‘What are you on about?’ said Dorcas crossly. She was perched on the edge of her seat, holding Elli’s hand. Even though she knew she could do nothing for her, it made her feel better. Lars glanced sideways at her and licked his lips. He swallowed a few times as if preparing to make a speech.
‘In the army I was paid to kill, if necessary. But I also kill for kicks. Funny how you’re a hero and the other you’re scum,’ said Lars. He spoke in a neutral tone, as if explaining how to make an Italian pasta sauce. Although his voice was tense, he seemed relieved to be talking about it. He took a deep breath.
‘I’m a gay serial killer,’ he said. He paused, looked briefly at Dorcas. ‘All those missing men reported in the HAZ – I killed them, and the recent one you probably heard about on the news.’ He spoke with a curious calm. His manner and the actual words he was saying didn’t add up.
Dorcas couldn’t get her head round this, so she used her drug reflexes. Even though she wasn’t high, she remembered how it felt. She floated to the top of her thoughts, distanced herself. She was aware of the seriousness of what Lars was saying to her, that in telling her he’d probably have to get rid of her too. But it just wouldn’t sink in. She couldn’t accept it.
It was impossible. Her Lars, a serial killer? He was playing some ridiculous joke. In fact she was pissed he’d told her. It was like finding out a fundamental fact was wrong, like that Germany was actually part of the African continent instead of being in northern Europe; it made everything else she’d ever been told into a potential lie. She wanted to smack him.
‘Why?’ she said, raising her eyebrows.
‘If I knew that, it wouldn’t be a compulsion,’ said Lars softly. Then he looked at her knowingly. His voice became a sick whisper. ‘I get an incredible high at the moment of death. It’s addictive.’
Dorcas exhaled, clapped her hand over her mouth. She was wrestling with the unthinkable. ‘And Anna, and Tomek – and Elli?’ she said quietly. He might as well give her the lot now.
‘That was Hans. He used me, Dorcas.’ He turned to face her. ‘He let me use the VIP room to do the kills and then sold the bodies to a medical institute. I got my kicks and he got money for it.’ Lars started to break down, his face seemed to fold. ‘I had a compulsion, but that little fuck enjoyed it. Do you understand?’
He had to wipe a tear from his eye. Dorcas sat absolutely still. It was as though she was turned into stone. She was listening, but she didn’t want to know what she was hearing.
But Lars wasn’t finished yet. He mechanically drove as he spoke.
‘And then he got greedy. There was more money in organ trafficking, but I didn’t hold with that. He killed Anna and he’s got her brother in some farmhouse waiting to be cut up.’
Dorcas gasped. She took out a cigarette with trembling fingers. Lars lit it for her. ‘You’re still smoking, are you?’ he said, looking at her disapprovingly.
‘What the fuck? You’re a serial killer and I can’t smoke?’ Dorcas’s pencil-thin eyebrows rose high into her hair-line. Although her mouth was dry with terror, she couldn’t mask her essential assertiveness. She scowled at him and carried on smoking regardless. She wished she could pretend this were all a joke, but Elli’s lifeless body bumped into hers every time Lars turned a corner.
‘So if you’re a gay serial killer, why did you chase Frannie? And send her that threat with the flowers?’ Dorcas looked at him questioningly. Lars rubbed his chin, gave a deep belly laugh.
‘Oh, yes, your little mate?’ He stared at her sarcastically. ‘That was what Hans wanted. He’d made the mistake of killing Anna, someone he knew. Frannie asked too many questions, and she was a squealer.’ A dark look came over his face. ‘She complained about me to the police, stupid cow.’
Dorcas’s eyebrows shot up, but the mention of Frannie roused Lars’s anger. In a thick, vicious tone he said, ‘It’s because of that interfering bitch that I’ll be caught. Hans stopped me from using the VIP room because I didn’t kill her.’ His mouth smirked at the irony. ‘On the outside I made too much mess, and now they’ve got my DNA.’ His eyes were hooded, his face and neck bright red. He turned again to Dorcas. ‘So the bitch is going to have to pay.’ He banged his fist on the wheel and let out a guttural roar.
Dorcas shrank back. She was finding it hard to swallow. Outside, the scenery flashed by as Lars’s truck rumbled around the city streets. They were going at a hell of a pace. There was no way she could try to break the window or get out.
Lars opened up a new packet of cigarettes. He could talk and drive and smoke without thinking about it.
‘OK, first we drop off Elli, then I’m going to this Stefan geezer to release anyone they’ve got. After that you get your surprise and then I’m done.’ He laughed at that and nudged her in the leg.
Dorcas had to resist letting out a scream. If Hugo had come out and was going there, he’d lead Frannie right into Lars’s path. She’d put Frannie in the thick of it again. She sat on her hands to stop them from shaking. There was no doubt that she would be next. She wanted to moan, lose control of her senses, but she did not.
She concentrated on breathing, on filling her mind with pure, white calm. She thought of her flowers, the Ordnung of her apartment. Although it was the last thing she should be thinking about, she couldn’t stand the thought of dying without dignity.
Chapter
Thirty-Five
It was going so easy that he felt light-headed. He’d got Dorcas here with him. Now her unborn child was fatherless he’d make sure she was looked after, good and proper. He smiled; at least they were friends again. His hand patted her abstractedly on her knee. He was looking forward to showing her the surprise.
But first he had loose ends. There was this Stefan to sort out. He didn’t hold with torture, sadism. He dismissed instantly the possibility that any of his victims had suffered lasting pain. That had been love - okay, lust - but not sadism.
And then there was the English bitch, the one responsible for his darkness coming down. He sighed. It was all such a mess. Every time he thought about her being pregnant, the dull ache in his head notched up a bit. He didn’t like to think of her unborn child. And he didn’t do women!
But it was only a matter of time before he would be caught. He rubbed his hands over his eyes. Before, he only came into his own when he was in the zone. Now he had nothing to lose. Until they caught him good and proper, he had to take care of all the loose ends.
Frannie found it much harder to tail Hugo on the city streets. Once she had to wait at a red traffic light Hugo had already passed. She drove like a madwoman to catch him up, but on all sides she was hemmed in by slow-moving cars. She only managed it by overtaking dangerously.
It was harder operating an inferior car. The brakes were slow to react, she had to really step on them to get any effect, which meant she nearly gave herself whiplash every time she had to stop. When the traffic went down to walking speed, she found it impossible to keep up with the flow. She was either too slow, or virtually colliding with the other vehicles. The more she concentrated, the more her swollen feet slipped on the pedals. She cursed, but Hugo’s car kept moving relentlessly ahead.
She was hot and her tummy hurt like hell. Eventually they left the city behind and headed out to an almost deserted road in the direction of Barsinghausen. The streets curved and were tree-lined. The challenge was to keep out of sight without losing him. She kept a generous stopping distance and if another car came along, pulled over and followed again with another vehicle between them. Hugo wouldn’t be able to see more than one car behind.
Still he went further. There were no other cars and she had no choice but to follow him openly, hoping that he would not notice she was constantly on his tail. She drove after him through the dark, winding streets. Surely he would stop soon; there was nothing out here. If he parked, she’d drive on ahead then double back. As soon as she got an address she’d phone Dorcas.
But Hugo didn’t stop. She grit
ted her teeth and concentrated on trying to remain as invisible as possible.
Then the road got narrower, and there were no street lights. They were in deepest countryside, going in the direction of country park Weserbergland Schaumburg-Hameln. Or perhaps they were driving through the park already. It felt like driving in a tunnel under the earth. There was no light, only country fields and lone trees each side, and she found herself driving closer to Hugo for the view of his tail lights. Although she considered herself a night-driver, she was used to the B6, which was lit up like a funfair day and night.
Hugo continued, his black car almost invisible, his tail-lights little amber specks. The lane got smaller and the bushes either side got more overgrown until both sides nearly met in the middle. Frannie felt prickles of fear touch her scalp. Maybe he was on to her and had led her to this remote spot to kill her.
She pulled back so that her car was out of sight and drove with parking lights so she was less visible. It limited her vision, though, and she cursed as the path got wilder.
The road unexpectedly became steep. Hugo disappeared over the brow of a hill and Frannie tried to stop herself from racing on ahead to catch up with him. All she could see was the ghostly outline of trees, so if there was a house or building here, it would be easy to find. There probably wasn’t another place for miles.
Suddenly his tail-lights disappeared. She drove after him hesitantly, then stopped with her windows wound down, listening. There was a willow tree hanging low on the path; it was hard to believe that his car had gone that way.
Briefly she switched on her headlights. There was a path, little more than a dirt-track. Because of the thick undergrowth she’d never have found it alone. She looked carefully for any sign of civilisation. On the left, there was a faded wooden sign, Müllers Hof. There must be a farmyard ahead. She shivered. It was barely a farm track.
For long minutes she sat there with no idea what to do. If she drove after him, anyone there would notice her car pulling up instantly. On the other hand, she didn’t want a long walk in the dark. She dithered, one hand trying to soothe her heaving stomach, terrified of being caught.
Finally, she reversed three hundred metres or so until she was on the lane again. She parked near to a bush that partially hid the car. With shaking feet she got out. Now she was out of the car, her stomach seemed to be palpitating more. She felt like lying down on the moist earth, but the fresh night air revitalised her. The exotic bird and insect sounds spurred her on.
It wouldn’t hurt to take a look. She could scope out the area under cover of darkness, see if she could see anything – a name, something in the postbox, anything. She checked her mobile; she still had reception. She hesitated. Perhaps it was better not to tell Dorcas yet. If she was in any way involved, she was not going to hand her ammunition.
Her back suddenly tipped in agony. She felt as if she had humungous period pain. Simultaneously her bowels contracted fiercely. She dismissed, it, kept walking shakily in the direction of the farm. Her waters hadn’t broken, so labour couldn’t have started. It must be just the stress. She’d follow the track and see where she ended up. If she was quiet and really careful, she could hide behind the trees and have a quick scout of the place. She was so close now.
It felt as if she was twelve years old, doing something she shouldn’t. There was a dense wood to the left of the farmhouse. Frannie slipped behind the treeline and began to make her way closer.
Chapter
Thirty-Six
At first the moon was cloaked by cloud, and under the thick dark of the branches Frannie couldn’t make out the exact position of the trunks. Like someone blind, she reached out with her hands to feel them. The wood felt rotten to touch; it was old and gnarled, and bits of bark kept falling off. She shivered. Her hair kept getting snagged on low-hanging branches. At times the trees were too close together for her to comfortably move between. She cursed, felt fat and hot.
After inching her way along the treeline, she saw the outline of an old farm, complete with barn and stables. She crept closer. In a field she saw the dark shapes of cows lying down. They seemed to sense her presence. One of them mooed. The unexpected sound made her jump.
‘Sshh,’ whispered Frannie. No one must see her. She had no weapon, and they could easily outrun her. The only thing going for her was the element of surprise. If they had a dog she could give up now. She frowned. Didn’t farms always have a dog? She chewed her lower lip. If it was there, it would move on her soon.
She moved even closer and hid behind a large apple tree. There were lights on in the farmyard and the windows were all wide open on this close night. Above the constant chirp of crickets, she could hear two men talking round the back. Slowly, she tiptoed closer.
They were talking in a primitive kitchen. It looked like something her grandmother might have cooked in. The red check curtains at the window were stained and torn. She crouched down and made her way to the wall of the barn to get a closer look, pressed herself into a doorframe and watched.
Her stomach was gassy; periodically it blipped, as if it had hiccups. She held a hand over her mouth. If she so much as burped or coughed, it could bring them out.
The man speaking must be Hugo. His beer belly looked even more massive sitting down. They seemed to be in the middle of an argument. The other man, who looked even rougher, kept banging his hand on the table, but Frannie didn’t trust her judgement; she often thought people talking at full speed in German were having an argument, when it was just the hard, guttural sounds of the language.
For a few tense minutes she listened, but she could barely understand more than the odd word. In a foreign language she was like someone deaf: she needed to be able to see the person speaking to properly understand. She cursed her inexperience, her endless floundering in this bloody language. If only Dorcas had stayed with her; she would have had a handle on the situation in seconds. There was no point listening further. She might as well snoop round.
The door of the barn didn’t quite shut. She used the light on her mobile phone to peer in. There was the ghostly outline of a tractor that looked fit only for junk, and a few tools. She wondered if the farm was really functional. It looked as if it had had its heart ripped out long ago.
There was a half-rotting stable and a shed behind the house. As she padded through the darkness she sensed a presence. As she got closer she could hear little snorts and deep breathing. When she looked in and flashed the light from her phone, about fifty pigs jumped up with one communal snort. Frannie leapt back in fright. She could hear the sound of their frantic scurrying hooves, smell the heady waft of manure. The pigs were agitated, squealing and jumping about in panic. She had to get away before their angst alerted the men.
Frannie tried to run quickly to the next building, but she could barely waddle. Her stomach looked ridiculous and twinged every time she moved. The pains were still coming on and off, but she was so hyped up on adrenaline that she was able to keep going.
There was a utility room attached to the farm. Quietly, she crept in. It was unlocked, and someone had left a light on. She saw instantly that it was another dumping ground for unused machinery. Bits of twisted-up engine and old farm tools were stacked everywhere. The hallway had a white tiled floor which was caked with bits of straw, dry mud and general debris. This section was attached to the main house, but with the men inside there she didn’t dare go in. There were another few doors in the outhouse section. She steeled herself to check each one.
She listened behind the first door for some seconds, slowly turned the handle and silently peered in. In the dark the first thing she noticed was the acrid antiseptic smell, as if it had been scrubbed recently with disinfectant. She clicked her mobile light on for a few seconds and gulped. This room was spotless. It contained an orderly collection of medical supplies: stands for drips, bags marked ‘saline’ and plastic sheeting. She turned on the electric light. In a cupboard she found medication and bandages and a bag of adult nappie
s. Nothing in the room seemed appropriate for animal use.
She let out a stifled cry and clapped a hand to her mouth. Before, they’d suspected Hans of being an organ trafficker, but seeing for herself the paraphernalia of their sick operation made her feel nauseous. She steadied herself against a wall. In the small room she was conscious of her rapid breathing. If they caught her, she didn’t want to think about what they would do with a pregnant woman. Nervously she put a hand on her stomach, tried to reassure her baby. Swiftly she took three pictures of the room on her mobile phone. Finally, some evidence. Then she noticed that in the corner there was another door.
It was a badly made alteration, all cracked and disjointed, so she hadn’t seen it at first. The smaller door was locked with a giant, old-fashioned key. She put her hands over her face, tried to breathe smoothly. If all the medical equipment was here, Tomek must be close. Her instinct was to flee, to run back to the woods and call the police, but – she scanned the equipment in the room again – none of the medical gear was illegal. She needed more compelling images: a body, evidence of kidnapping; something. With shaking steps she moved towards the door.
First she listened with her ear to the door, but all she heard was her own thudding heartbeat. Slowly she turned the key. Sweat broke out on her upper lip as she painstakingly opened the door, trying not to make a sound.
At once she saw a man lying asleep on what looked like an old hospital bed. A small red-shaded lamp gave the windowless room a warm glow. It had evidently once been some kind of machine room, pieces of old hefty equipment were still in one corner, but someone had cleaned it up, used it as a place to keep the man confined. His lower legs were covered in bandages. One arm was tied to the metal frame of the bed with string. But all the restraints were unnecessary. It didn’t look as though he was going anywhere.
Night Driver Page 27
