by Marc Raabe
In vain he tries to remember where the landfill sites are in Berlin. No matter, he will have to wait for a bin lorry anyway. It takes over half an hour before he is standing beside an orange painted vehicle from the Berlin Sanitation Department that is about to unload its cargo of household rubbish. Drenched and shivering, he beats his open hand against the driver’s side door.
A thin face with bushy eyebrows stares out at Gabriel. The man rolls down the window. ‘Well look at that, the tramps are running around the tip now.’
‘Can you take me along for a stretch?’ Gabriel shouts over the noise of the lorry.
The driver looks at him blankly and then shrugs. ‘Depends on where you need to go.’
‘Chausseestrasse. To the Dorotheenstadt Cemetery.’
‘Well, then get on in.’
Gabriel thanks him with a nod and climbs into the seat.
About an hour later, the brakes squeak in front of the main entrance to the Dorotheenstadt Cemetery.
The path across the cemetery had been burnt into his mind for almost thirty years. The dry, pale brown gravel crunched under his and David’s feet in front of the two oak coffins as they walked up to the open grave that swallowed his parents like a hungry mouth.
Now the gravel shimmers, wet and dark. The ground is soaked with water and the stones squish into the softened path. The earth on the graves is dull and black, an all-equalising nothingness that swallows every ray of light.
Exhausted, Gabriel drops to his knees in front of the gravestones. The rain runs in crooked paths across the faded gold inscription on the red marble:
Clara and Wolf Naumann, 13 October 1979
He is suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of infinite sadness.
Is that what you wanted? the words are whispered through his skull. Shock therapy?
You know exactly what I want here.
But don’t you see how right I was? Where it all leads?
You just want to scare me.
No, Luke. You ARE afraid. And rightly so. Actually, you just want everything to stay the way it is, don’t you?
YOU want that. I want to remember.
I only want what’s best for you. I just advise you on what would be best.
You’re a shitty advisor.
Gabriel slides on his knees to the right, beside the marble stone. Water runs down his collar, the ground squelches beneath his legs. His knees are several centimetres deep in the mud and he begins to dig a hole to the graves beneath the stone.
Aren’t you afraid of going through it all over again?
Gabriel doesn’t answer, stubbornly digging further, always deeper. Black borders form under his fingernails.
Be careful, Luke! If you dig too deep, then you’ll be holding their brittle bones in your hand!
He has to give in, but his clammy fingers keep pulling the earth out beneath the stone.
Keep digging for all I care, I have nothing against it.
‘Shut up!’ Gabriel shouts. His voice cracks, lost between impassive stone angels, trees and countless graves.
Suddenly, his mind is silent.
All Gabriel can hear is the patter of rain and an unsteady wind tugs at him. He feverishly continues digging until his fingertips chafe, before he finally touches something soft. He carefully loosens a tied bundle the size of a packet of cigarettes. With trembling fingers, he pulls apart the tape and removes several layers of cling film.
The key is small, shiny silver and lacks engraving or any distinguishing features.
As he walks into open his safe-deposit box at the branch of Credit Suisse on Kurfürstendamm, a boulevard full of fine shops and restaurants, he has to smile at his appearance – stinking, dripping wet and dressed like a bum.
And he especially feels like smiling, because now a warm bed, dry clothes and a new mobile are within reach. He laboriously straightens himself up, wipes his hands on his trousers and puts the key into his pocket along with the SIM card from Liz’s mobile.
Chapter 27
Nowhere – 9 September
Liz’s eyes wander sluggishly through the room. She keeps falling asleep and, since there is no natural light, she has no sense of how much time has passed – even if the lights are turned off and on at specific intervals, providing a fake rhythm of day and night.
The only sound she hears is her breath. At least it’s her own breathing that she hears, and not the mechanical pumping of the artificial respirator; the tube has long since been removed from her throat, and breathing still burns against the wounds in her airways.
At this point, she knows every centimetre of her prison. The massive metal door with a slit that opens from the outside to look in; the barred fluorescent tubes; the painted white brick walls; the concrete floor with a drain in the middle of the room, as if her remains were going to flow into the pipes at some point; the two barred ventilation ducts – one in the ceiling for fumes, and one near the floor for the air supply; the small screws anchoring the bars; the nightstand beside her; the IV; the machines; the bag for her catheter.
Again and again, her gaze lands on the hanging IV bag and, for the thousandth time, she wonders what medications are flowing into her bloodstream.
Then she hears the key turning in the lock. Her body instantly stiffens, her mouth goes dry and the skin under her hospital gown is covered with a thin film of sweat. Don’t let it be him. Please not him!
Her prayers are answered. The nurse enters the room silently, closes the door behind her and silently changes the IV. On the first day, she had at least said a few words. Since then, she has gone quiet. At the moment, Liz needs little more than the sound of a voice, just a few sentences or a few words.
Liz opens her mouth, wanting to say something. Her tongue is a furry, wagging thing. ‘Wha ah’ou givin . . .’ a strange voice pours from her mouth, ‘what are you giving me?’
The nurse glances over at her but doesn’t answer.
‘Because of my baby,’ Liz croaks.
Another glance. The hint of a smile flits across the nurse’s face. She has a straight nose and – were she to actually smile – dimples. ‘Your baby is OK.’
‘Please, what’s in there?’ Liz insists.
The nurse looks at the door and then back at Liz. ‘A neuroleptic. It calms you. Not so bad for the child.’
Not so bad. ‘Who . . . is he?’
The nurse’s grey eyes widen imperceptibly and she looks around quickly. ‘Shhh,’ she hisses softly and leans forward. ‘You’d better shut up.’
‘Please help me,’ Liz pleads.
The nurse says nothing, just shakes her head.
Liz’s eyes fill with tears that run out from the corners. A deep desperation takes the air out of her, making her feel like she’s suffocating.
‘Shhh,’ the nurse hisses again. She pulls out a syringe and puts it in the vein access in Liz’s arm.
Liz wants to fight back, but she is too weak. It’s already hard enough to speak and breathe. ‘Where . . . where am I . . . ?
The nurse’s grey eyes seem to see through her. Then she shrugs.
Liz can feel her strength slowly fading, she doesn’t have much time. ‘He’s going to kill me, isn’t he?’
‘I don’t know,’ the nurse says, but her eyes give her away.
‘Please,’ Liz pleads again.
The grey eyes withdraw to the nightstand.
You have to address her with her name. Ask for her name. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Yvette,’ the nurse mumbles.
‘I’m Liz. Please – Yvette. Help me.’
‘No,’ Yvette whispers.
The ‘no’ grips Liz’s heart like a cold hand. Fear threatens to cloud her mind. She can feel tears in her eyes again. And this weakness. ‘Could you . . . maybe . . .’ Liz gestures to the half-empty syringe with her eyes, ‘. . . is that also this stuff? Is it Haldol?’
Yvette nods.
‘I’m scared,’ Liz chokes out. ‘Terrified.’ T
ears run down her cheeks. ‘Can I . . . keep that?’
Yvette’s grey eyes wander from Liz to the syringe in her hand.
‘Maybe I would be . . . less scared . . . if . . .’
Yvette’s eyes twitch, only a very short blink, and then she puts a plastic cap over the needle and quickly pushes the syringe under the blanket. ‘Before it starts, just inject it into the vein access.’
‘Before what starts?’
Yvette shakes her head in silence.
Liz’s whole body is covered in goosebumps. Each individual hair is standing up in horror. Suddenly, it’s dark, as dark as in the park. She thinks she can feel the leathery skin on her cheek; his voice is in her ear. We’re going to celebrate. On the thirteenth, he whispered. On the thirteenth? Oh god! What day is today? It couldn’t possibly be the thirteenth already.
Her left hand grabs the syringe and her fingers wrap around the plastic like a lifebelt. She hears the lock, the key inside. ‘When is it time?’ Liz mumbles.
‘It’s better if you sleep now,’ Yvette says and then she shuts the door behind her.
Liz’s eyelids are heavy as shutters. Her thoughts clump together like cotton wool. A tremendous need for quiet takes hold of her, even if she can’t be sure that she will wake up again after falling asleep.
But if so, she decides – her fingers wrapped around the thin syringe – she will need a weapon.
Chapter 28
Berlin – 10 September, 8.56 p.m.
A pale morning has dawned behind the grey felt curtains at Caesar’s Hotel. Through the tilted window, muffled street noise blows into room number thirty-seven.
Gabriel lies on the bed and tries in vain to rein in his impatience.
Finally!
Finally he has a trail.
Six days ago he emptied his bank safe-deposit box. Six days of research, of running himself ragged in search of a trail, trying to hide from the police and lying low the whole time. Six days of his heart racing every time the new mobile with Liz’s SIM card rang.
‘Hello? This is Karla Wiegand from TV2. I was hoping to reach Ms Anders. Isn’t this her number? – I understand. Then please tell Ms Anders that she should contact Dr Bug as soon as possible.’
Then it rings again: ‘Liz. It’s me, Verena. You wanted to . . .’ – ‘Oh, OK. Can you ask her to call back? Vanessa Sattler. About the Fössler story, she knows already. I have some new information.’
And less than an hour later: ‘Uh, could I please speak with Liz Anders? – Oh. Then when should I call back? – It’s about von Braunsfeld, she knows the old fellow quite well. I wanted to ask her to put us in touch.’
Other callers hung up immediately upon hearing Gabriel’s voice, or apologised for having the wrong number.
The kidnapper remained silent.
Up until last night, Gabriel had the unbearable feeling of running in place.
Gabriel takes a deep breath. Dusty air swirls down into his lungs. Caesar’s is neither clean nor reputable. The small hotel is unremarkable: a narrow, unimpressive building from the sixties that fell into one of the countless holes that World War II tore into Berlin. It’s as if the hotel were ashamed of being such a hole and now has to go into hiding, just like its guests.
Gabriel’s room is on the third floor at the end of a hallway where the walls are lined with stained, beige patterned carpeting. Three metres from room number thirty-seven there is a bright red box with an old fire extinguisher on the wall. The first thing Gabriel did when he got to the hotel was to open the red box, drill a small hole into the door and install an infrared barrier behind it.
‘What in the word are you doing there?’ Liz had asked him anxiously when he’d hidden the small plastic housing for the infrared barrier in the corridor of her building on Cotheniusstrasse.
‘Precautionary measure,’ he muttered. He’d slept at her place three times and, during the first two, he’d struggled to control himself.
Liz just rolled her eyes at first, but when he stuck the two electrodes on his forearm at bedtime, she looked at him like he was a nerd. ‘Oh my god. Is that what I think it is?’
‘I’ve no idea what you think,’ Gabriel said. He hadn’t the slightest bit of interest in discussing it. ‘It’s linked to the infrared detectors in the hallway. Like I said, just a precautionary measure.’
‘And what exactly does your precautionary measure do?’
‘Not much. It tingles.’
‘It tingles? Are you really telling me that you’ve just installed an alarm system here that shocks you when someone comes too close to my door?’
‘Just a little electrical current. It’s enough to wake me up.’
‘But . . . why not a normal alarm system, like one that beeps or something?’
‘Much too loud. Everyone would hear that.’
Liz’s green eyes wandered down to the electrodes and then back up. ‘Shit! I’m sleeping with a guy with full-blown paranoia.’
‘Now don’t make a fuss. It’s just –’
‘If it were at least a sex toy, for stimulation or something,’ she groaned, ‘I could live with that. But this . . .’
Gabriel’s expression was dismissive, and the light from the bedside lamp threw long shadows across his face.
This system had been following him for half an eternity. Since he’d left the psychiatric hospital, he’d always installed infrared detectors. The technique was simple, efficient and available in any large electronics store for very little money. This was his bedtime story. Just as he was calmed as a child by the stories that were so unbelievably exciting but still had a happy ending, he now knew that everything that could happen in real life also had the possibility of a good ending – as long as he could take care of it himself. And he could only take care of it if he were warned in time.
‘Why are you so damned sensitive?’ he asked. ‘It’s your safety, too.’
‘To hell with my safety. The last thing I want is to share your paranoia.’
‘How is this any of your business? It’s my decision how I sleep.’
‘And it’s my decision who I sleep with!’ Her eyes sparkled, her red hair looked like copper wire.
‘Then that’s that,’ he said and reached for his bag.
Tell her, Luke. Tell the little journalist witch that she can fuck off, the voice in his head rejoiced.
Gabriel said nothing.
He just left the flat and slammed the door behind him. The fact that it was far too late for such a stunt was clear to him the moment the door crashed shut. But he needed a full six weeks before he spoke to her voicemail – although he couldn’t stand the thing.
He didn’t apologise. It wasn’t him. He didn’t even act like he was sorry. He just removed the infrared detector. Liz held back, contrary to her usual habits, because she realised that other men were afraid of things too: losing their job, falling from a ladder, women, being ridiculed. Gabriel was apparently afraid of something intangible, something that could descend from the darkness, as if the devil had just pulled his name out of a hat.
The following nights on Cotheniusstrasse were restless and brief. Without the electrodes on his skin, he was constantly scared awake and listening in the darkness. Usually, there was nothing to hear but Liz’s breath, a regular up and down, like an ocean swell.
It took months before he finally admitted to himself that it was because of this sound that he slept better and deeper in that flat than anywhere else. He still woke up briefly, sometimes feeling like he was lying in his old, childhood room with the blue covers over his bare toes, together with David who would breathe in the darkness, just as Liz did beside him now.
Gabriel runs his hand across his face and wipes the memory away.
He looks at his new mobile with Liz’s old SIM card. The display shows 9.18 a.m.
It’s time to go.
In the metro, he stares through the window at the tunnel, where colourless pipes and ducts run above him, tightly packed
and seemingly endless, as if they were tying the city together underground.
He thinks of Liz’s call, of her voice, thin and breaking. Again and again he’s replayed it in his mind.
‘I was attacked. I’m bleeding . . . there’s blood everywhere . . . my head . . .’
‘Where are you?’
‘In the park. Friedrichshain. Near my flat, around the corner . . . please, I’m scared . . .’
Liz had been brutally beaten; her broken voice left no doubt about it. But why? Kidnappers stun their victims, carry them off and sometimes kill them in the end. But what sense does it make to hurt the victim so badly right at the beginning of the kidnapping?
Even if the kidnapper is a vengeful psychopath – he clearly had a plan and it ends on October 13th. So, he would hardly want to risk Liz dying before then. So why such senseless brutality? And why had Liz been able to make a phone call after she’d been beaten? Where was the kidnapper then?
With all of these questions in his head, Gabriel searched Friedrichshain Park, ran from the area around Cotheniusstrasse to the point where he’d found Pit Münchmaier. The traces of chalk where the CID had drawn the outlines of the body were faded. Where the neck of the roughly outlined body had been drawn, the blood had left behind a dark shadow.
The longer he stood there, the stranger everything seemed. According to the Berliner Zeitung, the police autopsy had determined Pit Münchmaier’s time of death as midnight, give or take ten minutes.
Liz had called Gabriel at 12.02 a.m.
A murder and a kidnapping – both at the same time in the same park very close to each other?
A coincidence?
Unlikely. There must have been some connection between the death of Pit Münchmaier and Liz’s kidnapping.
So he began to do research on Pit Münchmaier. Münchmaier was only twenty-four years old. He was unemployed and had lived in Kreuzberg near the metro station at Kottbusser Tor in one of those ugly building complexes from the seventies that look like concrete multi-storey car parks for people. The knife used to slit his throat was exceptionally sharp and thin, not the classic weapon of a knifeman, but much more the tool of a surgeon. There were scratches on Pit’s hands and bloodstains on his shoes.
