by Marc Raabe
‘What about the cellar? Does it fit the description?’
‘There is no cellar.’
‘What?’
‘I looked everywhere. I checked every door. I was surprised. But Yvette said it would be impossible to have a cellar here because the rock is too hard. Von Braunsfeld probably wanted one, but it wasn’t possible.’
‘Aha. So, did you find out anything about the kidnapping?’ the short one asks and looks through the glass at Liz, who is sitting again and slumped over.
There is a crackling on the line.
‘If you ask me, it’s all nonsense. Didn’t she say she was a journalist?’
The tall one drops into an old, worn-out swivel chair.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Hm. Let me just look at something.’ The tall one pulls over a dirty keyboard. ‘L-i-z A-n-d-e-r-s,’ he spells aloud while typing the name into the Google search bar and then presses enter. ‘Seems to be true. She is actually a journalist, works for television.’
‘Wait a minute,’ the short one mutters into the handset, bends forward and studies the links. ‘Look at that, she is,’ he confirms. ‘But if there was no kidnapping, then what is she doing here in this tattered get-up?’
‘Look,’ the tall one says with sudden excitement and taps his finger on a link on the screen. ‘No way! She even made a documentary about von Braunsfeld.’
‘You think she was chasing down celebrities and was looking for von Braunsfeld here?’
‘Nonsense. He hasn’t been to the chalet in years. That’s what they say, anyway.’
‘Hey,’ the officer on the phone chimes in. ‘Looks like it’s probably a false alarm, right? Do you need me any more?’
‘No idea,’ the short one grumbles, displeased. ‘Probably not, at least not out there. First we need to take care of this Anders woman.’
‘Is she at least hot?’
‘Oh, shut up and just come back. Bye.’ He angrily slams the phone down. ‘Christ!’ he barks and stares at the screen full of links about Liz Anders.
The other officer makes a face like he’s deep in thought. ‘You know what I find strange?’
‘No,’ the short one says.
‘If a super-rich guy like this Victor von Braunsfeld built himself an extra chalet here in the mountains, then why didn’t he just have the rocks removed if he really wanted a cellar? The rich always just build whatever they want and don’t give a shit about the cost.’
The short one shrugs. ‘Eccentricity?’
‘And why would he even have the chalet built in the first place if he’s never there? Is that also eccentricity?’
‘What do I know? Maybe some sort of love nest for secret meetings with this Yvette?’
‘Von Braunsfeld is over seventy. And why be secretive anyway? His wife has been dead for years, what’s there to hide?’
The short one contorts his face as if he’s got a toothache.
‘Never there, no cellar, it is kind of strange, isn’t it?’
‘Sort of. But then why would he need a cellar if he’s never there?’
The tall one sighs and looks at the clock. ‘All right, well, what are we going to do with her?’
‘Maybe try to call her friend again, this . . .’ the short one looks at a notepad beside the telephone, ‘Gabriel Naumann.’
‘And leave another message on the voicemail? How would that help? He’ll get in touch at some point. Assuming she really is with the guy.’
‘You think she’s lying?’
‘Who knows? I mean, look at her.’
‘Hmm. Maybe we should call the clinic in Lucerne,’ the short one says thoughtfully. ‘They have experience with this type of thing, right?’
‘And what type of thing is that?’
The tall one taps on the side of his head with his index finger.
‘Well, she certainly looks it with that whole get-up and everything. And those directions with the 7,200 steps. Who counts like that? Maybe an autistic.’
‘Autistic?’
‘I’ve read about it. Autistics have cognitive disorders. There are a lot of things they don’t properly understand, but instead they can count really well or can tell you how many grains of rice are in a jar.’
The tall one looks at him incredulously. ‘Autistic and a television journalist?’
‘You got a better idea?’
The tall one shakes his head.
‘All right, I’ll take care of her and you ring them. You can take over with her afterwards. I’ll have to go then anyway, otherwise my wife will probably be annoyed. Tell them they should do it quickly.’ His hand runs across the counter and reaches for the car keys that he’d put down earlier, but his hand grabs at nothing. ‘Hey, do you have my car keys?’
The tall one stops dialling and looks at him blankly. ‘What would I be doing with your car keys?’
The short one furrows his brow and looks through the window into the outer office. He turns white as a sheet. ‘Shit,’ he whispers. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’
He throws open the door and stares at the empty bench where Liz had just been sitting a few moments ago.
Chapter 42
Berlin – 25 September, 9.17 p.m.
Someone erased the burning horizon. Low clouds reflect the street lighting and make the sky look like poisonous ash.
Gabriel rings the bell. At the same moment, a siren howls in the near vicinity and he jumps. His already agitated nerves make him very edgy. After a few seconds, he presses the bell again. This time, there’s no siren. Instead, David’s voice crackles in the intercom. ‘Hello?’
‘It’s me,’ Gabriel says.
Silence.
Gabriel thinks he can hear David breathing, hesitating.
‘I . . . I have a visitor right now, can’t we do this another time?’
‘I won’t take long.’
Silence again. ‘OK, OK,’ David finally answers, resigned.
The door unlocks with a buzz and Gabriel pushes it open. There’s a draught in the stairwell that is heavy with the scent of cleaning products. The musty smell of Gabriel’s clothes is about as discreet in here as dog mess at a dinner party. As he climbs the stairs, he fumbles around for the mobile phone in his trouser pocket and wonders when Val is going to call again.
The door to David’s penthouse flat is already open and Gabriel steps inside. ‘Hello?’
‘I’m in the living room,’ his brother calls. A moment later, he is standing across from David, who is leaning on the kitchen counter, his skin pale and his eyes sunken. The brown-haired woman that Gabriel saw the first time he was in David’s flat is standing at the coffee maker behind him. She pours herself a coffee, nods to Gabriel and lets her eyes linger on his clothes.
‘You already know Shona,’ David mutters, obviously trying to avoid looking at him. Nonetheless, his eyes drift across the bandages on Gabriel’s arm, the stained jumper, the tattered trousers and the shoes that are encrusted in dirt. His eyes widen. ‘What happened to you?’
Gabriel makes a face. ‘Can we talk in private? I’ll be quick.’
David and Shona exchange a look. Gabriel immediately wonders what he’s told her.
‘How about you change into something else first?’ David suggests and gestures to the open bedroom door. ‘The size should be about right, just help yourself.’
‘Suits aren’t my thing and I don’t want to stay long,’ Gabriel answers. ‘If you can lend me a bit of money, then I’ll get myself some new clothes.’
‘And how much is “some”?’
Shona glances warningly at David.
‘Two or three thousand for now,’ Gabriel proposes. ‘You’ll get it back, don’t worry,’ he quickly adds when he sees David’s eyes widen. ‘I was attacked and had to get away. The only thing I could take with me in a hurry was my mobile.’
David takes a deep breath and looks away. His cheeks are red beneath the blond stubble. You can see how much he hates that his every emotion is visible right
on his face.
Shona looks first at David and then Gabriel. She noisily puts her coffee cup on the counter. ‘Look, it’s none of my business, but you are not the only one here who’s having a hard time and –’
‘Shona, please,’ David says.
‘What do you mean?’ Gabriel asks suspiciously.
‘Just look around you,’ Shona says. ‘Nothing in the refrigerator, missing pictures on the wall, the flat is half empty and to make matters worse, David now also –’
‘Shona, that’s enough!’ David stops her.
‘What?’ Shona replies heatedly. ‘He’s bothering you with his problems. Why don’t you just tell him that you were fired and you’re also broke?’
Gabriel looks at David. ‘Is that true?’
David chews on his lower lip and looks out the window.
‘Well, yes,’ David nods.
‘Shit,’ Gabriel groans and leans against the wall.
‘Maybe I can help you some other way,’ David says softly, ‘but not with two or three thousand.’
Shona looks at David, stunned. ‘Do you not understand what’s going on here? Your wonderful brother hops from one catastrophe to the next and you want to keep helping him?’
‘Shona, please,’ David says.
‘Bravo,’ Gabriel says bitingly. ‘Apparently she’s your new babysitter.’
‘And where is your psychiatrist?’ Shona spits back. ‘I’d really like to talk to him!’
Gabriel stares at her furiously. ‘I don’t think,’ he says icily, ‘that you are one to judge. So just shut up.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Shona hisses. ‘And what if –’
‘Shona,’ David interrupts. ‘He’s right. You really have no idea. Please drop it.’
Shona looks at David, speechless. Her cheeks are burning, as if someone had slapped her across the face.
For a moment, everything freezes.
Then Shona turns on her heel, throws her bag over her shoulder and rushes out of the flat. The door crashes shut behind her.
‘Great,’ David mutters. ‘Thanks for that.’
Gabriel shrugs. ‘Ring her when I’m gone.’ The dull pain in his arm makes sure its presence is known.
‘So that you can scare her off again next time? No thank you! You’re a real arsehole, you know that? No wonder people are always after you.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Gabriel asks.
David’s cheeks flush. A strange, indefinable expression shines in his green eyes.
‘I asked what you meant by that.’
‘Didn’t you just say that you were attacked?’ David says hastily.
Gabriel gives him a piercing look.
Did you hear that, Luke? the voice in his head prods. You hear how high his voice is?
He’s hiding something. He’s embarrassed about something.
Embarrassed? He’s scared, Luke. He stinks of fear.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ David asks. The hand in his right pocket has been moving the whole time.
Guilty conscience, Gabriel thinks, and he’s afraid. But why? Gabriel tries to shake off his rising queasiness and shrugs. The injured shoulder responds immediately with a sharp pain and he grimaces.
‘What?’ David snaps.
Gabriel huffs. ‘I should be asking you. What’s your problem?’
David nervously runs his hand through his blond hair. ‘What do you think my problem is? It’s the same as always,’ David says. ‘You’re telling wild stories and I’m uncomfortable.’
‘Nice try,’ Gabriel says. ‘You’ve always been a shitty liar.’
Awkward silence.
A pigeon flutters on the railing outside the window. The white bird shit reflects the light from the flat and shines in the darkness.
‘They can smell your guilty conscience on the other side of town, little brother. So, what happened?’ Gabriel asks. His blue eyes are as hard as metal.
‘My god, what the hell to you think happened?’ David’s voice goes shrill. ‘My brother appears like a ghost from the past and drags me into his mess, the bank wants to seize my home, my boss sacks me out of nowhere . . .’
‘What mess? I haven’t pulled you into anything. I only asked you to check and see which hospital Liz was in.’
‘I . . .’ David goes quiet.
‘Now spit it out, man. I can tell there’s something.’’
‘I had . . . a visitor,’ David says feebly.
Visitor? Gabriel stares at him. Suddenly, all the pieces fall into place. ‘He was here,’ he whispers. ‘Yuri was here, wasn’t he?’
David looks away.
‘Yuri was here and you told him where to find me. That’s why you have such a fucking guilty conscience.’
David’s jawbone is visibly clenched. He looks as if he wants to bite down on a cyanide capsule but lacks the courage.
‘How the hell did you know where I was?’
‘The key,’ David mumbles. ‘The key fell out of your pocket.’
‘You goddamned idiot,’ Gabriel groans.
‘I . . . he . . . he said that he’d known you a long time. And that you stole something from him.’ Beads of sweat shine on David’s forehead. ‘He wanted it back, nothing more. He said nothing else would happen, he wouldn’t do anything to you.’
‘God, you’re naive,’ Gabriel says. ‘What did you get in exchange?’
‘Get?’
‘Yes, damn it, get! Yuri only has two methods of getting what he wants from someone. He either threatens you or he buys you. So what was it?’
‘David swallows. ‘Your . . . file,’ he says hoarsely.
‘My what?’
‘Your file, a copy of your file from the psychiatric clinic.’
‘Shit,’ Gabriel whispers and looks in David’s eyes, their greenness dull like a stirred-up lake full of algae.
‘I just needed to know,’ David says so quietly it seems like he’s only explaining it to himself. ‘He said that you fired the gun . . . I asked you a thousand times. You only ever said that you couldn’t remember . . .’
‘And? Have you read the file?’ Gabriel asks with a husky voice and knows how redundant the question is. Up until now, he was angry with David. And now? Now he’s just waiting for David’s wrath to descend upon him, for David to scream, to swing at him, for something to happen.
‘I have,’ David says and nods.
Why is he nodding? Why isn’t he saying anything?
Their eyes meet. They are standing no more than two metres apart. Gabriel could take a step forward and reach out his hand, but it would always be the hand that fired the gun.
Since that night, something has been broken between them. One reason was that he had locked David in their room, but even though Gabriel had been there, had experienced or suffered through all of it, he still can’t remember anything.
And no one could get over such a fragmented past.
‘It would be easier if it all just came out now, wouldn’t it?’ David says.
Gabriel says nothing. Yes, it would, he thinks. Better to be blamed than to blame yourself.
‘I’m just not sure,’ David says ‘if you really –’ he suddenly cuts off. The metallic click of the lock is as quiet as the clink of a glass on a table, but it has the effect of a stick of dynamite.
Gabriel and David both go for the front door at the same time.
Out of the shadows of the corridor, a thin figure wearing a grey hat enters the flat with a gun in his hand. For an instant, Gabriel recognises David as the trembling mirror image of himself.
‘Yuri,’ Gabriel groans.
‘Dobri, my boy. Good to see you.’ Sarkov’s smile is as sharp as a knife.
‘How . . . how did you get in here?’ David stammers and looks at the silencer screwed onto the pistol. All the colour drains from his face.
‘I should’ve known,’ Gabriel mutters.
Sarkov tilts his head to the side as if he can’t decide be
tween nodding and shaking his head. ‘You seem to have a weakness for family members lately.’
‘Whatever you want from me, Yuri,’ Gabriel says with exhaustion, ‘leave David out of it.’
Yuri Sarkov’s cold grey eyes flash behind his glasses. ‘Didn’t you just say that I only have two methods of getting what I want from someone: to threaten him or buy him . . .’ The corners of his mouth twitch mockingly and he points at the door behind him. ‘Bad soundproofing for such an expensive flat . . . but in terms of the two methods, well, that’s not entirely true – there’s a third option.’ He calmly steps up to David and presses the barrel of the gun directly into his ashen face. His eyes sparkle triumphantly. ‘Where is the film?’
Gabriel stares at the round silencer that is pressed into David’s cheek with such force, it makes the whole right half of his face look deformed. It feels as if Yuri is pushing a burning hot poker deep inside of him. Where is the film? The question echoes strangely in Gabriel’s head, as if he’s already heard it long ago.
‘What film?’ David asks with a shaky voice.
‘I’d like to know the same thing,’ Gabriel says. Down on the street, a lorry drives past. They can feel the vibration of the engine all the way up in the flat.
‘If you’d like me to help you decide,’ Sarkov hisses, ‘I don’t need to kill him right away.’ He takes a step back and aims at David’s genitals. ‘I can also do it piece by piece.’
David stares at the weapon, frozen in place. The fear is practically written on his face. ‘Just give him the bloody film,’ he pleads.
‘I don’t have it,’ Gabriel says softly. He would like to just run out of here, but his legs feel like brittle stilts and his eyes sink back into their sockets as if he were struck with a sudden fever. ‘I don’t even know what you’re talking about, Yuri. The safe was empty.’
‘You’re wasting my time,’ Sarkov says coolly. ‘I know that it was in the safe. It had to have been there.’
Gabriel is paralysed. He wants to do something, anything, but all he can do is stare at Sarkov’s index finger, a lean, old finger with strained tendons, curving around the trigger of the gun.
