‘I’ll phone you tomorrow,’ said Frannie after the last bag was deposited in the messy hall. On every surface a layer of clutter was strewn as if nothing was ever put in its place. Frannie looked as if she didn’t really want to her to leave, but Dorcas breathed a sigh of relief as she walked out into the fresh air. This was a bloody nice neighbourhood, she thought, looking at the well-tended gardens in the street. Of course, she liked her little flat, and kept it immaculate, but nice to have a bit of space. She pursed her lips. Even if she had the bloody kid, she wouldn’t let herself go or live in chaos like that. She gave a little shudder. She didn’t do mess or disorder. Couldn’t abide it. As a child her mother had let the house run itself and the dogs used to shit in the bath. She could never go back to that. And she’d rather sell it than put up with the bums her mother had dated. One day she’d find a good bloke, grab her own slice of the good life. She waved goodbye and headed back to her car.
Once on the road, Dorcas couldn’t shake off a feeling of dread. What possible reason had Lars to follow her? And what would Hans do now? She closed her eyes for a second, and a horn from the right-hand side pipped furiously as she wavered too close to the next lane. ‘Get a grip!’ she shouted to herself, slapping both hands on the wheel. When she was angry, she drove at her best.
She drove home like a road hog, cutting everybody up, cursing every red light. She was all energy, purpose, but, once her little car was parked, she had no idea what to do with herself next.
Lars awoke from a stony sleep. Although he’d been flat out for hours, his head still pounded. Less intense, but he preferred his pain sharp. That way he knew exactly where it was coming from. He rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t shake off the gritty feeling, the need. When it got like this, if he couldn’t stand up without feeling every vein in his body pulsing, then it was time.
The throbbing pulsated mostly in his groin: his penis had become so horny it it had a life of its own. The feeling radiated out in a crude V down his legs, even washed up into his belly in little waves so he could barely walk straight. Sometimes he swore his nipples were on fire. The need prickled his senses, maddened him, until he wanted to scratch himself from the inside out. Sometimes he could satiate it for a few moments by getting off on violent porn, but then afterwards it only made it worse.
When he got horny, his whole body was wired to his sexual senses, anticipating payload. In his perfectly normal flat decorated in soothing sky blue, his desire could not be contained. He could put on his favourite DVD, cook a nice meal, smoke to try and calm his nerves, but it made no difference. He wouldn’t be able to sleep or do anything without being consumed with the fierceness. Of course, he wanked off, three times a day sometimes. But it did no good. Not against the hunger. He knew what he had to do.
Dusk was coming, just a hint of greyness that at first seemed inadequate to block out the glare of the brilliant sunset. It had been a spectacular summer day. But as he watched out of the open window; in the time it had taken to smoke a cigarette, the cloak of dusk had dropped. The wind blew more strongly, although it was still mild, a cooling-off period that anticipated his vivid handiwork. He smiled. The birds startled. Soon it would be hunting time. Everything seemed to happen at night.
In an hour or so he’d get in his truck and start on the deliveries. He supplied fancy drinks to clubs and restaurants, not the regular stuff like beer and coke, but all the special orders where they had to call a specialist retailer to deliver the goods. It meant he was always in and out of Hannover, carrying crates up little allies, having a laugh with the bar staff.
Good opportunity to shift a bit of coke here and there, find out what was going on. And hanging out in all these back streets was perfect for meeting strangers. The people he knew! He had a better social life just doing his job than most people did who paid to go out. He grinned. Now he would smile and turn into good ol’ Onkel Fritz!
He did being the dead ordinary bloke really well. All you had to do was get ’em to laugh, slap a big fat easy smile on your face and you were in there. People liked him, trusted him; he fooled them every time.
Lars headed to the bathroom. He was going to take a slow, sweet shower and rinse away his headache before he took off. His cheek still looked shite, and he didn’t want to look too closely in the mirror, but it wouldn’t hold him back. Cheerfully scrubbing himself with shower gel he sang like a teenage girl with two hours to get ready for a disco. The scent of Claire Fisher milk and honey gel seeped into the neat shower room. The water felt good on his aching body. He allowed some of the water to run up his nose. Sometimes he even enjoyed this more, the getting ready-ness.
It was his way of getting into the zone.
Chapter
Twenty-Two
Kurt was still doing it; that thing where he clicked his tongue impatiently every few minutes. It was a harsh, abrupt tick, something between a tsk and a dog signal. Frannie looked at his regular features made ugly by temper and wished he would lighten up. Smile occasionally. He’d been pacing up and down since he got back, leaving black tread-marks on the living room floor. His fine blond hair was spread all over his face. Since he’d found out she’d discharged herself, he kept running his hands through it.
He couldn’t stand the fact that she’d managed to escape without him. Frankly, he couldn’t believe she had managed it.
‘You signed a Schwarzer Peter?’ he said, his eyebrows raised so high they’d disappeared somewhere under his hair.
‘I think so,’ she said neutrally, trying to keep her tone light. ‘I’ve got the paperwork somewhere. I just really needed to come home.’ She was propped up on the armchair, with her swollen feet on the foot stool. The doctors had told her to rest, or else. She looked at him, tried to smile. ‘I’d rather be with you,’ she added hastily. She shut her mouth. That didn’t sound convincing, even to her.
Kurt circled her, his hands outstretched.
‘Do you know what this means?’ he said, shaking his head. ‘You refused treatment! It could mean your health insurance refuses to pay for the rest of the pregnancy.’ He stood in front of her and bent down to shout in her face. ‘We could have to pay out thousands if anything goes wrong!’ He sat down on the sofa opposite her with his head in his hands.
Frannie sat frozen in her chair. Since she’d become pregnant his mood swings had got progressively worse. She hardly recognised him any more. And he was always texting his old army pals on his phone. She waited for him to stop shouting and exclaiming, his words the incoherent rant of a madman.
For the fiftieth time, he ran his hands through his hair. Frannie wondered what she had ever found sexy about it, even though she liked blond men.
‘I know you don’t know everything, it being a foreign country and all,’ he said, his voice trailing off, ‘but this just isn’t working.’ He slumped forward with his head in his hands. His whole being was sad.
Frannie could have kicked him. Instead of having sex, he shouted, then, in between bouts of fury, he turned into this apathetic, self-pitying fool. If he’d ever been like this once when they were dating, she would have dumped him instantly. When they’d met she’d been bowled over by his good looks and charm. He’d had a dry humour, but she’d thought he was alright underneath. But these bitter moods threw her completely. You never knew someone until she lived with them, she thought. She was fated to end up alone. Her last boyfriend had littered the house with his dope ends and lived in artistic chaos. Kurt had seemed, clean, decent and into positive living. But now he’d turned into someone else.
Despite the warm, balmy evening, she shuddered. She coughed and raised herself up from her armchair.
‘I was stressed out in there and needed to come home,’ she repeated in a steady voice. Her hands twitched in her lap. She looked at him and smiled. ‘And I need you to support me. Please.’
She tried to hold his smile, make eye contact, but Kurt just looked back at the floor. His face wore a permanent woebegone look, as if he had the troubles of
the world on his shoulders. And the bloody baby wasn’t even there yet! Frannie bit her lips in despair. She’d put on some make-up, tried to fancy up her hair, but it had done no good. Kurt would rather sit about moping and fretting than be happy. Add sleepless nights and a tetchy baby to the mix, and they’d be at each other’s throats.
Of course, she couldn’t tell Kurt the real reason she’d left the hospital. She longed to call Dorcas, plan her next move, but she had to wait until Kurt went out or fell asleep. My God, Dorcas might be in danger now! She swallowed, tried to slow her breathing so her blood pressure would not soar out of control. At least for the minute she was safe. Lars didn’t know where she lived.
Kurt poured himself a beer. He didn’t ask her if she wanted anything. Just sat there, slurping it down in front of her. Now he’d got the football on, he’d be preoccupied for a bit, unless they started losing and then he’d start shouting the odds. Frannie appeared to be right there, watching the match with him, but her mind was very much elsewhere.
At first Dorcas had packed a little suitcase neatly, then she made herself a coffee and unpacked it again. She smoked a cigarette, checked the empty inbox on her mobile phone. There had been no communication from Lars or Hans.
If they were going to do something to her, she thought, they would have done it already. Hans had bouncers and all kinds of rough types to do his dirty work for him. If she was going to find out anything about Anna and Tomek she just had to sit tight, play it cool. She exhaled smoothly. Time to be seductive; it was one of the things she did best.
She was busy most of the day. Her whole flat smelled freshly polished and scrubbed and was fragrant with the smell of French cooking. Not one thing was out of place. The high windows were all open, white curtains billowing in the deliciously cool evening breeze. She’d been to the fruit and veg stall over the road and made Hans’s favourite, a pepper quiche with brie, which was cooling on the wooden kitchen table. A generous salad stood next to it, the dressing already assembled, waiting in the fridge.
The living room smelt of girl; she’d bought big fat pink roses that had scent falling out of them. She couldn’t stop inhaling the gorgeous aroma. On the opulent four-poster bed were freshly laundered sheets and sprigs of lavender under the pillows. A few innocuous rose petals were scattered on the bedspread. She lit some aromatherapy candles.
Now she’d got everything perfect, it was time to run herself a luxurious bath. What she knew from her job was that it was getting the basics right that counted: linen, aroma and ambience.
She sent a simple text to Hans – Come to dinner if u want, luv Dorcas xxx – and smiled to herself. In her bathroom cabinet there was an orgy of expensive cosmetics and bath products, all neatly arranged. She picked out one of her favourite bath foams, L’Occitane Harvest, and shook most of the contents into the tub. It turned the water into fragrant froth.
She reapplied her make-up before reclining in the bath and started reading a magazine as if she didn’t have a care in the world. The suds clung to her, giving her naked body an air of mystery. She didn’t look at the clock. Dorcas was not one of life’s worriers. She’d learnt pretty early on that what you actually wanted didn’t count for much so there was no point agonising about everything. Once she’d made a decision, she didn’t dither over it. She was reading the third article in the magazine when she heard a sound at the door. It must be Hans; he had his own key.
Dorcas played it cool. She carried on soaking in the bath. Hans had to shout her name a good four times before he got an answer.
‘Ich bins!’ he said with a dazzling smile. He bent to kiss her on the cheek. He was acting as though absolutely nothing had happened, although she knew he had the ability to deceive.
‘Can you stay to dinner?’ she said, looking the picture of serenity outstretched in the bath. ‘There’s quiche and salad, it’ll take just a second.’
Hans smiled. ‘For you, anything,’ he said, casually taking out a cigarette out of his Gucci suit pocket. He was wearing cream pants with a matching waistcoat and a bright claret silk shirt that had most of the buttons open so that you could see his perfectly tanned chest. The exposed skin looked tantalising. As the summer progressed he was dressing more exotically. It occurred to Dorcas that the more stressed he was, the more he fussed over his appearance.
Hans went to smoke his cigarette on the little terrace outside the living room.
In just minutes Dorcas calmly appeared in a grey bathrobe edged with lace, looking fresh and natural. She arranged generous slices of quiche and tossed the salad, opened a bottle of French white wine and carried everything out to the little terrace. With ivy growing up the wall and a treasure trove of potted flowers in glorious multi-colours all in bloom, it had all the ingredients for a delightful late supper. She smiled as she poured the wine. Let’s see what the bastard has to say for himself.
Hans pointedly ignored the plaster covering her wounded hand, although he had plenty of opportunity to see it as she served the food. He devoured over half the quiche with his bare hands. For all his grooming, deep at heart he was a slob. He sat back licking his fingers while Dorcas picked at her salad. Dorcas could feel his eyes burning into her, tried to act casual as she ate her supper.
‘You had a bit of a falling-out with Lars?’ said Hans suddenly, as if he couldn’t wait any longer to ask her about it. He took out a cigarette and lit it.
Dorcas shrugged her shoulders, smiled again. ‘Hans, I’m so sorry,’ she said in a little girl voice, clasping her hands together. ‘Lars happened to be here when I did the pregnancy test. He told you, before I had a chance, and…well, I was very pissed off.’
‘That’s it?’ said Hans hypnotically in a subdued voice. Dorcas was on full alert: when he got quiet he was at his most unpredictable.
‘And he even followed me today. I don’t know why,’ she said pushing back her little fringe. She had to be very persuasive to get him to back off. ‘I mean, I visited a friend in hospital, big deal.’
‘You really went to see Francesca Snell?’ said Hans, almost knocking over his wine. His aquamarine eyes darkened until they looked almost black.
‘Yes. I met her at the gynaecologist’s the other day,’ said Dorcas, also lighting up. ‘She’s a foreigner here, hardly knows anyone, so when she had medical problems she asked for my help.’ She sipped her wine and casually slipped out, ‘How do you know her?’
Hans reclined back in his chair. ‘Lars had a run-in with her, police reckoned he caused her to have an accident – dangerous driving. Then she came to the club chasing after a guy she fancied. Didn’t even know his bloody name!’ He laughed, but it came out flat. ‘The demons wanted my penis!’ he screeched in a fake high voice.
Dorcas felt as if sometimes he only talked as a chance to drop out serial killer quotes. He had his mouth open, laughing, but his eyes were guarded, tight. He was rattled, she could see it. Night was descending around them, giving the glowing candles on the table more focus.
‘And so the pregnancy?’ said Dorcas with a little nod of her head. ‘Like, you know now, right?’ She sat there, waiting, playing with the table napkin.
Hans tapped his fingers on the table. He smirked at her. ‘I like children – they are tasty,’ he recited with a laugh. ‘Just ask Albert Fish.’
‘C’mon, Hans, be serious for once.’
‘I can’t stand a bitchy chick,’ he said provocatively, hissing. Now he was giggling. He puffed a smoke ring at her. ‘Know that one? Gerald Stano, little-known serial killer, probably didn’t do it. He was so badly neglected by his birth mother at six months that he survived by eating his own shit.’ He frowned, stared at her. ‘I hope you’ll do a better job.’
‘Hans!’ shouted Dorcas. ‘Enough!’ She had to stop him or he’d be on about it all night. He had a photographic memory and spent all his free time obsessively poring over books on serial killers.
‘You’re twenty-four,’ said Hans carefully, as if he was talking a bank manager into granti
ng him a huge loan. ‘You really want the whole family thing right now?’ He sat very straight, and she found herself mesmerised by his red silk shirt.
‘I’m not sure,’ she said in a little rush, her little shoulders shivering. ‘But I’m going to stop the coke anyway, get clean.’ Looking at her cigarette, she stubbed it out and bit her lip. ‘And I want to work behind the bar, rather than out of vans. I’ve had enough of the sex trade.’
She waited for an angry reaction – initially he’d found it a turn-on that she fucked other men – but he carried on.
‘I believe the only way to reform people is to kill them.’ He let out another sarcastic laugh. He was doing it again, the deadpan voice, quote after quote. He could go on all night.
Hang on. Her stomach dipped as if she’d dropped several floors in a lift. Was that another quote, or was it a threat?
Then she remembered. ‘Carl Panzram,’ she said, laughing. ‘You use that one a lot.’ She shook her head. ‘You’ll be running out soon.’
‘I have several children who I’m turning into killers. Wait till they grow up,’ quipped Hans sticking his feet out. He laughed at her earnest face. ‘That’s why I’m making my own.’
Dorcas quickly inhaled. Now was her chance. She had to convince him she still wanted him if she was going to get any information out of him.
‘What about making a go of it, being properly together?’ She sat hugging her arms, waiting for his response.
Night Driver Page 16
