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“Not a word to my mother, you hear?”

Wolf has no idea why his mother mustn’t know about it. Perhaps he wants to punish her. He promises.

Löffler clutches his chest, takes a deep breath, and looks at Wolf properly for the first time.

“Who are you?”

“A protecting angel,” Wolf replies, and regrets it. As soon as he said it he saw kitschy pictures of guardian angels in his mind’s eye.

“No, really, who are you?” Löffler won’t let it go. “You’re not from the company, that much is certain.”

Wolf tells him about the agency and gives him a card.

“We do good,” he explains.

Frank Löffler stares at the card.

“You
apologize
for other people?”

His voice sounds slightly shrill when he says it.
If he’s going to go all moralistic on me, I’ll have to smack him
, Wolf thinks, taking the card back.

“Isn’t that unethical?” Frank Löffler asks.

“Depends on your point of view. The church does it one way, television another. We have ours.”

Löffler suddenly bursts out laughing. It’s OK. He isn’t laughing at Wolf or the agency. He’s laughing at life. Wolf knows that laugh. Drunks have it, and hysterical toddlers, enjoying themselves so much that they can’t calm down. Frank Löffler is a mess. He leaves Wolf where he is, without saying another word. He walks past the supermarket and crosses to the other side of the street. One thing is certain, Lidl won’t be seeing him again. Even though Wolf didn’t think him capable of it, for someone like Frank Löffler that’s a very good exit.

Five minutes later Wolf tells the head of the company that Frank Löffler has refused the offer and is threatening to take him to court.

“But …”

The company head falls silent. He senses that Wolf has more to say. Kris taught his brother how to stay quiet. Tell the customer what you have to tell him, then give him silence. Heighten the tension. Keep the client in suspense.

“We talked for a long time,” Wolf goes on. “Mr. Löffler would agree
to a higher settlement. He would like to have the payment in installments, I’m sure you still have the bank details.”

Yes, he has them. Wolf tells the boss the amount. The boss clears his throat. Wolf smiles. He wishes all commissions were like this. It feels bloody great to be an angel.

He has just an hour before his next appointment, and goes to an Indian restaurant by the Schlesisches Tor. There are a few grains of rice on his chair, he brushes them off and sits down. He isn’t hungry, he needs people around him. Restaurants are perfect for that.

The midday tide has ebbed, only five tables are occupied, there are candles burning in the windows, the flames quiver in the warmth that rises from the heaters. Wolf orders soup, tea, and a glass of water. He turns his phone off for the next hour and rests his hands on the tabletop.

Calm
.

Once it was a flock of birds that swirled in the air and made Wolf think of her eyes. Once it was the way a woman knocked her spoon against the edge of her cup. The world is full of triggers. Little tripping hazards for the memory. In his quiet moments Wolf seeks them out carefully.

The tea comes, the waiter puts a plate of poppadoms down on the table and says something about the weather. Wolf thanks him for the tea and waits until the waiter has gone. He smells, he tastes. The flavor of cardamom and the sweetness of honey make him sigh.

Erin
.

Wolf knows that memories fade and undergo a transformation over the years, until in the end no one can tell whether they are memory or imagination. And because Wolf knows all that, he clings to every memory, no matter how insignificant, that leads him to Erin.

His second appointment is on Wiener Strasse opposite the Görlitzer Park. There’s no doorbell plate by the entrance to the building. The door is ajar and looks as if it’s been kicked open at least ten times a day. Next to the front door a gate leads to the rear courtyard. The gate is open too.

Wolf walks past bicycles, rubbish bins, and a sleeping cat lying on the stones. He glances at his watch. His appointment is at four; he still has a few minutes and taps a cigarette from the pack.

“Want one?” he asks the cat.

The cat’s belly rises and falls as if it feels completely safe. Wolf wishes
he had the cat’s confidence. He looks up. A square of sky floats overhead. No clouds. In the distance the rustle of traffic, a slamming door, someone coughing. Right now Wolf doesn’t want to be anywhere else. It’s only in Berlin that cigarettes taste so good to him.

At the back of the building the air is stuffy. It smells of fried onions and boiled meat. The smell reminds Wolf of the jellied meat that his aunt always made. Her hands smelled like the house. Jellied meat was her speciality. Wolf tries to remember his aunt’s name. A woman in a headscarf comes toward him.

“Hi,” he says.

The woman lowers her eyes and presses herself against the wall so that he can pass. Her footsteps are barely audible on the steps. Wolf climbs further up the stairs. On the fourth floor he gasps for air, his armpits are steaming. He urgently needs a shower and he would really like to light the next cigarette.

A nameplate is missing; but as it’s the only door on this floor, Wolf has no choice. He rings. He waits. He knocks. The door swings inward.

Not good, not good at all
.

There’s a light on in the hall. There’s a sound of music. Loads of bad films start exactly like this.

“Hello? Mrs. Haneff?”

Wolf pushes the apartment door a little further open.

“Hello? I’m from the agency. We e-mailed each other yesterday.”

No reaction.

If that was Mrs. Haneff coming down the stairs toward me, then …

Wolf thinks about simply leaving again.

Maybe Frauke got the dates mixed up
.

“Hello?”

The hall floor is dirty. There are scratches along the wallpaper, on one wall there’s a water stain in the shape of a Christmas tree. Wolf doesn’t want to have come to Kreuzberg in vain.

“I’m coming in, OK?” he says and goes in.

It’s not just the hall that looks as if a renovation is overdue. Wolf expects to see a ladder, tools, and decorators in one of the rooms, hiding their beer bottles behind their backs and smiling awkwardly.

The first room is the kitchen. A beat-up stove stands in the middle of
the room, otherwise there’s no furniture. The windows are dirty, there’s a smell of drains in the air. If anyone’s out of place here, it’s Wolf.

“Mrs. Haneff?”

He follows the music and finds the woman in the room with the radio in it. One side of the wall is entirely covered with a photomural. It must have been recently applied, because it still glistens with damp and is coming away at one corner. The photo wall shows mountains in the background, and in the foreground an autumn forest with a lake. A stag stands on the shore and drinks. Mrs. Haneff is floating above the water of the lake as if she wants to rise to heaven. Her arms are stretched upwards and placed together, her feet hang inches above the floor, her open eyes are fixed on the opposite wall. The head of a nail protrudes from her forehead, a second nail holds her hands above her head. She is barefoot, a puddle of blood has formed beneath her feet. Her shoes are placed neatly beside the radio. Wolf sees another drop of blood dripping from the tip of the woman’s foot. If the radio were off, he would be able to hear the drop landing in the puddle.

Wolf’s first thought is:
Where would you get such long nails?
His second:
This isn’t real, it’s
 … He doesn’t have a third thought, because his stomach heaves, and he runs retching from the room.

Minutes later Wolf is leaning against the filthy wall of the hallway, smoking. The cigarette trembles between his fingers. Every now and again he glances at the open door of the room. The radio goes on tirelessly playing. Wolf’s thoughts are in chaos. He stares at the ceiling of the hallway and tries to concentrate. Still more water stains. His hands won’t stop trembling.
Damn it, calm down, please
. He feels as if he’s about to shit himself. Then he starts thinking. Finally.

Kris. I’ve got to call Kris …

No, I’ve got to call the police. I’ve got to …

Get out of here, I’ve got to get out of here as quickly as possible. And then call Kris and—

Wolf gives a start when his phone rings.

If that’s Kris, then …

“Yes?”

“How’s she looking?”

“What?”

“How’s she looking? Has she slipped? Have the nails come out?”

Wolf feels a twitch in his face and looks at the display.

The number has been blocked.

He holds the phone back to his ear.

“Still there?” the voice asks.

“I’m still there.”

“So?”

Wolf stands up. He staggers, needs to cough, coughs. He walks on quivering legs through the kitchen to the window. A bitter taste rises in his gullet. Wolf suppresses another retch and looks out at the courtyard.

Where is he? Where is he hiding?

“Who are you?” asks Wolf.

“Wrong question,” the voice replies. “The question is, have you done your job?”

“What job?”

“Tell me, are you an idiot?”

Wolf says nothing, he hears the man at the other end breathing, and there’s no one to be seen even in the windows opposite.

“What am I paying you for, eh? Do your job. And do it properly.”

The man hangs up. Wolf is still pressing the phone to his ear. There’s no one running down the stairs. Everything is still.

Do your job.

Wolf runs to the front door.

I’ve got to get out of here. Quick. Before all hell breaks loose and the police turn up. I’ve got to phone Kris, because Kris will know what to do—

There’s a paper bag outside the door.

Wolf stands motionless in the doorway and stares at the bag.

Jump over it and get away, just do it
.

After Wolf has glanced into the bag, he shuts the door from inside and taps in Kris’s number.

K
RIS SAID ON THE PHONE
that he had to meet them immediately. Frauke and Tamara set off for Kreuzberg at once. They crossed the courtyard, walked into the back of the house, and climbed the four flights of stairs. Now they’re standing in the doorway of the living room, not daring to enter. There’s a radio on the floor, playing a song by America. The nailed-up woman stares at the opposite wall.

“Is she dead?” asks Tamara.

“Of course she’s dead,” says Wolf.

“Have you checked?” Kris wants to know.

Wolf shakes his head. Kris walks into the room and turns the radio off. He stops in front of the woman, stretches and touches her neck. For a minute he just stands there, before lowering his arm. All four turn away at the same time.

Tamara is leaning against the wall beside the kitchen window. She says she doesn’t know if she can stand up all by herself. Frauke hands her a cigarette, Tamara shakes her head. Wolf talks about the phone call and what the man said. Then he shows them the paper bag that was outside the door to the apartment.

“I don’t know what you think, but we should get away from here. As fast as possible.”

Kris shakes his head.

“No one leaves this place until we know what this guy’s playing at.”

“What do you mean?” Wolf yells at him, pointing into the corridor. “Does that thing out there look like a game?”

“Come on, Wolf, pull yourself together.”

“I have no intention of pulling myself together, I just want to get out of here!”

“Wolf’s right,” says Frauke. “We should call the police.”

“I didn’t say anything about the police!”

Kris turns to Frauke.

“Do you really want to call the police? What do you think will happen then? Do you think they’ll take the corpse off the wall, shake our hands, and send us on our way?”

“I don’t care what they do.”

“Yes, you do, Frauke,” says Kris, looking back at Wolf. “And you think we should get out of here as quickly as possible and hope that no one saw us coming and going? And what about this?”

Kris holds up the paper bag.

“How do you explain this? Are you going to forget it too?”

In the paper bag there are three photographs, a digital recorder, and a computer printout with a message.

One of the photographs shows Kris and Wolf’s father. Lutger Marrer is filling up his car. He has one hand in his trouser pocket, and he is looking at the gas pump. The second photograph shows Tanja Lewin. Frauke’s mother is in bed, smiling at the camera. Frauke recognizes the background. The murderer has sought out her mother in the clinic. The third picture shows Jenni tying her shoelaces.

Tamara picks it up and says, “How does he know about Jenni?”

They look at her. It’s the first time in three years that Tamara has mentioned her daughter by name to them.

Don’t break down on me now, kiddo
, Frauke thinks.

“And how does he know about us?” Tamara goes on.

Silence. No one has any idea.

“We’re about to find out,” says Kris, turning to Frauke. “Did you remember to bring the folder?”

Frauke takes the rucksack off her shoulder and wipes a space on the floor clean. She opens the folder and looks for a moment before taking out the right file.

“His name is Lars Meybach. He called ten days ago and—”

Tamara gives a start. Everyone looks at her.

“It was me. Oh, my God, it was me.”

“What was you?”

“He … he phoned me. He said it was urgent and—”

There is a dull thud. Wolf has thumped the wall with his fist. He looks with surprise at his right hand, as if it has developed a life of its own. Blood drips to the floor from his scraped knuckles.