‘I’d sooner they turned off the machines.’ Taking my hand, she gazed deep into my eyes and said it once more: ‘Promise me, Alex. If I ever have an accident and can only get by with constant help like your Granny, I want you to do your utmost to see that I don’t end up like her, you hear?’
I’d sooner they turned off the machines.
If only she’d signed a living will. If only my father had still been alive to take the decision in my place. If only I myself had had the courage to carry out her last wish.
I’d tried to once. I drove to the sanatorium firmly resolved to switch off the ventilator – and failed miserably. After the tragedy on the bridge I lacked the mental strength to take another person’s life. And so it was my fault that my mother, once such a robust, vivacious, emancipated woman, who wouldn’t even let a waiter help her into her coat, was dependent on the whims of the underpaid nursing staff without whose assistance she couldn’t even empty her bowels in the right place.
She wouldn’t have wanted that. She would rather have died, she’d made that absolutely clear to me, but I hadn’t managed to kill her.
And the Eye Collector seemed to be aware of that.
Remember your mother.
He must know me well. He seemed know that I’d spent a long time staring at the ventilator switch with which could I have ended all her sufferings and incurred a murder charge. He knew I was too weak. In shooting Angélique I’d used up all the courage I would have needed to kill another woman, even though death was her dearest wish.
The Eye Collector was confronting me with an insoluble problem.
A game isn’t a game unless the players have a chance of winning...
He hadn’t challenged me to find the suction pump. If I wanted to save my own life and Alina’s, I must turn off quite another machine: the one within arm’s reach of me, which was keeping the tormented woman alive. You can turn off the pump and win...
The ventilator beside the unknown woman’s bed!
I shouted into the phone, telling the student our location and begging him to send help. The words came tumbling out of my mouth as I tried to convince him that this was a deadly serious situation, not a game, but he merely laughed.
‘Yes, yes, the guy told me you’d come out with something like that,’ he said, and hung up.
I pressed the cradle, dialled 112 again and waited for a ringing tone. In vain.
I wasn’t permitted another call.
The antiquated telephone had been disconnected.
33
(6 HOURS 4 MINUTES TO THE DEADLINE)
FRANK LAHMANN (TRAINEE JOURNALIST)
‘That’s bullshit,’ said the detective sitting nearest to him. ‘He’s gone in search of a parking violator with a blind witness? You expect me to believe that?’
Frank was seated at the end of the massive glass-topped table whose edge was buried beneath the inspector’s plump buttocks. He guessed that Thea was waiting for him outside the conference room and might even be listening at the door. She had been eager to sit in on the interview, but the other policeman had opposed the idea. Although thinner and more sensibly dressed, he looked just as shattered as his uncouth colleague. Flaky skin and red-rimmed eyes with dark circles round them – Frank was acquainted with those signs of fatigue in himself. They manifested themselves when you were working against the clock and sleep was a luxury you couldn’t afford. Frank could even recognize the facial side effects of the remedies they took to cope with stress. The guy named Scholle drowned his lack of sleep in coffee and Red Bull. His dark-suited superior resorted to harder measures. His dilated pupils were as informative as the fact that he kept sniffing – like Kowalla, the cokehead from the paper’s sports section.
‘Why not just check the info?’ said Frank. ‘Maybe Zorbach’s right. Maybe the guy with the parking ticket is the one you’re looking for.’
He repeated the address in Brunnenstrasse where the man Zorbach thought was the Eye Collector had left his car in a disabled parking space.
‘Check it out. What have you got to lose?’
‘Time,’ said the man who had introduced himself as Philipp Stoya. ‘The deadline’s approaching and I’ve no wish to set eyes on another child’s corpse because I wasted time checking parking offenders.’
The corners of his mouth quivered as he tried to suppress a yawn. Hurriedly, he fished a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket just in time to sneeze into it several times. A thin trickle of blood dribbled from his right nostril. The chief investigator seemed to have noticed this, because he tersely excused himself and left the conference room.
That’s great, Frank thought apprehensively, leave me on my own with Rambo.
Scholle smiled at him, nothing more. He simply sat perched on the edge of the table, jiggling his right foot as if bouncing a ball, and grinned. Broadly. Amiably. Unmaliciously. Like an old pal. Saying nothing.
Frank bowed his head and thought hard.
Should I give him the address?
Zorbach had asked him not to do so before he okayed it by phone, but he hadn’t called in for the last ten minutes, nor had he answered the phone when Frank called him just before the detectives turned up. The number you require is temporarily unavailable.
‘It wasn’t Zorbach,’ he said for at least the third time since the interview began. ‘You’re wasting more time chasing after my boss than you would if you checked that parking ticket.’
No response. Scholle’s grin persisted.
Shit. Frank guessed what was to come. He knew the type. Although his colleagues on the paper regarded him as a greenhorn because of his youthful appearance and limited experience, he could spot the kind of men who were used to getting their way. He recognized them because they were so like his father. In his private life Scholle might be a good-natured family man who would barbecue you a nice, thick steak while his kids rode him piggyback. When confronted by a professional impasse, however, he wouldn’t hesitate to use the whole of his considerable body weight to solve a case. That, no doubt, was why he only played second fiddle. Doubtless lacking in patience and sensitivity, he only knew of subtle interrogation techniques through rumour – unlike his coke-sniffing superior.
Frank had been a lifelong outsider until Zorbach gave him a job on the paper. Always on the sidelines, never in the thick of things, he was in the best possible position from which to observe people. Having developed a capacity for reading others’ minds from childhood, he knew that, far from being an olive branch, Scholle’s grin was a prelude to something very, very unpleasant.
He wasn’t wrong, either.
In one fluid movement of which he would never have thought the overweight detective capable, Scholle had straightened up and imprisoned him in a necklock from behind. Frank felt as if the policeman had trapped a nerve. Then the pain shot down his spine to his loins.
‘Okay, fun’s over!’ Scholle increased the pressure. ‘Your pal lost his wallet at the scene of the crime. He even came back and worked Traunstein over.’
Frank’s cervical vertebrae creaked. He flailed his arms about and tried to get to his feet, but his upper body might have been set in concrete.
‘He knows more than he should and he’s on the run.’
He’s crazy.
‘So don’t tell me we’re after the wrong man!’
The bastard’s crazy – he’ll kill me.
‘Maybe I’ll be subject to disciplinary proceedings. Maybe torture is prohibited in this country. But you know what?’
Scholle wrenched Frank’s head back until his gaze was involuntarily focused on the big wall clock at the other end of the conference room.
‘I couldn’t care less when kids are involved. We’re running out of time, and I’ll deliver you to A and E before I let another child die because of an obstructive little wanker like you!’
Relieved to find that he could still breathe despite the pressure on his throat, Frank made another attempt to free himself. Then he froze. Didn’t move a mil
limetre. Kept absolutely still. He knew, even without being told so by Scholle, that to turn his head so much as a few degrees would be appallingly painful.
‘Know how I take notes in difficult cases?’
Frank didn’t even dare nod. His pulses raced and sweat broke out all over his body.
You’re a sadist! The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t afford to feed Scholle’s fury. Didn’t want the sharp object that had just been inserted in his ear to probe any deeper.
‘With a pencil,’ said Scholle. He chuckled. ‘I always come equipped with a nice, long, freshly sharpened pencil.’
The detective’s warm, moist breath on the back of Frank’s sweaty neck made him shiver.
‘Okay, okay, I’ll tell you,’ he groaned.
‘Really?’ The necklock remained as tight as ever. The pencil felt as unpleasant as a Q-Tip inserted too deeply into the auditory canal.
‘I actually believe you’re going to talk at last. But you know the difference between me and my colleague?’
Once again, Frank couldn’t nod without risking a punctured eardrum.
‘Stoya’s at the end of his rope like me, but unlike me he isn’t a hundred per cent convinced your boss is the bastard we’re after. That’s why, although he might get carried away and threaten you, he’d leave it at intimidation.’
Frank started to hyperventilate with fear.
‘I, on the other hand, want to make sure you know what’ll happen if you give me a load of bullshit,’ said Scholle, and he gripped the pencil still tighter in readiness to ram it home.
32
(6 HOURS 2 MINUTES TO THE DEADLINE) ALINA GREGORIEV
‘I can’t do it!’
‘What can’t you do? Please tell me what’s going on!’
Alina had noticed the almost instant echo as soon as she entered the cellar. Her words reverberated as they bounced off the walls, so she knew that the chamber in which they were confined could not be large. Besides, she had bumped her head when descending the steps. That meant she was standing in a low, stone cellar in which the light had just gone out. The faint, misty glow she’d previously perceived thanks to the remains of her eyesight had disappeared. So had much of the oxygen they needed in order to breathe.
The air seemed to have grown steadily thinner since Zorbach had finished telephoning, and her lungs were subject to ever-increasing pressure.
‘There’s a sick woman in here,’ she heard him say hoarsely. He sounded breathless and bewildered. ‘If we want to get out I’ll have to kill her.’
She had been breathing through her mouth ever since entering the bungalow, but the cloying stench of corruption was the least of her problems. She was imprisoned in unfamiliar surroundings, could hear horrible noises and had breathing problems. On top of that, Zorbach seemed to have lost his mind.
‘Stop! No, keep away!’ he snapped when she bumped into him. Alina normally had a good sense of direction when on unfamiliar terrain. It didn’t always manifest itself, but sometimes she could feel when something was in her way, for instance because the air pressure changed just before she collided with a bulky object. But down here, in these cold, noisy surroundings, this was impossible.
Too many distractions. They’re overwhelming my senses.
The unpleasant hissing sounds, the hum of the suction pump, the panic in Zorbach’s voice – no wonder she’d blundered into him, lost her balance, and clumsily groped for some means of support.
What was it?
The thing she was touching felt like a vacuum-packed joint of meat.
‘What is this?’ she demanded, but before she could continue to run her hands over the warm plastic film, Zorbach caught hold of her arms.
‘No, don’t touch her.’
Her?
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I told you there was a woman here,’ he said angrily. ‘One of his victims. That’s all you need know, believe me.’
You could be right. Maybe I really don’t need to know...
But she found out nonetheless. Not from Zorbach, who continued to hold her by the arms and said nothing, presumably wanting to protect her from the sight he’d been compelled to endure all this time.
She learned the truth when she pulled away and Zorbach could restrain her no longer. Her sense of touch conveyed the scene of torment better than words could have described it to her. Beneath the hot, thin film in front of her lay a festering wound. She could feel raw flesh, exposed muscles and sinews – even, in places, bare bones.
A horrible suspicion took shape in her mind: necrotizing fasciitis...
She knew of this rare bacterial disease whose victims literally rot away. Whoever was lying there must be in agony, like a neglected patient with sores all over her body. Alina had once treated a businessman who, having been infected with the bacillus while in hospital, had survived but needed physiotherapy in order to recover his full mobility. ‘I burst like a ripe tomato,’ he’d told her. ‘To begin with, everything became inflamed and bloated. Then the skin broke open and my flesh started to putrefy. I had a high temperature and was shivering violently.’ His life had been saved by numerous operations and a whole raft of antibiotics – measures that were bound to be too late to save this dying woman, even if she wasn’t suffering from the disease.
Perhaps she wasn’t even infected. Perhaps she’s gangrenous only because she’s immobilized inside this plastic film.
‘Who is she?’ Alina asked. She couldn’t help coughing.
The air in the cellar was already heavily saturated with carbon dioxide.
‘Search me. I only know the swine must have hooked up the power supply to the ventilator. If I turn it off the light will go on and the door will unlock itself.’
Zorbach sounded as if he was on the verge of panting like TomTom.
‘But I can’t do it. I couldn’t even do it for my mother!’
Alina didn’t know what he meant, but this was no time to quiz him about his family history.
‘How much time do we have left?’ she asked, gingerly feeling for the woman’s arm.
‘No idea. Five minutes. Maybe less.’
Her fingers encountered some cartilage, a patch of necrotic skin, and travelled cautiously upwards.
‘Perhaps we’d be doing her a favour. Perhaps she’d ask us to put her out of her misery if she could still speak.’
Alina could hear Zorbach weeping. There were tears in her eyes too.
Perhaps... No, definitely, if the victim’s condition was even half as terrible as her sense of touch conveyed.
But perhaps and if were insufficient to justify sacrificing an innocent woman for the sake of their own survival. She didn’t know about Zorbach, but she knew that she herself would never summon up the strength to snuff out a human life.
Not, at least, while they still had some air left to breathe.
Some air.
Five minutes. Maybe less.
31
SPECIAL TASK FORCE
Fourteen minutes and forty-three seconds after Frank Lahmann caved in, the seven-strong mobile task force had left headquarters and was making for the address he’d given Scholle.
The briefing, which took another five minutes, was given by the task force commander while the police van was en route.
By the time the armed men had deployed outside the bungalow eleven minutes and thirteen seconds later, equipped with bulletproof vests and titanium helmets, three squad cars and two ambulances were already there.
While the two doctors on call were debating why both of them had been summoned to the scene, the occupants of the neighbouring houses were instructed to remain indoors.
At this juncture, the two detectives leading the Eye Collector team, Philipp Stoya and Mike Scholokowsky, drove up.
They had brought a thermal imaging camera to pinpoint the location of the person or persons inside the house, but they left it in the boot of their car. The Christmas illuminations would have rendered it usele
ss. The task force commander spent fifty seconds wondering whether to turn off the power but decided against it so as not to alert those inside the building that a raid was imminent. To minimize the potential dangers, it was planned to break down the front door and secure each of the bungalow’s rooms in turn. The use of force proved unnecessary, however, because the door was open.
It took the police less than fourteen seconds to verify that the ground floor was deserted. That meant they had to gain access the cellar.
At 1.07 a.m. the massive fire door was forced and two men dashed down the cellar steps behind a defensive shield.
By this time, twenty-three minutes had elapsed since Frank Lahmann’s disclosure of the suspect’s whereabouts.
All these times were carefully entered in a log completed by the task force commander before he persuaded the police medical officer to send him on a week’s sick leave. What the log did not record were the unbearable seconds during which the policemen had simply stood there, transfixed by the horrific sight that confronted them in the cellar – seconds that traumatized two of the hardest-nosed cops in Berlin because they’d never seen such ‘fucking carnage’ before (from a verbatim radio message in response to the question: ‘What’s going on down there?’).
In the end, the doctors were grateful for each other’s company. Neither of them was ashamed of his tears when it became clear to them that any medical assistance would be too late.
Blinder than blind is the fearful man
who tremulously hopes it isn’t evil.
Defenceless and tired of fear,
he gives it a friendly reception,
hoping for the best
until it’s too late.
Max Frisch,
‘Biedermann and the Fire Raisers ’
30
ALEXANDER ZORBACH
The mist drifted inland from the lake, creating a magical dreamworld. From the ground up, the reeds and trees and the legs of the hunters’ hides looked as if they were swathed in silk. A dirty grey silk redolent of moss and wet bark, it left a thin film on the skin. Here on the outskirts of the city, few would have noticed this natural spectacle because of the cold and the lateness of the hour, for who goes roaming through the Grunewald at half-past one in the morning? The ground mist had largely evaporated in the neighbouring residential districts and was scarcely perceptible, but right beside the water, its point of departure, all was seemingly veiled in cloud. The swaths of vapour would not become clearly visible for a few hours yet, after sunrise. Till then the minuscule droplets of moisture were no more than a presentiment, a dark shadow beyond the grimy windows of the old houseboat in which I was standing, mobile in hand.