BKA directly, no. A nationwide authority with experience in multiple homicide investigations is now involved. A tactical task force they’re calling KEG. Perhaps you’ve heard of it. We’re expecting three Wiesbaden police officers here on Monday.”
Dorfer smacked his desktop. “This is treason against Ludger! Give me a chance to finish the whole thing.”
“Dorfer, control yourself.”
“How am I supposed to find Spannberg by Monday morning?”
“You won’t. Take the day off.”
“You’re not serious. Nobody has such a strong interest in catching Spannberg as we do. Please! We know how she operates, and we know the people on her list.”
“And that’s exactly the information we’ll be sharing with our Wiesbaden colleagues next week.”
“They betrayed Ludger’s memory.”
Dellhorst rose. “I don’t have time for this. Under normal circumstances this would have consequences under labor law. But I’ll give you credit for your exposure in the death of your colleague. You have the next two weeks off.”
“You’re suspending me?”
“Ordered reduction of overtime. You’ve put in enough in the last year. If the people of Wiesbaden or I need information, I’ll reach out to you. Stay by your phone. However, you’d have my blessing if you went directly to a travel agency and booked a vacation. You have half an hour. Then I don’t want to see you here again.”
Dellhorst left the office, and Dorfer stared down at his desktop, shaking his head. He couldn’t believe his superior’s advice. He was a family man. He couldn’t just go on vacation spontaneously.
***
Instead of going home, Dorfer left headquarters to visit Krumm’s apartment. Ludger had entrusted him with a key years ago when he set off on a four-week trip to America. Upon his return, Ludger had asked him to keep the key. In case he accidentally locked himself out at some point.
He entered the silent apartment. Ludger had once told him that he could not stand the ticking of clocks. He was sensitive to noise even from large electrical appliances. Dorfer could barely stand the silence.
He didn’t know exactly what he wanted in the apartment. To say goodbye to his friend? Find objects that would be of importance to Ludger’s parents? Or just throw away any porn collection he could find, in order to preserve his partner’s dignity?
Four rooms led away from the hall. Only a coat rack with two jackets hung on the white-painted walls. Dorfer first entered the tidy kitchen. Ludger had not left any food on the table, y
et the room smelled slightly rotten. Next to the empty dishwasher was a cupboard, which Dorfer opened. Inside, the smell intensified, wafting off the trashcan. He took the bag out of the container and put all the food from the refrigerator inside. Then he tied it up and put it on the doorstep, so he wouldn’t forget it later.
In the living room he noticed nothing unusual. He unplugged the numerous electrical appliances to conserve energy. Ludger had a weakness for technical gadgets.
For the most part what he found in the house reaffirmed his perception of Ludger. A lonely yet precise man. It wasn’t until Dorfer entered the next room that he found something that shook his understanding of his partner to its core. “Oh, Ludger,” he whispered.
Apparently he had used the room as a kind of search room. On the walls hung pictures of Ludger’s ex, Sandra, as well as a fully scribbled whiteboard. Most of the notes were crossed out.
Dorfer remembered when Ludger first fell in love. Back then, he had been noticeably happier at work and couldn’t stop talking about Sandra. Dorfer had been happy for him. Then the first clouds appeared. Ludger had begun to fear Sandra was flirting with other men. At some point, he had called in sick for three days, and when he returned to work, he looked, not ill, but heartsick. Sandra had left him. It had been easy to overlook how much Ludger had suffered.
When Ludger mentioned Sandra’s name less and less often, Dorfer assumed that his friend had finally gotten over the separation. Obviously not. This room was proof of a sick obsession.
Under some pictures were printed notes. Dorfer took the time to read through all of them. He also checked the scribbles on the whiteboard.
The larger picture started to come into focus. Weeks after their break-up, Sandra had disappeared, as if swallowed whole. Ludger had tried to look up her new address. He even probably used police resources illegally.
Deep Pain Page 11
