‘Your office?’
‘Yes.’
The giant came to a halt.
‘As if I hadn’t had enough aggro for one day,’ he said to himself, looking up at the dark sky. The raindrops falling on his unshaven cheeks didn’t seem to bother him any more. Marc had a vague feeling he’d seen him before.
‘I’m the manager of the “Beach”, my friend, and I’ve no idea who you are.’
‘This is absurd,’ Marc protested, digging out his bunch of keys.
He ran back to the office while the unknown man stood there in the rain, shaking his head.
‘My name is Marc Lucas and I…’
He broke off, staring at the new padlock in disbelief. There was no point in even trying – he didn’t possess any key that would fit such a big lock – but he did it, one after another, until he heard the man’s voice immediately behind him.
‘Marc Lucas?’
He nodded.
‘Never heard of you.’
Marc stood up.
‘Okay, then call Rosi.’
‘Rosi?’
‘My secretary. She handles the paperwork.’
‘You’re mistaken. There’s no Marc Lucas working here, and-’
‘Look,’ Marc cut in brusquely, ‘I’ve had enough of this. I insist you call Roswitha Bernhard at once.’
‘Okay, okay.’ The man raised both hands in a conciliatory gesture and took out his mobile. He had evidently done a basic course in de-escalation techniques and was trying to pacify this unpredictable stranger by complying with an easily fulfillable request on his part.
‘Just give me this Rosi’s number,’ he said.
Marc clutched his neck and blinked.
Her number. Hell, I’m not even certain of my own.
‘I don’t know it,’ he conceded after a longish interval. The rain was subsiding. Everything seemed to be at a standstilclass="underline" the weather, the traffic, time itself. Only the tide of pain flowed on inside him.
‘Is something wrong with you?’ The man’s voice seemed to come from far away. All of a sudden, he sounded genuinely concerned.
‘I… I don’t know.’
‘You really don’t look well. Your eyes… Have you had them examined?’
‘No, it’s just the side effects…’
‘You’re on medication?’ The stranger’s tone conveyed a hint of comprehension.
Marc attempted to disabuse him. ‘Yes, but that’s not the problem.’
I’m not psychotic. At least, I wasn’t this morning.
He gave a start. A hand had gripped his forearm.
The big man might look like a basketball player, but he was obviously a smoker as well. He was so close, Marc could smell the nicotine impregnating his clothes.
‘Look,’ the self-styled office manager said amiably, ‘it’s my job to sort out other people’s problems and I’ve already failed once today. Maybe I can help you, at least. What say I keep my wife waiting another half-hour and see you home?’
Home…
Marc emitted a despairing laugh, but the stranger wouldn’t give up.
‘Is there anyone I can contact for you?’ His eye fell on Marc’s wedding ring. ‘You’re married?’
Marc laughed even louder, even more despairingly. Then he stopped abruptly and pointed to the door behind him.
‘No, I’m not going anywhere. I need to go in there, that’s all.’
The man’s smile vanished. ‘Sorry, can’t be done. The “Beach” is closed to members of the public outside office hours, but I’ve another suggestion. I’ll drive you to a hospital…’
No, no hospital.
‘You can relax there and…’
No, not again. Although…
‘…they’ll check you over…’
Well, why not? The clinic…
Marc turned and looked across the street. The chemist had emerged and was shouting something unintelligible at him, presumably a demand to see the colour of his money. But he’d have to settle up later – the man had his credit cards, after all. He would pay him tomorrow. The remaining €15 in his pocket would be only just enough to dig him out of this hole.
Damn it, why didn’t I make a note of that nurse’s number?
Marc had listened with only half an ear when Leana Schmidt told him her number. It now seemed incomprehensible that he’d recently brushed off a woman who had €15,000 on her and could confirm his identity.
‘Okay, come with me,’ he said, grabbing the man by the sleeve.
‘What? Where to?’ He tried to free himself, but Marc had his raincoat in a vicelike grip.
‘We’re going to the police. Together.’
‘Not on your life.’
‘Oh yes, we are. That’s precisely what we’re going to do. We’ll soon see which one of us needs medical attention.’
‘No, I said! Not again.’
Marc was so taken aback he let go of the man’s sleeve.
‘Again?’ he repeated.
‘The cops were on at me all day long. It’s a relief to be rid of them at last.’
‘The police were here?’ Marc indicated the door of the ‘Beach’. ‘At the office?’
‘Of course. Take a closer look at my face.’ The man pushed his hood back. ‘Don’t you recognize me?’
Yes, but I don’t know where from.
‘Haven’t you seen the news?’
‘No, why?’
‘Lucky you. You missed the Julia business, then.’
‘Julia?’
‘The girl at the Neukölln baths.’
The man pulled the hood back over his head. Stooping a little, as tall people tend to do, he went over to a car parked beside the kerb.
Marc stayed where he was. Yet another part of his life seemed to be slipping from his grasp with the stranger’s receding figure.
‘What about her?’ he called. ‘What happened? Tell me!’
The man’s hand was already on the door handle when he turned and looked at Marc for the last time. His weary eyes were expressive of a sadness almost unique in Marc’s experience.
‘I couldn’t stop her, damn it,’ he said, and aimed a furious kick at the nearest tyre. His voice was almost drowned by passing traffic.
‘She jumped, that’s all.’
18
A man’s greatest source of strength – his family – is also his most vulnerable point. It is customary in some branches of the Mafia, and for good reason, to kill all who are dear to a traitor rather than the traitor himself. His parents, his friends, his wife – and, of course, his children. Children, in particular, are a man’s Achilles’ heel. Especially, as in Ken Sukowsky’s case, when they’re daughters.
Two of them, the five- and the seven-year-old, had spent the afternoon messing around with dead leaves in the front garden. They raked them together into a little heap and then showered each other with them, again and again. The youngest girl had had to watch her sisters playing from the window, muffled up in a thick dressing gown. She had a cold and so was staying in the warm. That, at least, was Benny’s guess. He had been keeping watch on the Sukowskys’ modest house since early that afternoon. It was dark now, but there were lights on upstairs and down.
Can’t be much longer now…
Benny took a last look at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand: the list he’d made during his last few days at the psychiatric hospital, written in wax crayon because patients were forbidden to have sharp objects there. It was already falling to pieces, he’d unfolded and refolded it so often since the hearing at which his discharge had been approved. Although he’d only been out a few days, two of the ten names on it were already crossed off.
He replaced the thin slip of paper in the glove compartment. Then he flexed his head and shoulders until the vertebrae creaked. The stiffness could have been worse. The rented car Valka had provided him with was perfect for this stake-out. It was equipped with stationary heating and the seats folded back into a reclining position at the touch of a button. It also suited the Westend district, being neither so ritzy nor so cheap as to stand out among the wannabe limos and 4WDs.
Benny yawned. As ever, his mind refused to come to rest despite the long wait, and he found himself wondering how he and Valka could have come to this.