Eye Collector, The (26 page)

‘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 millimetre. 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.

(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.

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 useless. 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.

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.

‘I’m sorry, I know it’s far too late but I’d really like a word with him.’

Nicci sighed. ‘Oh Zorro, Julian stopped coughing half an hour ago. I’m so relieved he’s asleep at last.’

‘I understand,’ I said sadly, amazed that she was remaining so calm although I’d dug her out of bed in the middle of the night. For all that, I felt sure she would have done
the same in my position. Anyone who had just escaped certain death felt a need to commune with his family, regardless of its current state of dissolution.