‘What?’ said Dorcas, tiredness making her voice quicken with impatience.
‘I’m calling from the hospital,’ said Frannie, in a subdued tone. She’d lost her usual sass. ‘I did it – went to the club and met him, your Hans – and I’m sure he knows something.’
Dorcas frowned. ‘I know,’ she said, in a voice so low it came out as a whisper. ‘I went there and he freaked out, I tried to call, to warn you, but you didn’t answer your phone…’ Frantically, she ran her free hand through her hair. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘I got picked up by the police for speeding,’ said Frannie in a little-girl voice, ‘and it was such a shock I fainted!’ She started to laugh hysterically. It was infectious, Dorcas startled giggling too. They both laughed together in full-throated rasps. Dorcas felt almost giddy with relief. She wiped away a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye. They were tittering like schoolgirls.
‘We need to meet up, to make a plan,’ said Frannie, with a note of urgency. ‘While I’m lying here, I’m sure something bad is going down with Tomek and Anna. Oh, and do you know Anna’s surname?’
Dorcas hesitated for a second at the mention of her rival. ‘It’s a good Polish name – Kalinowski,’ she said, mock-slurring the words.
‘Thanks,’ said Frannie. ‘So can you come over?’
Before she’d had a chance to think about what she was doing, Dorcas had agreed to meet Frannie at Neustadt Krankenhaus. And not just in a regular ward, but the maternity wing. The thought of encountering other women with just-born babies made Dorcas feel peculiar. Everything was so upside down, she’d had no time to decide about her pregnancy. There was still no sign of swelling, nor did she feel sick, but she was consumed with a tiredness that engulfed her, threatened to drag her down to the depths. She had to find out what the hell Hans was up to so she could decide. Frannie was her only ally now.
Dorcas was frighteningly quick at turning herself into a glamour puss. There was something driven about everything she did. In the bathroom her two hands worked like programmed robot arms as she completed her morning ritual. Though she’d decided to wear sunglasses to cover her puffy eyes, she still carefully drew on eyebrows with black kohl, and highlighted her eyes. Her hair was moussed into a jaunty bob that matched the tight black silk dress that clung to her thin frame. It made little swishing noises with every step. She added layers of neo-gothic black bead jewellery that contrasted with her pale skin. By the time she left the house she looked like an animated mannequin, all shiny black silk and ruby-red lips; something between a femme fatale and an Angel of Death. Anyone seeing her would have thought she was slinking off from an all-night bender.
Outside, within seconds she was belted into her little Polo and driving off. She was too preoccupied to clock that Lars was waiting for her, like a man possessed.
Sharp eyes followed her as her car disappeared down the street. Lars was stunned at how fast she moved so early in the morning, and how good she looked despite being a broken doll only hours before. He bent his face into a cracked grimace that hurt his cut cheek. Women! They had something men lacked: a curious rubbery firmness that shielded them, enabled them to bounce back. And Dorcas always bounced back. She was resilient, always cheerful.
Fabulous girl, she was, a real Schatz. He strode quickly to his waiting car and started the engine. He’d gone through confusion, anger and grief at the thought of losing her. Now, with a new dawn already high in the sky, he knew he had to go after her, do his best to make it right. With a hooligan’s touch his car screeched forward. He was doing what he did best: moving in hot pursuit.
Chapter
Nineteen
During the drive Dorcas kept stealing little glances at herself in her wing mirror. Again and again the sight of her fully made-up face calmed her. She worked hard to look good and took comfort in that fact. She sighed. Her strong cheekbones and sleek figure were the only things she could rely on. When she got scared she piled on the lippie and winged it.
Her mobile phone was right there on the passenger seat but Hans, the swine, still hadn’t even texted her. Her rouged lips grimaced. That bastard! Leading her on, forcing her to work out of the minivans to help set up the business. And what did she get for it? All of it had been just talk. She tried to blank out the word ‘prostitute’. But it was easy money and gave her an enviable lifestyle.
Her tiredness and irritability made her drive more recklessly than usual. Even though her car was small, she had more nerve than most of the drivers on the road.
She thought she was OK when she got out of the lift. The newborn babies were so small and crumpled you couldn’t really see their faces. They could have been puppies or tiny monkeys being wheeled around. Mostly what was visible was their blankets, and their mothers’ tired eyes.
She was alright until she saw someone bringing flowers. Her favourite ones: gorgeous sweet peas, in vivid pinks and lilacs, bursting with the smell of innocence. At that she broke down and shut herself behind a toilet door.
The thought of something blameless growing inside her, which she was somehow going to screw up, was more than she could bear.
Frannie tried not to let a surge of despair get her down. Her arm had been pinched consistently by the cuff that viciously took her blood pressure every fifteen minutes. She was trying to remain calm, but Dorcas, goddamn her, was taking her time. She was tired of being pinned to the bed by all this machinery, having to call a nurse every time she needed to pee. She sighed. Being here only made her feel more stressed. She flung her head back on the pillows.
Outside, she caught a glimpse of a startlingly sleek figure all got up in black wearing her hair in an exaggeratedly short bob. It must be her. Nobody else would dress like that in a maternity unit. The door opened and a wry face, all fringe and eyebrows, laughed at her from behind dark sunglasses.
When she saw her slumped out on pillows, Dorcas seemed to smirk. Frannie couldn’t decide whether she’d come dressed for a nightclub or a funeral. Frannie flung up one hand in an exasperated wave by way of a greeting. They eyed each other awkwardly.
‘Hey, you’re pretty blown?’ Dorcas sashayed up to her, like some exotica geisha. Frannie winced. Dorcas’s vivid red lipstick looked absurd so early. It was not yet seven a.m.
‘Do you know someone called Lars Steeg…?’ Frannie tried to sit up higher without ripping the cuff off her arm. ‘I can’t say the last name.’
Dorcas paled. She looked at Frannie as if she wanted to slap her. ‘It’s Stiglegger. Lars Stiglegger.’ She sat down with a ramrod-straight back and pushed her face nearer to Frannie’s. ‘How do you know that name?’
‘At the club, while I was talking to Hans, this Lars came up and started shouting about a Dorcas,’ said Frannie, pausing in mid-sentence. ‘Actually, it got really mad. Were they arguing about you?’
Dorcas’s eyebrows arched even higher. Her brown eyes filled with emotion. At that moment it was hard to work out if she was actually ugly or absurdly beautiful. Her face was pinched, as if her smile had been stolen. She looked at some particular spot on the floor. ‘He was my best friend, then he betrayed me. Last night he turned up bleeding, with a cut leg and face,’ she said in a low voice. Her words trailed off. ‘It got pretty nasty.’ She abruptly crossed her legs.
‘So he was a friend of yours?’ said Frannie sarcastically. She flicked her head impatiently. ‘Oh, that’s nice. He was the one who caused my car accident. That’s why I’m in here right now.’ She lay fidgeting, unable to get comfy.
Dorcas looked as if she’d been shot. ‘What?’ she said repeatedly, like a parrot who only had one word. She shook her fringe and rubbed her face with her hands. ‘I thought I knew them,’ she said. Finally she’d taken off the glasses, and Frannie could see the bags under her eyes; a brittleness that suggested another blow would snap her in two.
‘And another thing,’ said Frannie, relieved to be piecing things together at last. ‘Hans knew all about the fact that I reported the accident to the pol
ice.’ She tried to raise herself more upright. ‘I mean, how is that possible?’
Dorcas laughed and shot her a cynical look. ‘That’s easy, Lars is a Spitzel.’
‘A what?’ said Frannie frowning.
Dorcas shrugged her shoulders. ‘How you say it – police informer?’ she said, brushing an imaginary hair off her dress. ‘He gives them tip-offs and they turn a blind eye to some of his activities.’
Frannie looked aghast. ‘So that’s why they were so odd at the police station.’ She opened and closed her eyes with indignation like an angry doll. ‘But that means…’
Dorcas just nodded at her.
‘If we don’t have real goddamn proof,’ said Frannie slowly, banging her hands on the table in front of her.
‘Then we ain’t got a leg to stand on,’ said Dorcas.
The both looked at each other gloomily.
‘Did Hans do anything to you?’ said Dorcas carefully, hardly daring to look Frannie in the eyes.
‘No, but he looked as if he wanted to,’ said Frannie, frowning. ‘I was too scared to park outside the nightclub without you there to reverse out for me!’ Both of them giggled knowingly. ‘I went on foot from the abandoned factory next door and someone followed me.’
Dorcas groaned and banged her hands against her forehead. She seemed to be ageing as the conversation progressed. ‘The person who followed you – why didn’t they catch you?’ she said. ‘No offence, but…’
‘Yep, I am a big fat blimp, you don’t have to remind me,’ said Frannie irritably. ‘He would have caught me, but he fell.’
Dorcas covered her face with her hands. ‘I think that was Lars. He came to me all bleeding on the cheek and knee,’ she said, hardly able to take in the news. Her Lars, who had been like the big brother she’d never had.
‘And he also said he got Inspector Koch to go after the person he chased.’ Frannie cringed. One hand strayed to her stomach. ‘I can’t remember any of the policemen’s names,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘This means it’s something really serious. Why would he come after me?’ She felt sick.
‘You were looking for Tomek and Tomek was looking for Anna,’ said Dorcas slowly.
Frannie rolled her eyes and looked at the clock. Something caught her eye. Outside her window a burly man was staring in with maddened eyes. His face was bruised and covered with crusted blood. She’d only seen him up once close-up, but she recognised him instantly. The machine on her arm started beeping, trapping her arm in its panicky embrace.
‘Dorcas,’ she whispered, her eyes widening. ‘Don’t look behind you, but it’s him. Lars is standing right outside.’
Chapter
Twenty
When Dorcas had driven in the direction of the hospital, Lars had assumed she was going for an abortion. He licked his lips nervously. Now he was here, it didn’t feel right. He’d told her, hadn’t he, to get rid of it? And here she was.
It brought stuff up he hadn’t thought about in a long time – Erna, the girl he’d tried to be normal with. He grunted to himself. He’d been, what, twenty? Still, she’d got wind of him, his real sexual desires, then got rid of it. He puffed out his lips. It was funny to think of a world with his child and Dorcas’ child in it. Big feelings welled up in his chest. Carpe diem. He had a good feeling about today. The sun was already high in the sky painting everything with golden warmth like magic fucking Technicolor.
He should do it. Go right in to Dorcas and tell her he’d take care of her and the baby. Take this chance to start again. He wouldn’t have the big Hans, but he’d have the little Hans, make sure that Dorcas had nothing to do with the crafty bastard. He smiled at that: little Hans on his knee.
When he saw Dorcas bolt into a toilet he’d thought he was already too late, that she was in there slamming the pills down her throat, but then she’d gone right in the room as if she was expected, and when he’d looked she was talking to that English bitch. Hans must have sent her to talk about the accident he’d caused. Hans said if she lost her baby then it would be manslaughter and they’d send him back to the loony bin. He felt goose bumps sneak all up his spine just at the thought of it.
‘Scheisse!’ Still he could not believe what he was seeing. Dorcas, his Engel, turning like that. The warm, throaty feeling he’d felt in his chest evaporated. He felt cold fingers of betrayal nudging his ribs; the familiar worry-headache starting up again.
‘Fucking bitch!’ he said to no one in particular. People kept giving him odd glances. He badly needed a shower, his body odour was rank. But he had to get to Hans right now, before the swine caused him more grief.
He was about to go when Frannie clocked him. Dorcas whirled round and he saw the demon-fury in her face. Her eyes were so scary, he had to look away. He headed quickly for the lift. It seemed to take forever before the mechanism responded and the steel door shielded him. Then the shakes got him, and he couldn’t sit still till he was behind the wheel again. Hans had gone too far this time. He had to get him whilst he had the chance.
Lars was used to driving trucks, so being in a car felt like skateboarding. He zig-zagged his way through the traffic, at one point mounting the pavement in order to access a junction quicker. He ignored the other drivers’ honking horns; when he saw fear in their faces, he laughed out loud.
He screeched up to Moonlights with his tyres singing, nearly giving himself whiplash when he slammed on the brakes roughly.
An old blue pick-up truck was parked in his usual spot out back. Two men were carrying the coffin-shaped ‘toy box’ as if it was really heavy, with Hans directing everything in one of his fancy suits.
He narrowed his eyes. It couldn’t be.
He got a good look at the beat-up dude who was manhandling the box with that dirty sod Hugo. The crate was all being knocked about. Jesus! They were trying to get it in the back of a van that was too small. Could Hans have found someone else to do his dirty work so quickly?
Lars frowned. He felt a sharp inner pain as if the bastard had taken a knife and stabbed him between the ribs. He didn’t hesitate. He reversed so forcefully the tyres squealed, and neatly boxed in the blue van. Everybody stopped what they were doing and looked. He jumped out like an agitated gorilla and waited for one of them to say something.
Hans stepped forward with his usual smile. He looked immaculate, but he was beyond taking any notice of that.
‘Lars, how are you? This is Stefan; he’s doing some transportation for us,’ said Hans.
‘I know what he’s doing,’ said Lars, taking a step forward. Stefan just stood his ground and grunted. There was something about him that bothered Lars. Even though he was a bit ragged around the edges, he stood ramrod-straight, his fingers cocked as if accustomed to cradling a gun. Gotcha: ex-military – looked like he’d been in the wars a bit. Lars read his eyes. No real killer, although he’d probably had to bump someone off in conflict. Capable, but didn’t enjoy it. Lars frowned. What the hell was Hans up to?
Hans walked up to him, grabbed his sleeve and took him to one side.
‘I’ve got business orders to fulfil. Stefan will bring the crate back, once…the contents have been emptied,’ said Hans. He kept his voice light and melodious, but he was rattled. Lars could tell by the way he was pursing up his lips. He smiled. About time he got one over on the smug little bastard.
‘Thing is, before this here Stefan pops off, I think I left something in the crate last time; can I just check?’ said Lars in a high falsetto voice that made him sound like an old woman. In front of the others they were careful with their talk.
Hans frowned. Hugo gave Lars a shifty look; he was also in a suit, but it fitted so badly it made him look like a bear.
‘I can assure you, it was empty. I helped load it myself,’ said Hans in a slow drawl.
Lars stepped towards the crate and put his hands on the opening. ‘Well, see, it would put my mind at rest if I just checked it myself,’ he said. Before anyone could stop him he’d forced the lock and jerked it
up.
There was a muted gasp. Inside was a man, hog-tied and bleeding, who at the first glimpse of sunlight shuddered as though he’d been struck. The victim led out a loud groan. He was desperately dirty, his face smeared with dried blood, but he was smooth-skinned and light-haired; on a good day he would have done very nicely, thank you. Although worse for wear, he was very much alive.
Lars couldn’t make head or tail of it. He shut the crate with a bang and turned on Hans. ‘What the fuck?’ he said, taking an angry step towards him. The other men looked on. At first no one was saying anything. Lars started to shake, and his lips began to mutter. It felt as though his head was on fire and about to blow.
‘How could you do this to me, Hans?’ said Lars, his voice slightly less than firm.
Hugo moved closer to Hans, tittered. All the men were sneering at his show of emotion. The three men had Lars surrounded now and in a manic burst of anger he screeched out something wordlessly and went to grab Hans. Hugo and Stefan pushed him back and he fell flat on his back. He felt the whack as his helpless body slapped on to the concrete. His funny bone almost doubled-up in shock.
Hugo turned to Stefan and laughed. ‘Larsey used to know Hans before he was a gentleman,’ he said. Hans raised his eyebrows. Stefan just looked ahead but Hugo gave a dirty laugh. ‘Hans swings both ways when it suits him,’ he said in a mocking tone.
Hans acted as if he’d heard nothing and held up his hands calmly as if he was about to give a speech. ‘We told you about the new business model; you weren’t interested,’ he said, as if he’d just changed suppliers.
Lars just felt confused. His wide mouth was open. ‘You what?’ he asked. His voice was getting louder.
Night Driver Page 14
