by Marc Raabe
With every ring, the bare concrete walls of the cell move in closer. The small space depresses him and his worry about Liz makes him feel like he’s choking.
He’s been considering whether or not to call David for a long time. A while ago, he had seen his mobile number in Liz’s contact list. And now he has the number memorised, having dialled it but not actually hit connect so many times.
Rrriinng . . . rrriinnng –
Then the sound abruptly stops. Ignored, Gabriel thinks and looks at the scratched display of the worn phone.
‘What kind of a lawyer you got there?’ A hoarse voice asks through the small window in the cell door. ‘Never there when you need him, eh? Maybe it’s time to look for a new one.’ The face of a police officer appears in the window, with dark dead eyes and a drooping moustache, like a disappointed walrus. The officer demandingly waves his open hand in the window.
Gabriel hands him the telephone. ‘I need to talk to Grell.’
‘Right now you talk to me or no one at all,’ the police officer replies coldly. A cleft lip is just visible under his moustache and thin pale blond hair sticks to his scalp. ‘And besides, I would advise you to kindly address my superiors by the appropriate rank.’ He slams the window shut and Gabriel sinks down on the saggy cot. The rough fabric of the brown blanket scrapes against his hands and stinks of old sweat.
His eyes drift, restlessly, across the cell walls and their waist-high lime green paint job, the drain in the middle of the cell, the sink and the steel toilet. Washable, unbreakable and unsuitable for suicide. Memories of Conradshöhe start crawling out of their caves.
Don’t lose control, Luke. Think about something else. That’s in the past – way, way in the past.
With painstaking effort, he pushes the images aside and then the agonising uncertainty suddenly returns: Where is Liz? What happened to her?
He stares at the green paint – there are hairline cracks, like veins under the skin. Green. Like Liz’s eyes, only they’re darker and wide-awake. And they can light up in such a way that the sharpness of her mind shines through.
Liz, the journalist. Back then, after the Berlinale, when she had run after him, he had assumed that it was only for the tape. The videotape that showed how he had humiliated a lumbering, coked-up boxing champion who had her by the throat. Nonetheless, he’d let himself be drawn in. At the time, the fact that she had mentioned David seemed to be reason enough to endure this woman for a few more minutes.
They had sat across from each other at the bar without saying a single word for the first ten minutes. Gabriel with a black coffee, Liz with a black tea. Neither of them took sugar. She’d looked at him with an expression that seemed like she was trying to see into his soul, sharp as a blade that splits everything apart.
Eventually, she looked down at her teacup. ‘Treasure Castle . . . does that mean anything to you?’
Gabriel furrowed his brow.
‘The TV show . . .’ Liz helped out.
‘I don’t watch any TV.’
‘Never?’
‘Never.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t stand watching television.’
Liz raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s a lot you can’t stand.’
He shrugged.
‘And David Naumann?’ she asked. ‘Can you not stand him either?’
Gabriel looked away.
Didn’t I tell you, Luke? This was a shit idea! Why did you have to show up there?
I just wanted to see him. Just once, to see what David looks like, damn it.
Bollocks! Don’t you understand where this is going?
Where?
Trouble! You’re going to get yourself into trouble, obviously!
It had nothing to do with David. She needed help.
Help! Sure, of course. And you just had to jump in and save her arse.
All right, all right. I know.
You’ve got a real arse-saving problem. Now let’s see how you get rid of her.
Gabriel looked up. Her green eyes dissected him. He knew it was better not to ask, but he couldn’t help it. ‘What’s the story on David Naumann?’
‘Treasure Castle – Naumann created it. The show is a real hit, a treasure hunt reality show. Pretty cleverly made. It currently only airs in Germany, but has been sold to fourteen other countries.’
Gabriel looked at her blankly.
‘You really never watch TV, do you?’ Liz laughed.
‘I told you,’ Gabriel replied. When she smiled, her face suddenly looked much softer.
Pull yourself together, Luke. She is a goddamned reporter. She wants the tape. Just the tape.
‘Is that why you interviewed him?’
Liz nodded. ‘More or less. For me it was more about the lawsuit.’
‘What kind of lawsuit?’
‘Well, the show is really a huge success, but the royalties, that is, the copyrights and intellectual property were claimed by someone else. Suddenly they were saying that Naumann copied it, stole the idea. It could get him into real trouble. It comes to several million.’
Several million? Gabriel struggled to keep his face as expressionless as possible. ‘And how does it look for him?’
Liz shrugged. ‘Why are you so interested in Naumann? How do you know him?’
‘It’s a long story,’ Gabriel muttered.’
‘Oh, come on,’ Liz pressed, ‘quid pro quo.’
‘Quid pro what?’
Liz smiled. ‘This for that. I told you something, so now you have to tell me something.’
Gabriel grimaced.
‘OK,’ Liz said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, we don’t have to talk.’
Gabriel considered it a moment, and then reluctantly blurted something out. ‘It’s been a long time, we were just kids. I saved him from a burning house.’
Liz’s eyes widened. ‘Well, you seem to be ahead of the pack when it comes to rescues.’
Gabriel acknowledged her reply with a crooked smile.
Now, in retrospect, the sentence feels like a jab in the pit of his stomach. He remembers the helplessness and fear that were in Liz’s voice last night.
He gets up, walks over to the heavy pale-grey metal door that has been painted over several times and pounds on it with his fists, but the pain in his right shoulder forces him to stop after the first few blows.
A moment later, the small window opens. The walrus is staring back at him with lifeless eyes.
‘Commissioner Grell,’ Gabriel says and strains to maintain the friendliest tone he can put on. ‘I would like to speak with Commissioner Grell.’
An ugly smile flits across the face of the policeman. ‘And why is that?’
‘I’m begging you, we’ve been through all of this already. For the same reason as last night. I have to get out of here. I have nothing to do with the dead man in the park and I can prove it.’
‘Listen, everyone wants to get out of here. And no one here has anything to do with anything. We’re going in circles. But I’ll say it again anyway: if you want to get out of here, then tell me what you know and then I will decide whether or not to tell Commissioner Grell.’
Always talk to the boss, never with the errand boy, that was one of Yuri Sarkov’s golden rules. They usually worked. Just not here and now. ‘All right,’ Gabriel says, straining to remain in control. ‘The main thing is that you let him know quickly.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ the walrus replies. A greasy blond strand of hair falls in his face and he clumsily pushes it back. ‘So, what now?’
‘The dead man in the park,’ Gabriel says. ‘When he was killed, I was in Lichterfelde.’
The walrus raises his eyebrows. Wrinkles fold together on his blotchy forehead. ‘Oh no. And when was the man murdered, in your opinion?’
‘Between eleven thirty and twelve –’
‘And how do you know that? Are you a doctor?’ The walrus interrupts.
‘No,’ Gabriel growls, ‘but it wasn�
�t really that difficult to figure out.’
The officer snorts in disbelief. ‘And where exactly were you between eleven thirty and twelve?’
‘In Lichterfelde, like I said. At Kadettenweg 107. It’s at least half an hour away from the park by car. There was an alarm at Python, the security company that I work for.’
‘And did you see someone at the house on Kadettenweg?’
‘No, not exactly. But I left the Python office at eleven thirty and arrived at the house at a quarter to twelve.’
‘Did you shut off the alarm? Is there an electronic log or something?’
Gabriel hesitated. ‘No. I didn’t get to it. I went inside, there were footprints in the house, it looked like a break-in. Someone had been in the house. The gate to the street and the front door were both open. I went down to the cellar to the alarm system. Strangely, there was a dress hanging beside it, it looked new – a black, glittery, expensive fabric. Then my girlfriend called. She was in urgent need of help, she was badly hurt, someone had attacked her in Friedrichshain Park. Then I left right away.
‘And you didn’t turn off the alarm?’
‘No.’
The walrus sniffs air in through his nostrils. The drooping whiskers don’t move in the slightest. ‘And witnesses? Is there anyone who can attest to that?’
‘Bert Cogan, my colleague at the office. And my boss, Yuri Sarkov. I called him at twenty past eleven when I was with Cogan in the office.’
‘Anyone else?’
Gabriel thinks of the accident and hesitates a moment. Then he sighs. ‘Two streets after the house on Kadettenweg, I had a little accident,’ he mutters. ‘A Jaguar, dark blue. A woman and a man. She had a leopard-print jacket. He was sitting at the wheel. He ignored my right of way and I rushed through.’
‘Did you speak with them?’
‘No,’ Gabriel says and stares off to the side at the wall. ‘It was just body damage. I drove on immediately. But I am sure that the woman saw me.’
The policeman looks at him, motionless. ‘You know that’s a hit-and-run?’
Gabriel nods, but doesn’t say a word.
‘Did you take down the number plate?’
Gabriel shakes his head.
The walrus snorts abruptly. ‘All right. We’ll look into this and I’ll talk to Commissioner Grell. But even if it all checks out, you have a problem. The officer you knocked out is still in the hospital.’ He turns and goes to close the small window in the door.
‘Wait, my phone call,’ Gabriel cries.
The officer stops and looks at him with hostility. He reluctantly hands him the phone. ‘See to it that you reach the guy. But I’ll tell you one thing: if your story doesn’t check out, then you’re going to need more than a lawyer to get you out of here.’
Gabriel takes the greasy receiver. If not David, then a lawyer. But a lawyer is not what he needs at the moment. He thinks of Liz again, he sees her face in front of him, her smooth red hair pointing in all directions.
You’re a fucking idiot, Luke.
Why? Because I told the pigs about the hit and run?
Don’t take me for stupid. You know exactly what I mean.
Shut up! Gabriel whispers.
I only want to help.
Chapter 13
Berlin – 2 September, 10.42 a.m.
David’s stomach is in knots. Too much coffee. Too much Bug. In the WC, he examines his reflection. The creased white shirt, the pale face, the intense green eyes like Liz’s and the deepening wrinkles around his mouth. He tries to smile, even though he doesn’t feel up to it. Even that, he finds, is visible on his face.
He pushes his shirt and jacket sleeves up, turns on the cold water and lets it run over his throbbing veins. When a co-worker enters the toilet, he stops and acts as if he’d just rinsed the soap from his hands.
The shortest path to his desk leads past Bug’s office, so he takes a detour through the station’s post-production department, a long corridor with doors on both sides like a chicken coop; the editing suites.
Bits of interviews buzz through the air. In editing suite eight, a news report about Pope Benedict is being cut. Directly across the hall in suite fifteen, a pair of enlarged breasts flickers across the screens. And in seven, a prominent debt counsellor is debating with a banker. David smiles bitterly.
He pushes open the door between post-production and graphics and his pocket starts vibrating again. Without slowing his pace, he tries to fish out his mobile, but it’s lodged sideways in his inner pocket. David squints down at it and tugs at the vibrating object, then hits his head against something – something hard. A dull, bony sound reverberates through his skull. He tumbles forward, knocks something over and trips over it. ‘Shit! What . . .’
‘Ouch!’
David rubs his aching skull. A pair of brown eyes glares at him angrily. Shona McNeal is sitting on the floor in the middle of the corridor. She is also rubbing her head. ‘Shit! Do I have to paint a zebra crossing here to get safely to the other side?’ She groans and feels around her scalp through her brown mane.
‘I’m sorry. My phone . . .’ He reaches back into his pocket, but the phone is silent. He looks at her, embarrassed.
Shona McNeal reaches her hand out without saying a word. David takes it and pulls her up. Standing in front of him, she shakes her head of unruly brown curls. A smile plays around her mouth. ‘Is that your way of getting rid of unwanted colleagues?’
‘Why unwanted?’ David asks.
‘I haven’t heard from you since the last job, I thought –’
‘Nonsense,’ David says. ‘It was fine. We took it without any corrections or changes. You saw the show.’
‘Sure, I did.’ Shona looks down at herself and adjusts her casual button-down shirt. Her bra flashes into sight. ‘It just would’ve been nice to hear something ahead of time.’
‘But you know that I liked the trailer.’
Shona rolls her eyes. ‘Oh, man! You guys, you could really drive someone round the bend.’
‘Honestly. I said that I liked it,’ David insists and tries to focus on her face. Just no lower.
‘Said? You mean this thing with words where one person talks to another? Like, for example “cool intro” or “good work”? She smiles teasingly and shakes her head. ‘Sorry, but I don’t remember that.’
David shrugs. He can’t actually remember what had come out of his mouth on that day – or what hadn’t. He had been far too busy watching Shona at work – her delicate hands designing the graphics for this show with ease and precision. He hadn’t had to say much, just nod. The only real strain had been keeping his eyes from drifting back down to her cleavage, like now. He had been fascinated by how it seemed like she wasn’t even trying to get attention. The loose shirt suited her perfectly, matching in style her Converse and the pilot’s watch on her wrist. She seemed like she needed a lot of air on her skin in order to breathe, rather than to seduce. And that made it all the crazier that she had got involved with that egomaniacal arsehole.
When he realises where his eyes have landed again, he quickly looks up and blushes.
‘Good. At least you’re embarrassed in hindsight,’ she remarks with a biting tone.
What exactly does she mean by that now? David hates blushing. Time to counter. ‘Were you worried?’
‘Worried? Why?’
‘Because of the similarities with the Mystix design,’ David says, denying himself a grin when he sees her reaction to his mention of their rival’s TV show format.
‘Shit,’ Shona mutters. ‘I thought no one noticed.’
‘It’s OK. Everyone here steals from everyone else.’
‘So, happy then?’
David manages a nod with just the right amount of vagueness.
‘Wow,’ Shona tilts her head. ‘What a great compliment! All that’s left now is for you to buy me a whole cube of sugar for my coffee.
David is forced to laugh for the first time all day. ‘I would do it in
an instant, but I was just upstairs,’ he nods in the direction of the executive offices, ‘and I get the impression that Mr News is anxiously awaiting a meeting with you and I don’t want to get on his bad side. You know how he can be.’
Shona’s expression suddenly stiffens.
‘Have I said something wrong?’ David asks.
‘It seems someone else was in his way,’ Shona mutters with a strange inflection.
‘What’s that?’
‘Oh,’ Shona says, embarrassed. ‘It probably hasn’t got around yet. Funny. I somehow thought it wouldn’t happen to me . . .’
David looks at her, perplexed. He needs a moment to process what he’s just heard. ‘Bug is like a stray dog,’ he says slowly. ‘He has to pee on every damned tree and doesn’t understand that the most beautiful tree in the city is standing right outside his door.’
Shona frowns, but then she laughs. ‘Well, that was the shittiest and the nicest compliment of the day. And all in one sentence. I would say that sugar cube is now well overdue.’
David can tell his cheeks are turning red and he feels like a schoolboy. Just then, his mobile vibrates again.
Chapter 14
Berlin – 2 September, 10:51 a.m.
‘If it doesn’t work out, then that’s it with the lawyer, understood?’ the police officer grumbles.
Gabriel sits there with the receiver pressed to his ear, stares at the bleak cell floor and imagines the walrus going moustache first into a shredder.
Suddenly, there’s a click on the line and he holds his breath.
‘Naumann,’ a man’s voice answers. David’s voice was never particularly deep, but it sounds surprisingly grown up.
‘Hello,’ Gabriel says with a husky voice. ‘It’s me.’
There is silence on the other end of the line.
‘David?’ Don’t hang up now, Gabriel thinks.
More silence. And then, after an eternity: ‘Gabriel? Is that you?’
‘Yes.’
David’s breath sounds like a wave breaking.
‘Surprised?’ Gabriel asks woodenly.
‘I . . . no. Shocked is more like it.’
‘Wrote me off long ago, right?’
