Cut: The international bestselling serial killer thriller

by Marc Raabe

  Gabriel grits his teeth. Everything is spinning as cold sweat drips down his forehead. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve forgotten,’ the man says. ‘But believe me, you will remember again. You simply must. Oh, and something else: not a word to anyone. You hear? Not to the police. Not to anyone else! I’m warning you – if you bring anyone else into this, you will sorely regret it. Otherwise I’ll scatter your Liz around the park in pieces. First a breast, then a hand, then an eye . . . understood?’

  Yes! Gabriel wants to say, but nothing comes out. Then there is a click in the earpiece and the line is dead.

  Gabriel stands paralysed in the shadows. His hands are shaking so hard that he can barely manage to get the mobile into his right jacket pocket. He stuffs the envelope into the left.

  Liz!

  He wants to kill Liz to take revenge on me. But why? Guilt rushes over him. The world is spinning around him in all directions. Raindrops fall from the sky and burst on the street.

  October 13th, 1979.

  It’s almost thirty years ago and he can’t remember the night, not in the slightest. He thinks of the clinic at Conradshöhe and recalls the agonising therapy sessions with Dressler. Dressler, with his silver pen, writing down everything Gabriel said in his delirium. What he would’ve given back then to rip the pen out of his hand, so that he would finally stop writing, so that he would stop digging into his wounds.

  But now he wants nothing more than to ask Dressler about his notes and to have his old medical records, so he can look for any clues. But since his escape, Dressler is probably now the last person he can ask for information on the past.

  The file. If there were something that could help him remember, it was his file. Was it still at Conradshöhe? It must be; the police had access to it.

  A paralysing pain immediately spreads through his head. Just the thought of returning to Conradshöhe is enough to fill him with panic.

  Leave it! Just leave it alone, the voice whispers to him. Believe me, it’s better this way. There is no woman in the world who’s worth descending back into this shit.

  How do you know? Can you remember?

  Me?

  Yes, for fuck’s sake! You. What do you remember?

  My memory is as good as yours.

  What happened that night?

  I’ve forgotten, like you. Do you still not understand? We’re a team. We are one. Except you want to save everyone else’s arse and I want to save ours.

  Helpless, Gabriel clenches his hands into fists. He desperately tries to think of who would know anything about his file.

  And then it suddenly occurs to him.

  Chapter 24

  Nowhere – 3 September

  Liz feels like she’s washed up on a beach. The saltwater burns in her lungs and passageways. She keeps swallowing again and again. Her hands claw at the wet sand, until she realises that the sand is made of fabric. A damp sheet in a bed.

  She doesn’t know how long she’s been conscious. She still has no sense of time. And, although she immediately remembers the man with two halves of a face, it all seems unreal, like a bad dream.

  It takes a while before she realises that there is nothing in her windpipe any more and that she is no longer being helped to breathe. Suddenly, she is overcome with a feeling of boundless relief and freedom.

  She opens her eyes.

  It’s the same glaringly bright room as the last time she awoke. The longer her eyes are open, the darker it seems, until it finally looks dark and dirty like a barren utility room. Only, she still seems to see a bizarre blurred corona surrounding everything.

  It takes a while before she is sure that she’s alone. No woman placing her hand on her forehead, no man with two faces. It’s as if her memory is out for a walk and individual parts must be picked up from the wayside. The attack in the park. The man’s disfigured face. How he ran his finger across her body as if he were drawing the path of a blade. Strangely, she fears very little. Far too little. She suspects that this is because of the drugs she’s been given. But despite her confusion, her mind is still constantly and unequivocally prompting her: he will kill you!

  She realises that she needs to get out of there. Out of this bed, out of this room. Right away would be best.

  Liz tries to sit up, but her body refuses. All right, her mind whispers, swing your legs out of the bed and then it will be easier to get up. She digs her hands into the sweaty sheets and drags her body to the right across the bed, to the edge. Every centimetre is a struggle, but giving up is not an option. She thinks of her mother, imagines her watching derisively, her face stiff from her last expensive facelift, her lips curled. ‘Child,’ she whispers condescendingly and shakes her head, ‘you’ll never make it.’

  With all of her strength, Liz pulls herself further across the bed. She thinks about the child inside her, imagines how the embryo is floating in its warm cocoon with no idea of what’s going on outside. ‘I’ll get you out of here,’ she whispers. She thinks of Gabriel. She even remembers their last phone conversation. Right. It was her birthday and he couldn’t come. When was that? And where is Gabriel now?

  Centimetre by centimetre, she approaches the edge of the bed. She can feel the cool metal edge of the frame, feels her right leg land on it, then her right shoulder. Careful now, her mind warns her.

  She tries to follow with her left leg. It shifts to the right and suddenly her right leg falls out of the bed. She can’t stop it, it just falls and she can feel her whole body rolling to the right after it. It’s like she’s on a seesaw – no, a log. She’s lying on a log and rolling to the right.

  When her body hits the floor of the room, she is stunned at first. And then the wave of pain comes crashing down.

  You have to stand up, her mind whispers.

  No, her body says. I can’t.

  She is freezing. The floor is so much colder than the bed. The blanket is out of reach and she can’t move. Tears fill her eyes. You shouldn’t have moved, her body cries, now we’re freezing.

  At that moment, the door rattles. Not now, Liz thinks. I have to get back in bed. If he finds me like this, he’ll kill me.

  But it’s too late.

  He’s entered the room.

  His two-sided face is an angel and a devil in one. The surprise distorts his features. He comes closer, bends down and leans over her. She can see his teeth, yellow and pointy. She knows that he will hit her now – or something much worse. Fear and disgust overpower her.

  ‘You shouldn’t do that,’ he whispers. ‘You will hurt yourself. And I want you to be beautiful. Beautiful for me. And beautiful for him.’

  Beautiful for him? The cold floor reaches inside her with icy claws. Him? Who’s that? Suddenly, she’s seized by a panicked fear that this man with the horrible face is just the beginning, that there is someone else controlling him, and that there is much more to fear and she can do nothing about it.

  Almost tenderly, the man reaches beneath Liz’s drooping arms and under her knees and lifts her up. No cover is protecting her from him and the hospital gown has slipped to the side. She lies naked in his arms. She sees his face, the beautiful half, and is suddenly thankful. Thankful that he is rescuing her. If she can’t run away from there, then at least she won’t die on the floor.

  When she is lying back in her bed, covered up, connected to the tubes, bandaged and rubbed with ointment, when the key turns in the lock outside and she is alone again, she thinks: So this is it. So this is when the Stockholm syndrome begins.

  The neuroleptic is already working again and her mind has begun to dissolve into soapsuds. Nonetheless, she still notices the dark square panel with a grill over it, located just below the ceiling in the corner of the room.

  A camera, she thinks. There’s a camera behind it! That’s how he noticed that I fell out of the bed.

  Next time, I’ll wait until it’s dark.

  Chapter 25

  Berlin – 3 September, 11.09 p.m
.

  The darkness envelops Gabriel like a coat. It smells like weeds, blackberries and rubbish have been thrown over the fence. The only thing missing is dog poo. The undergrowth is too dense. With difficulty, he makes his way along the towering fence that edges the rear of the Python property. Hawthorn and brambles tear his trousers and scratch his calves bloody. He would have just used the front door, but less than ten metres away from it is a dark blue Passat that stinks of undercover cops.

  About twenty minutes ago, Yuri Sarkov drove up in a taxi, probably directly from Tegel Airport, where his flight from Moscow had landed. Gabriel watched from a safe distance as he heaved his hard-shell suitcase from the taxi – an old habit. Yuri never let anyone take his luggage. His iron-grey eyes lingered briefly on the dark blue Passat. Then he pulled the brim of his hat down deeper and hurried into the low, two-storey, flat-roofed Python Security building.

  Finally, Gabriel thought, and stalked along the fence in the darkness. Yuri was probably his last hope.

  After another ten minutes, Gabriel arrives at the old back entrance to the Python grounds, a two-and-a-half-metre high moss-green barred door. The hinges are rusted in place but, unlike the wire fence, it is perfectly suited for climbing.

  Now, Gabriel waves into the infrared camera mounted above the door, then he stretches his face into the camera and puts his index finger in front of this lips. He knows that his pale face will light up on one of the monitors in the office like a full moon and Cogan will probably choke on his coffee with fright.

  His right shoulder hurts as he climbs over the door and jumps into the courtyard. He hurries past his old flat. To the right is the entrance to the garage where the old SL has been sitting – Yuri hasn’t driven it since Gabriel repaired it – as if there were some sort of curse on the black Mercedes or he were refusing to accept Gabriel’s thanks.

  With a few quick steps, he is at the door to the main building. He opens the lock with his electronic key card and rushes into the office.

  Cogan is sitting behind his monitors as usual, slightly hunched over, receding chin and all. He looks at Gabriel suspiciously. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asks. His expression makes it clear that he’s already heard everything about Gabriel’s arrest and escape.

  ‘Ask yourself how you could fucking betray me like that,’ Gabriel says.

  ‘What . . . what do you mean?’ Cogan’s face fades into an unhealthy looking blotchy white.

  ‘Well, how nice. Just two days ago I saved your arse. I went out to Kadettenweg for you and now, when I need an alibi, you give me a big “fuck you” and act all smooth, as if you had been there yourself. Can you explain to me what that’s all about?’

  ‘I . . . I coordinated it with Yuri, you have to –’

  ‘I don’t give a shit who you coordinated with. Man, this is not about some little thing. They want to pin a murder on me.’

  Cogan swallows and goes silent.

  ‘From today, you don’t just owe me one – it’s at least two. Understood?’

  Cogan nods automatically.

  ‘Where’s Yuri?’ Gabriel asks.

  The security officer gestures in the direction of the steps leading to the upper floor where Yuri’s office is located.

  Without so much as looking at Cogan again, Gabriel storms past him up the stairs, past the bare walls with their easy-to-clean fibreglass wallpaper. He pushes open the door to Yuri Sarkov’s office, bursts in and stands in the middle of the room.

  Yuri Sarkov is perched behind his desk. ‘Come right in, my boy.’ His voice sounds the same as always. Calm, a bit reproachful and ironic. His Russian origins make him roll the ‘r’. The request sounds like a gloomy, droning melody. ‘Please take a seat.’

  Gabriel takes a deep breath and drops into a chrome-and-black leather chair across from Yuri. The office smells of cigars. He suddenly feels like a moody teenager: stupid and with a short fuse. ‘Hello,’ he mumbles.

  Sarkov’s grey eyes look him over coolly. ‘The police called me several times.’

  Gabriel nods.

  ‘I hear that you were in custody for murder. And that you fled, knocking out a police officer and kidnapping a psychiatrist . . . What the hell are you doing? Have you gone mad?’

  ‘I know,’ Gabriel tries to appease him. ‘But –’

  ‘How long is it now since we agreed to put a stop to this madness?’

  Gabriel is silent.

  ‘Twenty, my boy. It’s been twenty years. And you have still not figured out that it reflects poorly on me when you misbehave?’

  Gabriel grimaces. ‘You aren’t my guardian any more. Not for a long time.’

  Sarkov looks at him piercingly. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I still were.’

  Gabriel avoids his eyes and looks at the huge yellowed map of Berlin, a relic from the time before the likes of Google.

  ‘Explain it to me!’ Sarkov demands. ‘I take you out of Conradshöhe, take responsibility for you and you manage to keep things more or less calm for twenty years. And now this? You leave me hanging. Why, damn it?’

  ‘You have no more responsibility for me, Yuri. This is my thing, you understand? You took over the guardianship for five years, that is long over.’

  ‘Your thing? Right.’ Sarkov growls. ‘And yet when you fuck up, I still get caught up in it. Somehow, I’m still responsible.’ He sighs. ‘Your thing, right?’ he repeats. His mouth turns into a narrow line. ‘But if it’s your thing, then why are the pigs in front of my door?’

  Gabriel looks down. ‘They’ll be gone in a few days. I made sure that no one saw me.’

  ‘I assumed so. Still, if someone works for my company and gets into this kind of shit, then it reflects on me, understood? It doesn’t matter if you think it’s your thing! Do you know how long it takes to get customers? And do you know how quickly they leave again when something like this gets around?’

  Sarkov snaps his fingers with his pale right hand.

  Gabriel holds his tongue.

  Sarkov’s eyes drill into his. ‘You still haven’t told me why!’

  Gabriel looks away and feels like a child who doesn’t want to get caught in a lie. His urge to tell Yuri the truth, to tell him about the kidnapping and ask him for help is almost overpowering. But the brutal and very clear warning from the kidnapper holds him back.

  Not a word to anyone. You hear? Not to the police! Not to anyone else! . . . I’ll scatter your Liz around the park in pieces . . .

  ‘Fine,’ Sarkov says with deliberate detachment. ‘If you don’t want to tell me anything, then maybe you can at least explain why you went to Kadettenweg instead of Cogan.’

  ‘Cogan isn’t doing well.’

  ‘Like hell!’ Sarkov roars. His flat hand crashes down on the desk so loudly that Gabriel flinches. ‘I don’t give a shit how anyone’s doing. When I say you don’t go, you don’t go!’ His grey eyes flash behind his glasses. ‘Why did you go? What did you want there?’

  ‘What did I want there?’ Gabriel asks, taken aback by Sarkov’s outburst. ‘Well, what do you think? To look into an alarm. To be honest, I could’ve done without it.’

  Sarkov’s nostrils quiver; he leans back, crosses his arms again and looks at Gabriel suspiciously. ‘Blyad. And now? What should I do with you?’

  ‘Help me.’

  ‘Help?’ Sarkov sighs. ‘Haven’t I already helped you often enough?’

  ‘I just need –’

  ‘I know,’ Sarkov interrupts. ‘Some money and a place to stay, to disappear for a while.’ He sighs again. ‘All right then. Old age is probably making me soft. OK, I’ll help you, but only if you disappear immediately from the scene. You can go to Moscow. I could use someone like you there. The offices there need support and Oleg is a goddamned child.’

  ‘Moscow?’ Gabriel asks, surprised.

  ‘What did you have in mind? Hawaii? Sorry. I can’t offer you that.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t want to leave here. I just need �
�’

  ‘Listen, boy,’ Sarkov says, ‘what you want doesn’t matter here. I tell you to disappear and then you disappear. Because it’s actually your only chance of avoiding jail, understood?’

  Gabriel grits his teeth. ‘I can’t leave here. No way. Not now.’

  Sarkov stares at him in disbelief. ‘Have the pigs shit in your brain? What’s this nonsense about? What do you want?’

  ‘Back then,’ Gabriel says softly, ‘when you took over my guardianship, they let you look at my file, right? My patient records, that is.’

  Sarkov’s eyes narrow. ‘I don’t understand the question.’

  ‘I . . . I need to know a few things. About the night my parents were killed. I thought that if you had read the file, maybe . . .’

  Sarkov looks at him as if he has now finally lost his mind. ‘So, let me just summarise this again, OK? You were arrested because you allegedly slit someone’s throat. Then you take a psychiatrist hostage, break out of jail, all of the police in the city are looking for you, and now you have nothing better to do than to brood over your shitty past?’

  ‘It’s important,’ Gabriel insists. ‘Have you seen it?’ Sarkov looks at him through narrowed eyes and then shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says brusquely.

  ‘Do you know how I can get a hold of the file?’

  Sarkov looks silently at his fingers.

  ‘Is it still at Conradshöhe?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because they handed it over to me.’

  Gabriel’s heart skips a beat. Hope and fear rise in him at the same time. ‘Everything? With all of the findings, transcripts, all that?’

  ‘Why are you asking? It never interested you before.’

  ‘But I’m interested now,’ Gabriel says, trying to contain his agitation.

  Sarkov leans forward onto his elbows and folds his hands. ‘I can’t give it to you. And I want you to disappear. Right now. To Moscow. That’s my final offer.’