The Child (26 page)

Jolted out of his trance-like state by the blare of the horn, Stern regained control of his body. The white noise in his head disappeared and life flowed back into his limbs. So did the pain. He undid his seat belt and slid sideways out of the car. He retrieved Engler’s gun from the footwell and trained it on the long-haired man lying in the gutter; the rider’s eyes were wide with disbelief. The last remnants of his life were seeping out of his head and on to the asphalt. Stern had never seen the clean-shaven face before, yet it somehow looked familiar.

Engler saved my life. Engler, of all people
.

He only meant to walk a little way to the cycle path, but he stumbled after a few steps and rolled down an embankment. He landed on his plasticuffed hands and got a mouthful of damp earth and leaves before he found the courage to raise his head and stand up.

I must get away from here
.

He swayed, put his weight on the wrong foot by mistake and leaned against a tree, groaning. But not even the fiercest physical pain could displace his rampant fear. Further up the slope a vehicle sped past, but no one got out to help him. Or arrest him. Not yet, but squad cars were bound to be on their way.

They’ll never believe me. I must get away from here
.

He groaned again, this time in a fit of mental agony worse than any physical pain he’d experienced. Then he staggered off into the trees. Only two days ago he had hated his messed-up life with all his heart. Now he wanted it back.

Eight-seventeen. That meant the skunk was seventeen minutes late, and if there was one thing he detested, it was unpunctuality. And being inconvenienced. That was even worse. What were people thinking of? No one was immortal, yet everyone behaved as if there was a lost property office where you could retrieve the hours of life you’d squandered.

The coffee had gone cold. He tipped it into the sink with an angry splash, furious at the waste. And at himself. He’d known the boy would fail to turn up again, so why had he made any coffee in the first place? It was his own fault.

A spoon tinkled against a cup in the room next door. ‘Would you like some tea for a change?’ he called in a hoarse voice, stubbing out the filterless cigarette that had almost burned down to his fingertips. ‘I’m just putting some more water on.’

‘No thanks.’

Unlike him, his unexpected visitor seemed to have no problem sacrificing minute after wasted minute on the altar of death. Perhaps you had to develop piles – perhaps your teeth had to fall out and your toenails turn yellow – before you would refuse to wait even half an hour for someone to turn up. Or not, as the case may be. That was how long the said visitor had been sitting on his upholstered pinewood bench, the last piece of furniture he and his wife had bought together.

Maria had always been punctual. In fact she usually turned up too early. That was something she had in common with the lung cancer that had killed her. Ironical, considering that, unlike him, she’d never smoked in her life.

Huh?

He turned off the tap before the kettle was full and went over to the kitchen window, where he cocked his head and listened for a recurrence of that scratching sound. Perhaps he hadn’t closed the dustbin properly. If so, and if he didn’t want his nice lawn dug up by a marauding wild boar, he would have to venture outside again on this foul night.

The small, wooden-framed window was rear-facing. Normally, he could look out across the terrace to the little landing stage where he kept his rubber dinghy, but the contrast between the brightly illuminated kitchen and the inky darkness outside was so great that visibility was almost nil. He was all the more startled when a battered face suddenly appeared, pressed up against the glass.

What the—

He shrank away and almost fell backwards over a kitchen stool. The face had disappeared behind the film of condensation its breath had left on the pane. All the old man could now see were two bound hands hammering on his window.

He gave another start and tried to remember where he’d left the spear-gun he kept for self-defence in an emergency. He didn’t realize his mistake until he heard someone call out.

‘Hello? Are you in there?’

Even though he found it hard to associate the familiar voice with that grimy, battered face, the fact remained: the man out there was no stranger. On the contrary.

The old man shuffled out of the kitchen and made his way to the back door.

‘You’re late,’ he growled when he had opened the door at last. ‘As usual.’

‘I’m sorry, Dad.’ The battered face came closer. Its owner was dragging one leg and holding the upper part of his body curiously stiff.

‘What happened to you? Run over by a bus?’

‘Worse than that.’

Robert Stern hobbled past his father into the living room. He couldn’t believe who was waiting for him in there.

‘What are you doing here?’ It was all he managed to ask before the floor rotated anticlockwise beneath him. The last thing he heard was a startled cry and the sound of china smashing. Then he collapsed beside the fragments of the coffee cup Carina had dropped in her alarm at his sudden appearance.

He recovered consciousness to find her bending over him, her eyes wide with anxiety. A strand of her curly hair was brushing his forehead like a feather, and he wished its gentle touch could embrace his whole body. Instead, the pain he felt when he tensed his neck muscles and tried to raise his head was a vicious reminder of all that had happened in the last few hours.

‘Simon?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘Do you know …’

‘He’s safe,’ she whispered. A tear trickled down her pale cheek. ‘I called Picasso. They’ve posted a guard outside his room.’

‘Thank God.’ Stern started to tremble all over. ‘What time is it?’

He heard a kettle whistling in the kitchen. That was a good sign. If his father was still making tea, he couldn’t have blacked out for long.

‘Nearly half past eight.’

She brushed away her tears with the back of her hand, picked up a knife she must have got from the kitchen and severed the plasticuffs.

‘Thanks. Heard anything from Sophie? Are the twins all right, do you know?’ His tongue felt like a tennis ball.

‘Yes, she sent me a text. Some neighbour must have spotted us this morning and informed the police. They’re searching her house.’

Stern’s stomach muscles relaxed a little. At least the children were safe.

‘We can’t stay here, it’s—’

He broke off. Two grey-green felt slippers had entered his field of vision and halted beside his head. Gritting his teeth, he heaved himself into a sitting position on the worn carpet.

‘That’s right, first you turn up late and then you push off.’ A coin inserted in the old man’s furrowed forehead would have lodged there. Georg Stern had overheard his son’s last words as he entered the room carrying a pot-bellied teapot. He slammed it down angrily on a metal coaster. ‘To be frank, I’m not surprised in the least.’

Stern turned to Carina, who was also looking the worse for wear. What was more, she smelled like a taproom.

‘You haven’t told him anything?’

‘No, not in detail. Only that we were in trouble and needed a bolt-hole.’

‘But how did you know—’

‘Yes, trouble,’ the old man broke in angrily. ‘It’s always the same old story, Robert, isn’t it? You’d hardly have come to see me if there was something to celebrate.’

‘Please forgive me, but …’

Stern pulled himself up by the bench while Carina faced his father with a defiant air.

‘Your son has been through hell, can’t you see that?’

‘Oh yes, I can see that perfectly well. I’m not blind, young lady – unlike him. He doesn’t seem to see I’m not an imbecile.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean there’s such a thing as television. You may think I’m senile, the two of you, but I can recognize my boy when he appears on the evening news in the role of an escaped criminal. What’s more, I’ve had an Inspector Brandmann bending my ear on the phone. It’ll only be a question of time before he turns up here too, so Robert’s right for once. You can’t stay here.’

‘Then I don’t understand,’ said Carina. ‘If you know what he’s been through, why be so mean to him?’

‘But that’s the whole point, young lady.’ Georg Stern clapped his hands. ‘Of course I know Robert’s in trouble – he has been for the last ten years, and now, from the sound of it, he’s acquired some additional problems. But what am I supposed to do? He never really talks to me, just drops in and chats about the weather, the football results and my visits to the doctor. My own son treats me like a stranger. Even now, when he badly needs my help …’

Stern detected a hint of moisture in his father’s eyes when the old man turned to face him.

‘I know I go on at you, son. It happens every time we speak on the phone or see each other, but you’re inscrutable. I don’t understand you, much as I’d like to …’

He cleared his throat and readdressed himself to Carina, who was standing forlornly in the middle of the low-ceilinged room.

‘But maybe you can do something with him, my girl. I knew at once you had guts three years ago, when he brought you here for supper that time. You contradicted me when I talked nonsense, and now you’re doing it again. Good for you.’

He opened his mouth as though he had something else of importance to say, but clapped his hands again and turned away.

‘Enough of that,’ he muttered to himself. ‘This is no time for sentimentalities.’

He shuffled out of the room, to return only a few moments later with a small brown sponge bag.

‘Here.’

‘What is it?’ Carina asked, holding out her hand.

‘Maria’s medication. She was swallowing painkillers like Smarties towards the end. I’m sure the Tramadol has passed its expiry date, but it may still work. Robert looks as if he could use a dose of something strong.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘And this is for the two of you.’

Stern caught the key his father tossed him.

‘What’s it for?’

‘A camper van.’

‘Since when have you—’

‘I haven’t. It belongs to Eddie, a neighbour of mine. He’s abroad, and I have to move the thing when the heating oil supplier needs to gain access to his property. Take it. Find yourself somewhere safe for the night.’ The old man knelt down and pulled a suitcase from under the bench on which Stern was sitting. ‘And here are some clean things, sweaters and so on, for you to change into.’

Stern got to his feet. He didn’t know what to say. He felt like giving his father a hug, but he’d never done that in his life. They had always parted with a handshake for as long as he could remember.

‘I’m innocent,’ was all he said.

Already halfway out of the room, the old man swung round as if he’d been shot.

‘Who the hell do you think I am?’ he demanded, sounding almost as irritable as before. ‘You really think I doubted you for an instant?’

Long after the sound of the camper van’s diesel engine had died away and its rear lights had disappeared around the corner, Georg Stern continued to stand at the door of his cottage and stare into the darkness. He didn’t go inside until the wind veered and blew rain into his eyes. Back in the living room he collected up the fragments of broken china and swabbed the table with a damp cloth. Then he retired to the kitchen, where he emptied the cold tea down the sink. Taking his mobile from the charger, he dialled the number the policeman had given him for emergencies.

In view of the short time they had left, the rest area behind the Avus Motel was their best available refuge for the night. There beside the exhibition centre and the busy urban expressway, large numbers of trucks and camper vans availed themselves of the free parking at all times of year. One vehicle more or less would hardly attract attention.

‘It’s a trap,’ Carina said as she pulled into a parking space two slots away from a small removal van. They had scarcely managed to discuss the bare essentials on the short drive there. ‘You mustn’t go there tomorrow morning. Not on any account.’

Grimacing with pain, Stern climbed out of the passenger seat and made his way to the rear. He had swallowed several of his mother’s pills, and their anaesthetizing properties were gradually making themselves felt. Utterly exhausted, he lay down on the bed in the back of the van, which proved to be surprisingly comfortable. After turning off the engine, Carina came to join him.

‘I’ve no choice.’ Stern had already been through all the options. ‘I can’t turn myself in, not now.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s too late for that. I should simply have waited in Engler’s car instead of running off – with his gun, too! – but I was so shocked that was all I could think of to do. I thought they’d never believe me if I said I’d met him on my own and then become the sole survivor of an assassination.’

‘You could be right.’

‘Besides, there must be an insider. The voice knows every move we make. If I go to the police now, he’ll change his plans. He’ll call off the meeting and go to ground, and I’ll never know …’
… what happened to Felix
, Stern thought disconsolately.

‘Perhaps he already has.’

Carina sat down beside Stern on the bed and undid the top button of his shirt, then told him to sit up.

‘Cancelled the meeting, you mean? It’s possible. He’s bound to know I’m still alive, but he doesn’t know I’ve discovered where the bridge is. Besides, he’ll want to confront the avenger at all costs. He’ll go through with this thing as long as he isn’t warned off by his police informant, and there’s no reason why he should be. Engler was the only person I spoke to, and he’s dead.’

Stern peeled off his sweaty shirt like a snake sloughing off its skin and turned over on his stomach. He heard Carina’s intake of breath as she saw the massive bruises on his back. Then he experienced a sudden, unpleasantly cold sensation at the base of his spine.

‘I’m sorry. The ointment feels cold at first, but it’ll soon warm you up.’

‘I hope so.’

Reluctant though he was to display any weakness in her presence, he would have winced if a butterfly had landed on his back.