The Child (34 page)

‘Make way,’ called Carina, who had hurried over to them with Professor Müller. The lorazepam drops were already in her hand.

‘It’s all right, everything’ll be fine.’

Simon’s wig came away when she brushed the hair off his forehead.

‘We must take him back at once,’ Müller said in a low voice.

Stern nodded. He was feeling like the victim of a car crash. They had all been laughing together a moment ago, and now he had to watch a sick child being carried out of the room by Borchert.

‘Bring the ambulance round to the front, quickly,’ he heard Carina call as he hurried after the others. The warm sand beneath his feet had become a morass that clung to his ankles and prevented him from walking fast enough. It seemed an eternity before he reached his front garden. He strode swiftly across it to the waiting ambulance and knelt beside the stretcher.

‘Listen,’ he said softly, for fear the boy would hear the anxiety in his voice if he spoke any louder. ‘Don’t be scared, OK? You’re going to be fine.’

‘Maybe.’

‘No, listen to me. As soon as Professor Müller sorts you out we’ll go to a proper beach, OK?’

He squeezed Simon’s hand but felt no answering pressure.

‘You mustn’t be sad,’ said the boy.

‘I’m not sad.’ Stern was weeping now.

‘It was so lovely. We had a lot of fun.’ Simon was sounding more and more tired. ‘I’ve never had such a good time. The club, the zoo, watching that video with the twins, and then this brilliant party …’

‘Don’t let’s talk about the past.’

‘But I want to.’

Stern sniffed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Time to go,’ the driver called from up front. Carina put her hand on his shoulder. Stern shook it off.

‘What did you want to tell me, Simon?’

The boy’s eyelids drooped like withered leaves.

‘The light in the cellar.’

‘What?’ The engine started just as something died in Stern’s innermost self.

Click
.

‘It flickered again. Earlier on, when I was asleep all that time.’

No, no, no
, cried the worsening pains in Stern’s head.

Click. Click
.

‘It was even darker this time. Awfully dark. I could hardly see.’

No, please not. Don’t let that nightmare begin all over again
, thought Stern, and he felt an icy poison flooding through his veins as Simon told him one last thing. Then the boy lost consciousness.

It must have been an age since someone had slid the faded letters into the grooves in the brown felt board above the reception desk, but it was obvious that no one was expected to comply with their injunction at this time of year. The lobby of the cheap motel was as deserted as the streets of the little town they’d just driven through on their way to it.

‘Hello?’ Stern called. He looked around for a bell, but the counter was empty save for two little perspex stands with some advertising brochures wedged in them.

‘What are we supposed to do, chuck them at the wall?’

He turned and shrugged at Carina, who had perched on her overnight bag for want of any other form of seating.

‘Hello, you’ve got guests!’ Stern called as loudly as he could without actually shouting. The only response was the sound of a nearby toilet being flushed.

‘About time too,’ Carina muttered. Moments later a woman built like a wardrobe pushed a louvred door open and squeezed in behind the desk.

‘What’s all the rush?’ she demanded breathlessly.

Ignoring her ungracious reception, Stern gave his name and deposited his ID on the counter.

‘We booked.’

‘Yes, yes, but you needn’t have. They’re all vacant.’ The woman indicated the board on her right with a calloused forefinger. It was bristling with room keys. ‘I can quote you a good price for the suite.’

Stern could imagine what the suite looked like. Unlike the other rooms, it probably boasted a television set.

‘No, we want
that
room. I explained that on the phone.’

‘Really? Number 17, eh? Hm, it’s not our nicest.’

‘I don’t mind,’ Stern said truthfully. They wouldn’t be staying the night in any case. ‘Number 17 or nothing.’

‘If you say so.’

His fingers brushed the woman’s bone-dry skin as he took the key from her. He started as if he’d driven a splinter into his hand.

‘On your honeymoon?’ she asked, leering suggestively at Carina.

‘Yes,’ said Stern, this being the shortest answer that occurred to him.

‘Out of the door and follow the signs,’ she called after them. ‘It’s the one at the far end on the right.’

The rain of recent days had stopped and the wind was playing billiards with the clouds overhead. It was only midday, but it felt much later. Even now, another wall of dirty grey cloud drifted across the sun and darkened the concrete walkway.

Room 17 was the motel’s only detached building. The lock on the door didn’t look as if it welcomed the key, which Stern managed to turn only at the second attempt.

‘Shall I wait outside?’ Carina asked.

‘No, but please don’t touch anything.’

He reached for the light switch and the heavily curtained room was illuminated by a shadeless electric bulb. It was surprisingly neat and tidy.

Carina gave a noisy sniff. Stern was equally surprised by the complete absence of the smell of dust and damp he’d been expecting.

‘She knew we were coming, after all,’ he murmured, and set to work.

First, he examined the wardrobe. He gathered up the hangers and tossed them on to the bed beside Carina and her bag. Then he tapped the plywood back for hidden cavities.

Going into the bathroom, he was disappointed to find that it only contained a toilet and shower. He had been counting on a bathtub with enclosed spaces behind and beneath it. The water simply drained away through a small hole in the tiled floor.

‘Well?’ said Carina when he returned to the bedroom five minutes later, after examining the cistern and drainhole for concealed clues.

‘Nothing,’ he said, rolling up his wet sleeves. ‘As yet.’

He lay down and looked under the bed. Carina got up at his request. While he was probing the mattress with a knife in various places, she examined the concrete floor for dents or grooves – anything that might conceal a hidden door or other form of access – but she couldn’t detect the smallest irregularity.

Meanwhile Stern had taken a yellow handspray from the bag – the kind normally used for misting houseplants – and proceeded to spray the floor with a colourless reagent.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he said when he’d finished. Moments later the overhead light went out, plunging the curtained room into total darkness.

‘What do we have to look for?’ Carina asked when the ultraviolet torch in Stern’s hand was bathing their faces in a ghostly, lunar glow.

‘You’ll soon see.’

He turned clockwise on the spot.

‘Or not, as the case may be,’ he added after a while. Some hotel guest might have had a nosebleed at one point, but the UV light did not indicate that attempts had been made to remove any substantial traces of blood.

‘What now?’

Stern turned on the light again. He stretched out on the mutilated mattress, breathing heavily and staring up at the ceiling.

‘Now I suppose I’d better call him.’

He took his mobile from his jeans and dialled a number scribbled on a slip of paper.

‘Robert Stern,’ he said.

‘You’re late. Your special permission for this call runs out at 1 p.m.’

‘And it’s twelve forty-seven now, so kindly put me through to him.’

The surly voice at the other end of the line was replaced by another. Although it sounded far friendlier and more civilized, its owner differed from the supervisor of the prison hospital in having committed several murders.

‘Losensky?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know why I’m calling?’

‘Yes, because of Room 17.’

‘What can you tell me about it?’

‘Nothing, I’m afraid.’

‘You didn’t give the boy this address?’

‘No, the place means nothing to me. I never told Simon about it and I’ve no idea why he should have directed you there.’

Stern heard the old man cough in an agitated fashion.

‘Why would I lie to you?’ Losensky went on. ‘I already gave the police a full confession and took them to all the crime scenes Simon hadn’t already identified. Seven dead bodies in fifteen years. Why would I keep quiet about one more?’

I don’t know
.

‘I’m in a prison hospital and I’m going to die here anyway. What have I got to gain by lying, young man?’

‘Nothing,’ Stern conceded. He thanked Losensky briefly and hung up.

‘All right if I have a shower before we go and pay her for the damage?’ Carina asked.

Stern just nodded mutely. When he heard the sound of water running in the bathroom he got up off the bed and drew the curtains back, then opened the sliding door to the terrace as wide as he could. Fresh air streamed into the little room.

He went outside and gazed into the distance. The beach flanking the Park Inn Motel stretched away for kilometres in both directions. The waves, which had been pounding the shore when they arrived, had subsided a little. Stern shut his eyes and felt the wind on his face, soft as silk, then a pleasant sensation of warmth. Opening them again, he was dazzled by fingers of sunlight tentatively feeling their way through the tattered overcast. All at once the dirty blanket of cloud was rent open and the sun shone down as if it were the first day of spring.

He was about to call Carina when something bumped gently into his leg.

Looking down, he saw a rubber beach ball lying at his feet. The sunlight was growing steadily brighter, and he had to shield his eyes with both hands as he peered in the direction from which it must have rolled towards him.

‘Please may I have it back?’ The voice was unbroken and very youthful. Stern stepped forward. And the warmth inside him became almost unbearable. The boy was standing on the sandy shore only a couple of arm’s lengths away, licking a lemon ice. At that moment, although he understood nothing else, Stern grasped why he was there.

Recognition dawned. The boy’s crumpled photograph, a snapshot of a television screen, was still in his hip pocket.

And, when the ten-year-old smiled at him, Robert Stern felt he was looking into a mirror.

Well, where are you at this moment? In an armchair, on the sofa, in the Underground, in bed? Or are you still standing in a bookshop and wondering whether you really ought to invest in a thriller, especially one by an author with such a bizarre name? No matter. Thank you anyway. You’re holding my book in your hands and dipping into it, even if you’re only glancing at the end to see if the person who wrote this story has any friends to thank. Strangely enough, he has.

I’ll start with the ones who would give me the most trouble if I forgot to mention them, given that our paths cross almost daily:

Manuela. Please go on taking plenty of exercise and stick to a healthy diet. If you ever fell by the wayside and stopped organizing my life, I’d be done for.

Gerlinde. My thanks for all your help, support and love. All else apart, this manifests itself in the fact that you always dump my meals on the desk when I’m in the thick of writing. If you didn’t, I’d have starved to death by now.

Clemens and Sabine. I’m sure you’re beginning to wish I would sometime write a story in which illnesses and psychoses don’t play a central role. Unfortunately for you, you’re going to have to act as my medical advice team in the future as well. You’re simply too good at your job.

Patty. Many thanks for the impressive account of the regression you underwent, and for allowing me to use your experiences in this book.

Zsolt Bács. I took you to my heart even before I could pronounce your name properly. You’re the best brainstormer there is!

Ender. Thanks for repeatedly introducing me to remarkable people who inspire characters in my books,
e.g.
Borchert! (But please tell him I’m really OK and he isn’t to break my thumbs for me.)

Sabrina Rabow, Thomas Koschwitz, Arno Müller. Thank you for your friendly and professional support over the years, even though I always saddle you with my books in the form of manuscripts in ugly folders.

Peter Prange. You blazed the trail it’s now my privilege to follow. If for that reason alone, you deserve a place of honour in any acknowledgements. Besides, it’s always nice to be able to cite a bestselling author as a friend.

Roman Hocke. I don’t know how you manage it all, but you’re the best. If it weren’t for your work as my agent, my books would never have been published in nearly twenty countries or filmed, and I’d still be writing purely for myself and my dogs. My thanks go also to your excellent team in the persons of Claudia von Hornstein, Christine Ziel and Dr Uwe Neumahr.

Still on the subject of agents, I’ll say two words only: Britain and America. Thanks for everything, Tanja Howarth!

My thanks go also to the following representatives of the wonderful team at Droemer Knaur:

Dr Hans-Peter Übleis, for believing in me so much and for promoting me in your publishing house.

Dr Andrea Müller. Your wide-ranging comments have made me sweat yet again, and your unceasing efforts have got the best out of me. A thousand thanks for that and for laying the foundations of my career as an author.

Carolin Graehl. Our incredibly productive final spurt was fun. I look forward to the next editorial marathon!

Beate Kuckertz. Thanks for your unerring ability to sense which of my crazy ideas has the makings of a genuine thriller.

Klaus Kluge. Thank you for lavishing all your marketing skills on me and my books. Working with a professional of your calibre is an immense pleasure. The same goes for Andrea Fischer.

Andrea Ludorf. You keep me chasing all over the country, and a good thing too. Please go on organizing my public appearances and reading tours so efficiently.