Alphabet House (40 page)

He sat the lanky woman precisely where Arno von der Leyen had left him, in a chair not very different from the one Lankau had sat in. Even though he tied her ankles so tightly that the blood began to ooze, she didn’t move.

She was still deeply unconscious.

As he passed through his pantry with a dazed Petra slung over his shoulder, he turned off the main switch serving the bungalow. Instantly the light in the yard went out and the starry sky opened above them.

His pride and joy stood in the long middle section of the bungalow. Even though he usually never produced more than a couple of hundred bottles of good white wine a year, he’d procured a wine press the previous year that was capable of handling a far greater wine production. In a couple of weeks’ time it was to be cleaned and prepared for action again. Until
then, it made an excellent place to tie up Petra, who had yet to realise that escaping her bonds would be impossible. Then Lankau tugged slightly at the scarf he’d used to gag her with. It was taut enough.

‘You’ll be all right as long as you lie very still,’ said Lankau, patting the gigantic horizontal screw on which she lay. Petra was sure to know its purpose like everyone else in a wine district. As the grapes were drawn towards it, it simply squeezed all the juice out of them. It could easily do that with her as well. ‘Then you won’t hurt yourself on the screw, Petra, dear.’ Whereupon, to her unmistakable horror, he reached for a relay contact and turned it on. She closed her eyes. ‘Now, now, little Petra. As long as the main switch is off, you needn’t worry. In a few hours it will all be over. In the meantime you’re safe and sound here. Then we’ll see what happens later.’

On his way back across the yard Lankau inhaled the raw coolness of the air. Autumn was hopefully on its way.

A mere two hours ago he might have considered finding space on the wall for another set of antlers or two.

Appalling as it was, it was still a fact.

Laureen was in Freiburg.

Reality in all its horror had returned in an instant. Bryan took a deep breath and drove faster. From now on he would expect the worst. Earlier that evening he’d definitively made up his mind to turn his back on the events in Freiburg, but fate was apparently not going to allow it. The information he’d got from Bridget still gave him cold shivers.

It was a disastrously grave situation that no longer involved only him and the men who had obsessed his thoughts for so many years. Now the most awkward and defenceless human being he could possibly imagine had become part of this absurd equation.

Unfortunately it appeared that Laureen in some unfathomable way had got wind of his whereabouts. And now he didn’t know where she was, only that she had to be in Freiburg. Bryan shuddered at the thought.

She was incredibly easy prey in the hands of Petra and the malingerers.

Bryan weighed the advantages and disadvantages of the situation. They were extremely unbalanced. As far as he could see, the only advantages were that he was still on the loose, had Lankau under control, was in possession of Stich’s correct address and had a loaded gun.

From Hotel Colombi down to Holzmarkt and Luisenstrasse was only a few minutes’ drive. Not the amount of time Bryan usually needed in order to collect his thoughts and be well prepared in a crisis situation.

For a few seconds he considered seeking help. This was precisely the kind of situation for the police. But they’d scarcely believe him. His fragmentary accusations concerning a couple of the town’s highly esteemed citizens would astonish them. It would take him a long time to paint a complete and credible picture.

Much too long.

Bryan shook his head. He knew how things worked in real life. No matter where in the world you were, the local police knew its community’s game rules and played by them. The men who were making his life hell were not exactly nonentities in this town. Besides, neither the pistol with its silencer in his waistband nor the tied-up Lankau would fit too well with the picture of someone who’d been wronged. And by the time help had been mobilized, however reluctantly, the suspects would be long gone after having taken all the necessary precautions.

For the third time within two days he stood viewing the flat on Luisenstrasse from the street. There was no sign of light from within. He found himself overcome by the feeling of having come in vain. He stood for a minute and studied the flat’s darkened windows from precisely the spot in which he’d stood that same morning.

Then a detail caught his eye. The overall visual impression had changed. Unlike previously, the total uniformity of the third-floor flat’s windows had been disrupted. Bryan’s gaze wandered from window to window. The curtains formed a frame around three meticulously arranged potted plants in all the windows except one. The longer he looked, the more chaotic and bare this window seemed, yet there was so little to set it apart from the others. Whereas all the others were adorned with two red geraniums on either side of a white one, this window had two red geraniums leaning towards each other while the white one stood by itself. Bryan shook his head. He simply didn’t know what it meant.

Only that something seemed wrong.

Up there lived Peter Stich, the mastermind behind the malingerers’ activities and deeds. There was no doubt it was he who had sent Lankau up Schlossberg to kill him. The simulants hadn’t forgotten their handicraft or instincts.

His sudden appearance had made Kröner and Stich feel insecure, perhaps even afraid of him. If they found out Laureen was his wife, they would maltreat her.

Lankau’s wings had been clipped, but he could expect the worst from Kröner. However gentle he’d appeared, holding his boy in his arms, he was still a competent killer. There was plenty that could go wrong for Bryan on the malingerers’ home turf. They probably knew every street and nook and cranny in Freiburg. It was two against one. They were presumably well prepared and armed. Stich and Kröner must have realised Lankau’s attempted assassination had misfired since Stich had seen Bryan outside Kröner’s house.

The old man had doubtlessly already planned the next move. In a short while Bryan was expected to pass through Stadtgarten on his way to a street called Längenhardstrasse. Stich had made a point of telling him which route to take.

If Bryan were to do what they expected, he’d have to be very, very alert.

But had he any choice? If he wasn’t mistaken, Stich would be able to lead him to Laureen.

Bryan looked up at the flat again. A thought struck him. It was the malingerers’ turn to make a move now, but maybe the flat contained something that would give him a much-needed head start.

He strode across the street, rang the bell, then quickly strode back to his hiding place under the trees. The flat remained dark. He waited.

Apparently there was no one home. Perhaps they were already preparing their next move.

Stich lived almost too centrally. Holzmarkt and the adjacent streets were still lively on this early Saturday, where the shops had closed and folks were on their way out of town.

Bryan looked around. There were people everywhere, cheerful and busy. But after twenty minutes he was alone on the street.

As far as he could tell.

For even though it wasn’t immediately apparent, he had to assume someone was keeping an eye on him. Perhaps even
from several positions. Right now the trees prevented his being discovered from above, but not from street level. So he crossed the street and went around the corner of the building into the backyard.

The entire area behind the building lay in total darkness. The silhouettes from the cypress-like trees and yew bushes assured his not being discovered. Bryan retreated backwards towards a small building in the garden and flattened himself against the wall. Here he waited until he’d grown accustomed to the darkness and noises in the vicinity. He looked up at the darkened rear of the building. It was an ideal way in.

There was just one catch.

If anyone was waiting for him up there, this was the way they’d be expecting him to come.

The backstairs door was locked. Bryan shook it and looked up again. There was no movement in the house. The bottom half of the windows to the right of the stairs were furnished with white curtains. Bryan stood on tiptoe and tried to peep over the curtain into the ground floor. Although it was too dark to make out anything inside, he assumed it was a kitchen.

He looked up once more. The drainpipe seemed quite firm as it rose between the stairway and the kitchen windows. He took hold of it. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to resort to using this kind of route. He saw the hospital’s roof before him. It had been a hundred years ago.

Getting a grip was easy. The drainpipe was dry and solid. Standing flat against the wall, he pushed off with his feet.

He’d got heavier than he thought and could scarcely muster enough strength.

He was already losing courage by the time he reached the cornice of the ground floor. His heart was beating menacingly hard and the tips of his toes ached terribly. Each of the storeys was at least six feet high. There was still a long way to go.

When he reached the second floor his fingers were numb. Just as he leaned down towards the kitchen window, the fittings
that fastened the drainpipe to the wall began to creak. He pressed against the bottom pane of the kitchen window. The pipe’s joints and fittings protested at each nudge. At the sixth try the pipe shifted, sending a cascade of fine plaster down into his face. After this he decided to change hands so that his left hand, closest to the back-stair windows, was left free. The frame was rotten and pliable. With the flat of his hand he pressed cautiously but firmly against the pane until it finally gave way.

There was no mistaking the noise.

Then he unlatched the window and crawled in.

The backstairs were damp and the plaster fell off the wall in large flakes as he fumbled his way up the few stairs to the landing. He paused for a moment before gingerly trying the kitchen door. It was locked. He thrust his foot carefully against the bottom corner of the door furthest from the hinges. It gave way a trifle. Then he pressed the middle of the door beside the lock where there was the most resistance. Luckily the door had only one lock. Bryan assessed the narrow door’s strength as he’d so often seen in films. It was just a matter of a hard kick to the bottom of the door while pressing the door handle down and inward as much as possible. At the same time he’d have to fall forward into a room he knew nothing about.

That’s all there was to it. He shuddered at the thought.

If anyone was waiting for him inside, the only way he’d be able to defend himself was to kick out in all directions as he fell.

It seemed extremely risky. Bryan began sweating and drew out his pistol.

First the door. Then, once into the room, he would stand still and wait.

A second later he lay writhing on the wooden floor, still out on the stairs. His toe hurt like hell. He must have broken something. There hadn’t been much noise. Or much headway made. The door was still standing.

Bryan pricked up his ears. The only thing he could hear was his own stifled groans. No one came out on the landing,
attempting to kill him. No one on the floor below yelled ‘Burglar!’ Nothing happened.

He got up again with difficulty and began shoving the bottom of the door repeatedly with his sound foot. That was a better idea. To and fro, like a child fingering a loose tooth.

The door burst quietly open, allowing him to look into a dark room. He waited out on the stairs for a couple of minutes.

Still nothing happened.

The smell in the kitchen was indefinable, mouldy and acrid. He switched on the neon light and was almost blinded by its cold glare. The room was a relic from the past. Plate racks, pale green colours, enamelled saucepans and a thick, scratched kitchen counter. A jar of butter and a pack of biscuits still lay on the table. Bryan took the few steps into the dark hallway and groped his way to the light switch.

Nothing happened when he turned it on. This unpleasant discovery made him hug the wall and extend his gun in front of him. The kitchen light reached only a little way into the adjoining room, where there was a round table with a plastic tablecloth. Four biscuits on a plate were sitting on a table in front of a shabby dining room chair.

A bite had been taken out of one of the biscuits.

Bryan swallowed a couple of times. His mouth was completely dry. It seemed like all activity in the room had suddenly ceased. The deserted seat and the light that didn’t work were both ominous signs. Bryan wiped the sweat from his brow with his free hand and sank cautiously to his knees. From this position he could just barely stick his hand through the crack in the door to the adjacent room. After a few tries along the door frame his fingers touched the light switch. Its mechanical click was distinct, but no light came on.

Without stopping to think he pushed the door wide open, then immediately lunged after it as though he’d regretted the move and wanted to pull the door shut again. The glow from the streetlights struck him as he tumbled forward.

The double doors to the next room were opened wide, making space for his headlong entrance. Once inside the large room, he tripped over something soft.

He turned his head wildly in all directions to see if his opponent was above him or behind him. Having made sure that neither was the case, he turned and looked straight into the wide-eyed stare of a dead woman.

It took at least five minutes for Bryan to collect himself. The bodies beside him were lifeless. He didn’t recognise the woman, but the man she was clinging to with her contorted hand was the red-eyed Stich. He too was dead. Still warm, but dead.

Despite the darkness, there was no mistaking the sight. The convulsions of the two dead people were still painted on their faces and the sallow eyes were as dull as the skin of musty egg yolk.

The red-eyed man was still clutching the implement that had killed them. That was why the lights hadn’t worked. Bryan looked at the two wires and nearly threw up. A white stripe of burnt flesh ran across Stich’s lips. The bodies had a sour, characteristic stench, as if someone had been frying food and hadn’t cleaned the stove. Stich’s death had been just as appalling as he himself had been in life.

And he’d taken the poor woman with him.