It was useless. It was fucking useless.
She could only fight him with words now. He’d hit her again, but that was preferable to what he had in mind.
‘If you arse-fuckers touch me, you’ll regret it, I swear!’
‘Ho ho,’ Kralle grinned. ‘Where did you learn that word? More! I like it, and the boys too, am I right?’
The boys laughed idiotically.
‘Don’t laugh. I’ll stick you all!’
Kralle flicked his knife open again.
‘If I were you I’d keep quiet, or I’ll carve you a few extra holes to rent out.’
Theo twisted her arms painfully and forced her head back. She felt Kralle lifting her skirt with his stubby fingers, running the tip of his knife along the edge of her inner thigh.
‘All quiet now?’
She heard him panting and gritted her teeth. If she got out of here alive, she’d see they paid for this!
She started as he suddenly jerked the knife, but felt no pain. He had merely cut her underwear. His crew roared. Even Peaches, on the mend after spitting out a few teeth, gave a tentative laugh.
‘Keep her still,’ Kralle said, ‘so I can break her in.’
Alex closed her eyes. You’ll regret this Kralle, damn it!
She felt his sweaty hands on her thighs and sensed her whole body cramping; her nausea was returning. Would he lose interest if she vomited over him? She felt a sharp pain as Kralle penetrated her brutally, accompanied by the howls of his crew.
Alex tried to imagine herself away: away from her body, away from this stinking room, away from this moment, into a future where she’d take revenge on this arsehole and his crew, where every one of them would regret what they were doing to her. She tried to escape her body, but couldn’t; she felt his thrusts, heard his panting, felt her rage growing and growing, alongside a feeling of helplessness. Her despair almost brought her to tears, but she wouldn’t let it, no, these idiots would not see her cry! Dear God, please let this be over soon, she prayed, if you really exist, then let me out of here alive, damn it, so that I can avenge these bastards.
As if He had heard her prayers, Kralle stopped. At the same time, Alex felt the boys’ grip slacken, as though distracted by something.
‘What are you doing here, friend? Take a wrong turn, did you?’ said Kralle, as he pulled out of her.
‘It’d be better if you lot disappeared,’ said a familiar voice.
Kralle and his boys laughed.
‘I don’t believe it,’ Kralle said. ‘Feeling powerful, are you? After your night in the nuclear plant? Or do the pigs have us surrounded?’
‘Who can say,’ the voice said, and Alex suddenly realised who it belonged to. He was here much earlier than agreed, but she wasn’t about to hold that against him. She opened her eyes and lifted her head. Erich Rambow stood in the door, leather bag over his shoulder and a steadfast expression on his face, as if it were no problem dealing with these five boys, one of whom had just pulled a knife from his pocket, the rest looking like they were no strangers to violence. Erich shot her a brief glance, which said something like: Don’t worry. I have this under control.
‘Now listen to me,’ Kralle said, flicking his knife open. ‘I’m not sure you quite understand what this is, but I think it’s best if you make yourself scarce and leave us in peace.’
‘I’ll leave you in peace, when you leave the girl in peace.’
‘Why would we do that?’
‘Scram, and nothing happens to you.’
That brought another round of laughter. ‘And if we stay?’ Kralle asked. ‘What are you going to do? You’re not even armed.’
‘Who says?’ Erich opened his bag and pulled out a butcher’s cleaver.
‘What is this?’ Kralle took a step towards him. ‘It doesn’t even look sharp.’
‘It doesn’t have to be,’ Erich said. ‘The key is how hard you strike. And how fast.’
While he was still speaking, he calmly slashed the cleaver across Kralle’s stomach, double-quick so that he didn’t have time to react. Kralle gazed at the weapon, whose blade was gleaming red, then at his stomach slick with blood and finally at his dick, from which the blood had now drained once and for all. Then he dropped the knife, because he needed both hands to prevent his insides from spilling out of his abdominal wall.
Erich Rambow stood impassively with his bloody cleaver.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Who’s next?’
76
Charly had no idea where Erich Rambow had got to: the dilapidated brick building up ahead? Perhaps he had disappeared to another part of the grounds. The site was almost a city in itself, built for the sole purpose of ushering animals to their deaths so that Berlin wouldn’t go hungry.
She debated how long she should wait. Or whether it wouldn’t be better to call Andreas Lange and have the grounds combed by a squadron of officers. That would be the easiest thing to do, but she’d feel like a traitor to Alex. Even if she hadn’t made the girl any promises.
The rusty iron gate of the building flew open and four boys dashed out, pale-faced and eyes full of panic. One held a bloodied cheek. They ran past almost without noticing her, as if someone else were in pursuit.
For a moment she gazed after them, then turned towards the door, which was still squeaking quietly on its hinges, and went inside.
The building smelled even worse inside, the animal stench compounded by something more chemical. Charly listened, thinking she heard voices, but all was quiet again. She groped her way forwards, ears pricked, trying to make as little noise as possible. Now she checked her weapon, the little pocket pistol Lange had given her, an old Belgian Pieper Bayard. Strictly speaking it was there for Kuschke, if she ran into difficulties shadowing him. She released the safety catch and slowly worked her way forwards, moving from room to room. The stench increased, the voices grew louder. She thought she heard a whimper, someone blubbing behind the door that stood open a crack at the far end. What was going on?
She kicked the door open with her foot, pistol aimed into the half-dark ready to fire.
‘This ends now!’ she shouted into the room, without knowing what ‘this’ was, since only now could she see what was actually happening. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Alexandra Reinhold sat on a table by the end wall of the room, her head resting on Erich Rambow’s shoulders; from her left leg dangled the remains of shredded underwear. Rambow’s left arm was draped comfortingly around her, while in his right hand he held a cleaver that glistened bloody red. A few metres from them on the floor crouched a boy holding his stomach, his trousers pulled down. It was that arsehole from the old factory, the burly youth who had intimidated her: Kralle, or whatever his nickname was. At any rate he sat blubbing and groaning in pain, a picture of misery.
All three stared at Charly wide-eyed, as her pistol flitted to and fro. Instinctively, Alex and Rambow raised their hands, but the boy on the floor only held his stomach. Blood gleamed between his fingers.
‘I’m dying,’ he whimpered over and over again. ‘I’m dying.’
Charly dropped her pistol. ‘What in God’s name happened here?’ she asked.
77
Kronberg knew straightaway which corpse Rath was referring to.
‘The one from the dump? Nasty business, that,’ he said down the line. ‘Completely gnawed by rats. Dr Schwartz says the poor man’s been dead a week, maximum, but there were only two fingers we could use for prints.’