Blood Ties

by Alexander Hartung

  ‘Isn’t she simply adorable?’ commented the pathologist, watching her lovingly. ‘But anyway. Enough of that . . . We have lots to do.’ He turned to Nik. ‘You get the suitcases and I’ll clean your cupboard. I hate to think about the amount of dust that’s accumulated in there since you moved in.’

  While Balthasar pulled on some rubber gloves, Nik shuffled out the door and grabbed a red suitcase from the pile. He had to use all his strength to move it. ‘I see you brought your library with you.’

  ‘Oh no, that’s my shoes!’ called Balthasar from Nik’s room. ‘Please, no sudden movements and keep the case upright!’

  Nik had to put the case down twice between the hall and Balthasar’s bedroom and only just managed to get it over the threshold. And then, when he thought the torture was over, ABBA started emanating from the stereo system, so loudly even the beer garden across the road would have been able to hear it. ‘Everything is much easier with music, don’t you think?’ Balthasar called out gleefully over the noise. By that point, Kara had discovered Nik’s half-full packet of crisps on the coffee table and was doing her best to spill the entire contents over the sofa.

  ‘Maybe not such a good idea after all,’ Nik mumbled as he went for the next suitcase.

  For one of the city’s renowned drug dealers, Paddy had an astoundingly normal life. On Thursday evenings, he went to a club not far from the teaching hospital where the customers spent their free time playing pool and listening to loud music. Located within a residential area, the place looked entirely unremarkable from the outside and the regulars looked about as dangerous as the ones you’d find at a bingo club. But Nik still didn’t want to take any risks. Paddy was bound to have friends behind the bar and it would be all too easy to become disorientated down in the dark basement room. He would have to catch Paddy on his way in.

  The dealer was a passionate and dedicated poser. He drove a black Mercedes-AMG with a subwoofer you could hear three blocks away. Nik stood on the corner of the street smoking a cigarette. Soon, at around 10.30 p.m., he heard the growling of Paddy’s engine and the pounding beats of some terrible American neo-punk band. Nik hid himself in the shadows of a driveway until Paddy had completed his obligatory arrival ceremony. The evening was cool, but the car’s roof was down, ensuring Paddy’s spiky mohawk had space to poke up above the front windscreen. The rest of his head was bald and covered from front to back with a spider’s web tattoo. His face was adorned with numerous piercings, and despite the late hour, he was sporting a pair of reflective sunglasses. He parked the Mercedes on the street, not far from the club, and opened the door abruptly. Before he’d managed to get out of the car, Nik had got hold of his mohawk. Gripping it tightly, he smashed his head against the steering wheel and pushed him on to the passenger’s seat. He then stepped inside the car and closed the door. Nik reached his hand under the dashboard and pulled out a gun with an ivory handle. ‘An HK45, eh?’ said Nik approvingly. ‘Not kidding around, are you?’

  Paddy rubbed his nose. ‘Fuck’s sake, Pohl. What was that for?’

  ‘Oh, that’s just how I say hello.’

  ‘D’you always need to greet me by breaking my face?’

  ‘You deserve a shitload more than that, Paddy, but I need some information from you so it’ll have to wait until next time.’

  ‘Maybe you’ve forgotten, Pohl, but you don’t work for the CID anymore.’ Paddy took his hand from his face, revealing a smug smile. Distracted briefly at the thought of how one person could have so many lip piercings, Nik swiftly proceeded to throw a punch to Paddy’s nose.

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s bad news for you, isn’t it, Paddy?’ Nik fixed his eyes on the man as he groaned in pain. ‘Means I can do what I want without worrying about disciplinary procedures.’ He lowered the gun down to his lap but kept pointing it at the dealer. ‘Do you know Timo Fürste?’

  ‘Who?’ The question earned him another punch to the face. ‘Fuuuck!’ His nose started to bleed.

  ‘Timo . . . Fürste.’

  ‘He’s just some small-time prick,’ answered Paddy angrily. ‘Thick as shit too.’

  ‘Could you be a bit more detailed, please.’

  ‘Look, Fürste’s been working with the Somalians for months. Passes on their coke to smaller dealers around the station.’

  ‘And why d’you say he’s thick?’

  ‘There’s a rumour that he fucked off with a pound of the stuff.’ Paddy took his hand from his nose and looked at the blood. ‘And these Somalians, yeah . . . they’re really sick. They’ll shoot someone just for taking their parking spot. If they get hold of Fürste, they’ll cut the coke out of him gram by gram.’

  ‘One pound of flesh; no more, no less. No cartilage, no bone, but only flesh,’ said Nik under his breath.

  ‘Huh?’ said Paddy, dumbfounded.

  ‘The Merchant of Venice . . . Course you don’t know it.’

  ‘He dealing in Munich?’

  ‘Jesus . . .’ said Nik, shaking his head. ‘OK. Back to Fürste. What are his chances of surviving?’

  ‘Zero, man! They’ve not got him yet. If they did, little bits of him would’ve been turning up in the Isar.’

  ‘And what would the Somalians do to get hold of him?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Would they kidnap kids?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Paddy, shrugging his shoulders. ‘But to be honest, gory is more their thing.’

  ‘You mean shooting or stabbing?’

  Paddy nodded.

  ‘Heard of anyone who’s looking for a kidnapper?’

  ‘You really think it’s that easy, don’t you, Pohl? It’s not like some department store. Someone doesn’t just walk into a dark pub full of dodgy characters and ask about a kidnapper. This shit only works via connections.’

  ‘OK. Let me rephrase it then: do you know anyone who kidnaps kids for money?’

  ‘Not my field, is it . . . But Munich definitely has its share of sick fucks.’

  ‘I’m talking about a pro here. Not just some junkie who’d do anything for cash.’

  Paddy shook his head. ‘Sorry, Pohl.’

  Nik smacked his palm on the steering wheel. He’d hit another dead end. A second child had disappeared but there wasn’t a single link to Greta’s kidnapping. Without uttering another word, Nik got out of the car, threw Paddy’s gun underneath a parked SUV and headed home. Early tomorrow, he would go and speak to Simon’s foster mother. Maybe she could throw some light on the situation.

  Chapter 5

  Nik was awoken suddenly by a strange noise. Still half asleep, he got out of bed and reached his hand inside the chest of drawers where he kept his gun. Something wasn’t right. He followed a low groan into Balthasar’s room, which was dimly lit by the moon. The pathologist had kicked his duvet on to the floor and his pyjamas were sodden with sweat. He was hurling his head from side to side, muttering in his sleep. Kara was perched on the back of a chair near the bed, flapping nervously as if trying to understand what on earth her friend was doing.

  Nik stood beside the bed and grabbed Balthasar’s hand. It was covered in a layer of cold sweat. He squeezed it hard. ‘You’re OK,’ he said. Balthasar tried to free himself of his grip but Nik kept grasping tightly. ‘You’re safe here,’ he whispered. Balthasar remained in this state for so long that Nik lost track of time, but eventually, he started to calm down. His breathing slowed, the thrashing stopped and his fingers fell limp in Nik’s hand. Finally, he laid the pathologist’s hand down on the bed, picked up the duvet from the floor and placed it back on top of him. He then left the room quietly, leaving both bedroom doors open. He lay back down in bed despite already knowing he wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep again.

  Balthasar was still sleeping when Nik left the house. He had battled with himself for a long time over whether or not to wake him, but in the end, he decided sleep was currently the best thing for him. Besides, Balthasar might have been somewhat embarrassed knowing Nik had seen him in such a stat
e, so he thought it better to avoid the subject entirely. Nik got into his car, turned on the hands-free and called Jon’s number.

  ‘So, how was the first night with Balthasar as a flatmate?’

  ‘Difficult,’ answered Nik pensively. ‘To my face, he’s pretending everything’s back to normal. But I know for a fact it wasn’t just his face that was damaged by the beating. I found him having nightmares last night.’

  ‘Can I do anything to help?’

  ‘Afraid not. He’ll feel safe in the flat. That’s the most important thing at the moment. Unfortunately, he’s the only one who can get to grips with his demons.’

  ‘Maybe you should speak to him about it at some point?’

  ‘Um . . . therapeutic chats aren’t exactly my strong suit. But anyway, did you get anything on Timo Fürste? I’m just heading over to speak to his wife.’ It was obvious Nik was changing the subject.

  ‘Timo Patrick Fürste,’ Jon began. ‘Born near the Bavarian city of Erlangen. Thirty-nine years old. Wasn’t a particularly sociable pupil and left school without any exams. Took on a job in 2006 at a thermal power plant in Munich and moved here. Gave that up in 2015 and started getting unemployment benefits. Things start getting interesting two months later, when he’s arrested for handling stolen commercial goods. Unlike the guy he was working with, Fürste got away with no charges. They were all dropped and nothing went on his record.’

  ‘He must have snitched,’ said Nik.

  ‘Most probably. But there isn’t anything about that in his file either.’

  ‘And now he’s dealing drugs on the side?’

  ‘Not officially,’ answered Jon. ‘I can’t find any entry about an arrest. But he hangs around the main station all the time and is on the CID’s radar.’

  ‘Any connections to the Somalians?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Sounds like Clemens Grohnert: enough dodgy deals for someone to want to use the kid as a pawn. But is there enough here for any tangible lead?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  Nik sighed loudly. ‘Thanks anyway. Maybe Simon’s mother will get me further.’

  ‘Keep me informed,’ said Jon before hanging up.

  Not long after, the satnav announced that Nik had arrived at the Fürstes’. It was a clean, quiet neighbourhood. Not at all what he had expected from a small-time dealer. The block where they lived was lined with hip-high bushes. The street in front of the building was packed with cars and Nik could hear school children playing nearby. The block entrance was also clean, with only a tiny bit of painted-over graffiti, and an empty beer bottle near the rubbish bins marring the scene. Nik pressed the buzzer and waited for a moment.

  Finally a voice sounded over the intercom. ‘Hello?’ She sounded tired.

  ‘Anton Maier. City council,’ said Nik. ‘I need to speak to you about your son, Simon.’

  ‘Do we have an appointment?’

  ‘No. But Simon has been missing for a few days now so it’s urgent.’

  ‘I’m not dressed yet,’ said the woman. ‘Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll buzz you in.’

  Nik looked at the time. It was just before nine o’clock in the morning. The chances were high he had got Simon’s foster mother out of bed. Two minutes later, the door buzzed and Nik went up to the second floor. A woman, who looked to be somewhere in her late thirties, opened the door. Her curly blonde hair, still fuzzy from sleeping, hung down to her shoulders and her eyes were red and puffy. She smelled of stale sweat. ‘Come in,’ she said, opening the door only just enough for Nik to squeeze into the flat, then bolting it shut behind them. The window was open and a chemical lemon smell was wafting through the air. Fürste had clearly used an air freshener to mask another smell. The kitchen counter was covered with sticky round marks, as if beer bottles had been standing there not long before and a line of smoke was escaping from a full ashtray.

  At first glance the flat seemed tidy enough, but as Nik took a closer look, he began to notice dirty dishes that had been thrown in the sink, clothes that had been hastily stuffed under cushions and various pairs of shoes hiding under the sofa. A socket hung out of the wall behind an armchair and a broken curtain rail had been stuck back together with duct tape. With a bit more warning, Lisa Fürste could have easily cleaned the place up to give the appearance of a pleasant home, but the surprise visit had exposed the truth.

  She sat on the couch, rubbing her hands together and looking nervously at Nik. ‘Has something happened to Simon?’

  ‘He’s been missing for a number of days now. Have you seen him?’

  ‘Not for a couple of weeks.’ She looked down at the floor. ‘He went back to the kids’ home.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘Um, life at home got pretty bad over the last few months.’ The woman was clearly ashamed. ‘Simon was always fighting with my husband. He wanted to sort out a job for him but Simon always refused to take it.’

  Nik listened, his anger starting to rise. He detested it when bastard drug dealers got children mixed up in their business. But he was there as a council employee today. He couldn’t let Frau Fürste see his fury. ‘What kind of job was it?’

  ‘My husband gave up his job in a power plant a few years ago to go self-employed. He runs a courier service now. Delivers packages, moves larger items to and from companies . . . helps out with moves, you know?’ The woman spoke with such conviction, Nik couldn’t tell whether she was aware of her husband’s drug dealing. ‘Every time Timo brought up the subject, Simon would raise his voice and storm out the flat.’

  ‘And where’s your husband now?’

  ‘He got a big job in Brandenburg,’ answered the woman. ‘He’ll be away for another week.’

  Nik sighed internally. It was clear Lisa Fürste didn’t have the slightest idea that bloodthirsty Somalians were after her husband. He asked himself whether he should tell the woman the truth but decided against it. The lives of two children were at stake. As long as he wasn’t entirely sure of Lisa Fürste’s connection to the case, he would have to keep up his cover.

  ‘Has your husband ever been in any trouble with the police?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’m referring to the possession of stolen goods.’

  ‘He was let off that,’ she said, defending her husband.

  ‘Yes, that’s true. But the others involved were sentenced.’

  ‘Which department are you actually from?’

  ‘Frau Fürste,’ said Nik soothingly, ‘I’m just trying to find your son. Maybe your husband’s old . . . friends . . . feel betrayed somehow and are therefore looking for revenge.’

  ‘And you think they’ve done something to Simon?’ she asked, her words overflowing with anguish.

  ‘Well, I don’t know what these people are like. Do you think that’s possible?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. There are some really nasty people out there. I mean, just look at that girl who was kidnapped last week.’

  ‘OK. Let me rephrase my question: is it possible that your husband’s ex-colleagues have kidnapped Simon in order to blackmail him?’

  Fürste clenched her fists to hide the shaking. She needed a cigarette, or a beer. Or both. ‘After Simon went through puberty, he and my husband didn’t get along at all. It was terrible,’ she admitted. ‘Timo worked a lot just to make ends meet and didn’t . . . have much time for us.’

  ‘So you’re saying kidnapping Simon wouldn’t be the way someone would go about blackmailing your husband then?’

  Frau Fürste hung her head. ‘No,’ she said quietly. Then lifting her head, she looked Nik sternly in the eyes. ‘Wherever Simon is, we’ve got nothing to do with it, OK?’

  Balthasar floated through the flat humming cheerfully, as if he had slept the whole night through like a well-fed baby. He sat down on the sofa and balanced a plate on his stomach. On top of the plate was a baguette filled with smoked salmon and a lick of remoulade. There was a glass of Prosecco on the table in front of him, alon
g with a small bowl of sliced apple for Kara. She pecked at the slices gleefully. The pathologist was a cheery person in general but today his mood didn’t seem natural. Undoubtedly his way of dealing with things.

  ‘Salmon baguette?’ he offered Nik with a smile.

  ‘Had a kebab on my way back, thanks.’

  Balthasar shrugged as Nik’s phone began to ring. It was Jon. Nik put the call on speakerphone. ‘We’re both here,’ called Nik as he stepped into the kitchen to grab a beer. ‘Where should we start?’

  ‘With the similarities between Greta and Simon,’ said Jon.

  ‘Are there any?’ asked Balthasar.

  ‘Both of them are fourteen years old and both were born in Munich. But that’s pretty much where the similarities end. They never met during childhood. There are no parallels or links between Greta’s parents and Simon’s long-standing foster parents, and their schools are miles apart. Greta loves ballet, and Simon hangs around on street corners.’

  ‘But then there’s the tall stranger Simon was seen speaking to,’ said Nik.

  ‘Right, and by tall, we mean really tall,’ added Jon. ‘Around six foot eight, scrawny, with light blonde hair. He either has an injury or a deformity to his right foot or leg and drives a dark blue VW. It’s a pretty vague description and I haven’t found anyone that matches it,’ Jon continued. ‘No males of that height have a limp and all the men that limp are considerably shorter. Plus, none of the men I can find who are that tall have light blonde hair, nor are they scrawny. And none of them drive a dark blue VW. I’m stuck unless I get more information.’

  ‘Anything on the gangsters from outside the Grohnerts’?’ asked Nik, flashing a side glance at Balthasar.

  ‘The police aren’t looking for a group of that description and without an official search, it’s going to be hard to find them. But I’m keeping your detailed description of the ringleader in mind. As soon as anyone similar shows up, I’ll be in touch.’