Cut: The international bestselling serial killer thriller Page 4

  The man remains in the dark to avoid just that. He knows that Liz is alone, and he knows that Gabriel is probably turning into a driveway at that very moment, and that the bright red gravel will soon be crunching under his feet.

  Chapter 4

  Berlin – 1 September, 11.41 p.m.

  Liz puts the key into the lock, enters the building corridor and lets the door close behind her. On the first floor, a door is open. ‘Everything all right?’ a woman’s voice calls out insincerely. ‘Do you know how late it is?’

  ‘Sorry, Mrs Jentschke, the front door is broken,’ Liz answers and rolls her eyes. Not again, not now, she thinks and leans against the wall across from the letterboxes to wait until Jentschke disappears back into her flat. The wall’s beautiful old art nouveau tiles cool her back and it helps some. Again, she strokes her abdomen. Twelve weeks! Or was it thirteen already? If Gabriel were there, she would walk another lap through the park now, but alone? She thought back to the walk when she told him about the small pale pink plus sign on the test.

  Pregnant.

  The gynaecologist had been telling her for years that she couldn’t have children, at least not naturally, because her fallopian tubes were not intact. Her answer was always that she never wanted any. Why would she? Her job was her baby. And real babies, that was a job for women like Charlotte, her sister. The agonising menstrual pain was horror enough. She would’ve liked to end her period altogether – it wasn’t good for anything anyway.

  That is, until she was suddenly holding the positive test in her hands. The gynaecologist had managed to congratulate her on her pregnancy as if it were a matter of course. ‘You see, the more relaxed you are, the more likely it is to work out. Or do you really not want the child?’

  Not want it?

  Liz had been in shock. She had given up on the prospect of children an eternity ago, but now, for some crazy reason, fate had dealt her a new hand.

  And with someone like Gabriel, of all people. He was like a black knight, a silent Anakin Skywalker or Batman, trapped in his life, withdrawing when something seemed unfair to him. Then his anger would burst out of him, like that time when she first met him. Sometimes, with all of the injustices she faced every day and her accompanying powerlessness, she wanted nothing more than to be like him. But the only means she had to fight back were her documentaries and news reports.

  When it came to her pregnancy, there was a silent competition between her and Gabriel as to whom it perturbed the most.

  Now she knows that he is the clear winner of that contest. There is no place for children in his life. There isn’t actually even a place for her in his life. The fact that she has one at all borders on a miracle.

  The Berlinale. She had to smile when she thought about how she met Gabriel at the film festival a year and a half ago. Once again, her talent for unexpectedly finding trouble had shone through. First, her combative interview with TV creative David Naumann, followed by a washed-up heavyweight boxer, Zabriski. He had been slowly letting himself go, since he didn’t box any more and there were assault charges against him – he had beaten up a paparazzo a few days before. Nonetheless, he was still a celebrity and his fights had always guaranteed good ratings, so he was somehow involved in every third show on TV2. That he had recently been doing coke and his life was falling apart were so obvious it hurt.

  Once again, she hadn’t managed to hold her tongue. Once again, she had asked a question that lit a fuse. Zabriski snapped. When the first blow had hit her cheekbone, she was too stunned to run in time. When he had grabbed her by the collar and shook her, fear took over. The whole TV2 crew had been standing around, but no one had done anything. Even Neo, her cameraman who was directly behind her, did nothing. That is, he just kept the film rolling.

  Then Gabriel was suddenly there. The cold blue eyes, the short black hair, black leather jacket, maybe half a head shorter than Zabriski and clearly thinner. ‘Let go of her,’ he said. Nothing more. To Liz, it sounded like the restrained growl of a jungle cat.

  Zabriski had actually let go. But only so that he could pounce on Gabriel. What happened next was incredibly sudden. Afterwards, no one would have been able to describe exactly what happened, not even Liz, if they hadn’t had the tape from Neo’s camera. She had watched the tape over and over again – forwards, backwards, in slow motion.

  When Zabriski’s right fist was flying directly at Gabriel’s face, he had deflected it away from his head with his right forearm. Then he grabbed his wrist and pushed his arm down, while his left arm shot up and slammed Zabriski’s elbow upwards. The elbow joint had fractured with a soft crunch and bent at a horrifyingly unnatural angle. At almost the same moment, Gabriel’s right hand had let go of Zabriski’s arm and shot out in a straight line, his open palm thrusting into the boxer’s face. The blow had smashed Zabriski’s nose and the boxer bellowed in pain and stumbled back. Gabriel kicked the side of his supporting leg and the heavyweight crashed onto the floor. Between Zabriski’s first swing and his backside landing on the parquet of a posh pub, only a few seconds had gone by.

  The Berlinale party had died down, as if someone had simply pressed the stop button.

  It was strange that Gabriel hadn’t cared about the boxer in the least. He had only been interested in the camera – it made him uncomfortable. Two quick steps and he was standing in front of Neo. He had pointed at the camera and held out his hand. ‘The tape.’

  Liz had struggled to focus and saw Neo press the eject button. The camera had spit out the cassette and Gabriel grabbed it, put it in his black leather jacket and had disappeared through the door with his lightning-fast victory over Zabriski – and Liz’s interview with David Naumann – in his pocket.

  Had he not taken the tape, she likely would’ve never seen him again.

  But she had been forced to run out into the street after Gabriel. ‘Hey! Excuse me,’ she cried. ‘Please wait.’

  No response. He had just marched onward.

  Out of breath, she had tried to keep up. ‘I . . . I wanted to thank you. That was very kind.’

  Again, no answer.

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘I can’t stand guys who hit women.’

  ‘Neither can the others, but you’re the only one that helped me.’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Why should I? You’ve . . .’

  Gabriel stopped abruptly. ‘What do you want?’ he asked impatiently. His eyes were piercing. Three steep wrinkles formed between his eyebrows.

  ‘I . . . to thank you. You helped me.’

  ‘I haven’t.’ He tilted his head, pushing his unshaven chin forward. ‘I can’t stand you either.’

  Liz stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘Then why did you do it?’

  Gabriel shrugged. ‘It was something like . . . a reflex.’

  ‘A what?’

  Gabriel had suddenly looked tired; the energy in his features gave way to something else. It had seemed like confusion, perhaps even helplessness. He turned away and went to cross the street.

  ‘Wait. The tape . . . can I have it?’

  ‘No.’ Without turning around, he stepped into the street.

  ‘Please. It’s important.’

  ‘Not my problem.’

  ‘No! That –’ She wanted to go after him, but a bus shot right past her nose, so that she immediately jumped back. ‘Hello? Hey . . . That won’t work – I need the interview.’

  Gabriel had reached the other side of the street. The cars rushed past them in a blur. He seemed to not be listening any more and had continued on at a punishing pace.

  ‘Hey!’ Liz yelled across the street, ‘what do you want with the tape?’

  No answer.

  ‘Are you worried about the fight? Zabriski won’t report you . . .’

  No reaction.

  ‘Do you want the interview with David Naumann? Are you a journalist? Maybe I can help you there. I know him.’

  Gabriel had stopped as if
he had hit a wall and stared over at her.

  Success. Liz crossed the street and hurried over to Gabriel. His blue eyes swept across her body and followed her every movement.

  ‘Are you really a journalist?’ she asked, out of breath.

  ‘I can’t stand journalists.’

  Liz raised her eyebrows. ‘What about female journalists?’

  ‘Not them either.’

  ‘Maybe you should meet one.’ Then she smiled. ‘If you want to know something about David Naumann . . . come with me. I’ll get you one last drink for the road.’

  ‘Coffee,’ Gabriel said.

  ‘That’s good too. Then maybe you’ll be able to speak in full sentences.’

  Full sentences had remained a problem, but she had still called Gabriel two months later, because the way he had taken down Zabriski had made an impression on her.

  ‘Where the hell did you get my number?’ he asked when he recognised Liz’s voice.

  ‘I’m a journalist. Remember?’

  ‘And?’

  She hesitated a moment and wondered if it had been a mistake to ring him. ‘I might have a job for you.’

  ‘I already have a job,’ Gabriel said brusquely.

  She was about to hang up, but something stopped her. ‘You could take a holiday.’

  ‘Holiday?’ Gabriel asked. He sounded as if the word didn’t exist in his vocabulary. ‘Why would I do that?’

  Liz cleared her throat. ‘Honestly, I need someone who could save my arse in case something happens. And I thought of you.’

  There was a brief silence on the line. ‘What did you have in mind?’ Gabriel asked.

  ‘I have to go to Zurich for an interview with an accountant.’

  ‘A bookkeeper? And why do you need a security guard for that?’

  ‘His former boss threatened me,’ Liz said. ‘He’ll stop at nothing to avoid a scandal.’

  Nine days later, Liz and Gabriel had checked into two adjacent rooms with a connecting door at the Hotel Zurich. Liz had slept terribly on the night before the interview. She’d had a dream that her mother testified against her as a witness in a trial. The courtroom was as tall as a church and deserted. Her father stood at the bench, slammed a giant book against it, charged her with heresy and condemned her to death at the stake. Bathed in sweat and woken by the nightmare, Liz had stumbled to the bathroom and collapsed. Before she could get up, Gabriel was beside her, a black figure in a dark room.

  ‘Everything OK?’ he asked.

  No, Liz would have preferred to shout. Kill them, both of them! Her lips trembled.

  ‘Shhh,’ Gabriel said softly. His voice was rough and deep. She felt a heavy weight in the pit of her stomach. Gabriel stroked her face and felt how wet it was. She grabbed his hand. She could not bear him leaving at that moment. The dream lingered in the air.

  With her free hand, she held Gabriel’s neck and pulled herself up to him. Her face was less than a hand’s width away from his. She could feel his breath; feel how he suddenly stopped breathing and tensed when it was all too close for him. The moment stretched on infinitely, her heart opened up. Earlier, it had pounded with fear. Now it was beating with the fear that he could feel everything that she had just felt and would pull away. It was a single, drawn-out moment in which they both had to make a decision. And everything, everything screamed that he would just walk away. His hesitation, his held breath, his stiff neck, his fingers in her hand, which were ice cold, as if he had suddenly been seized by fear.

  Did her eyes deceive her, or were his lips trembling more than hers?

  She moaned and pulled herself in a bit closer to him. She couldn’t help but move towards his face in the dark. At the same time, her mind rebelled. It was all wrong. The nightmare, the man in front of her, his hesitation – just everything. And despite all that, she pulled him closer to her, until her mouth was very close to his lips. It was not a kiss, it was breathing onto each other. It was the moment before a kiss. And it was so charged, as if Gabriel were already inside her, like a preview of something that would inevitably follow, something that was unavoidable and would last forever, a promise, no, the fulfilment of a promise, which neither of them would have ever dared to make. All of her despair, as well as her longing to heal, were in that moment. If she had been able to see inside Gabriel’s head, she would have broken down in tears, seeing his defences so desperately at work. If she had been able to hear inside his head, she would have heard the voice: Luke, run away. Don’t lay a finger on her, she will burn you, you hear? You will burn!

  She would have felt his longing, the longing of an eleven-year-old in the body of a forty-year-old. It was as if the years between eleven and forty had suddenly been erased. He was standing on the edge of a diving board at a dizzying height, and simultaneously wanted to jump in and to run away, back down the steps, clinging to the safety rail.

  She would’ve never thought that he would jump. She would’ve never even thought that she would jump.

  But they had jumped. Both of them.

  Liz sighs. The sound lands like an echo between the art nouveau tiles in the corridor. She is constantly annoyed by how often she misses him. She always considered herself to be independent. Her need for fresh air takes over. Directly around the corner is Friedrichshain Park and she considers again whether it is wise to go for a walk alone at this hour. It occurs to her how often she makes her decisions based on him, whether he is there or not.

  She resolutely opens the front door, looks left and right down the street. Once again, she overlooks the olive-coloured delivery van and steps out onto the street. What the hell, she thinks. She’s gone this way a thousand times, with or without Gabriel. And there are streetlights everywhere along the path. She ignores the red sign telling her not to walk and crosses Danziger Strasse, passing over the tram tracks in the middle. The badminton hall at the edge of the park has been long closed at this hour, but the sign is still lit. She trudges through the low trees casting their shadows on the path in the park.

  It smells of dog faeces and wet earth. The quiet rustling of the leaves is calming. Small stones crunch under her feet and she zigzags to avoid the puddles. The breeze feels light and lively in her hair.

  She doesn’t notice the figure in the dark between the trees. The light wind blows away his smell, as it does his quiet footsteps following behind her. She doesn’t notice that he is catching up steadily until he is close enough to reach out his arm and touch her jacket. He is close enough to smell the pub in her jacket and the perfume on her neck with his wide-open nostrils.

  Until a thin, dry twig breaks under the sole of his shoes.

  Liz stops automatically and her instincts take over at lightning speed. The hair on her neck stands on end, she wants to turn around, but is also afraid of what she’ll see. Time expands – and tears brim. A man’s arm wraps around her throat like a steel cuff. She is thrown back, a body presses against her. She can feel hot breath on her cheek, something leathery and scarred rubs against her ear. She wants to scream, but the arm is constricting her breathing.

  ‘Hello, Liz . . .’ a hoarse voice whispers.

  Oh god, no! Liz frantically tries to draw air into her lungs.

  ‘Let yourself go, little one,’ the voice says and squeezes mercilessly. ‘I’m taking you with me. We’re going to celebrate – us and someone else. On the thirteenth.’ He laughs and it sounds as hard and sharp as glass. ‘Will that work for you?’

  ‘Hrrr,’ Liz tries to scream and throws her elbows back.

  ‘How strong you are,’ the voice says. ‘I know so many who are so pitifully weak.’

  Oh, please! Doesn’t anyone see me? Liz’s eyes bulge out like table tennis balls. The arm pushes against her voice box, her body weight pulls her down, and her neck is stretched out more and more, as if she were hanging on a gallows. The sky, bathed in the orange light of the city, becomes as black as the trees. Stars dance before her eyes.

  All of a sudden, the arm lets go and sh
e falls like a defenceless rag doll onto the ground. She blinks feebly. There, wherever the man with the steel arm and leathery skin was before, there is now – nothing.

  Gone. He’s gone! Liz thinks in disbelief. But why? She gasps. Her lungs almost burst with their longing for air. They almost burst from the oxygen that is flowing into her chest and spreading relief. She tries to stand up, but collapses back down. She looks around nervously. Where has he gone?

  The fear immediately returns.

  What if he is still here?

  Her eyes run across the bushes on the right and left in front of her, and then down the path until she sees why the man left her. A street lamp is on less than ten metres away. Two male figures sway in its light.

  Thank god! Liz wants to call for help, but instead she has to cough.

  The two men stay standing directly in the lamplight.

  ‘Well, look a’ that.’ One of them grimaces as he attempts to speak clearly. He squints and his lips form a grin amidst the countless spots. ‘If tha’ in’t the slut from the train . . .’

  His drinking mate sways and wipes a whitish string of mucus from his nose. ‘An’ no video camera for miles, bitch.’ His voice sounds like the drone of a circular saw.

  ‘Just this shit light,’ Pizza Face growls and rams his foot against the lamppost, but the thing refuses to go out.

  Chapter 5

  Berlin – 1 September, 11.46 p.m.

  Gabriel slowly gets out of the car, his eyes on the huge, dilapidated house. The gravel crunches under his shoes. The smell of resin, wet earth and pine needles lingers in the misty air. For a moment, Gabriel holds his breath and listens.

  Nothing.

  Only the silent, rotating red light of the alarm system over the entrance. It looks as if the villa is breathing.

  Gabriel’s eyes drift up the tall house. The ground floor is covered with a dirty, rough plaster that is overgrown with ivy like thick arms trying to pull the building down. Above that, the black skeleton of the timber framing begins. There are mullioned windows with peeling white paint along the facade. The red roof tiles on the towers are spotted with moss, and a bent metal rod pierces the clouds from the left spire. A pale hole is torn in the sky and, in front of the hazy three-quarter moon, a majestic black weathercock hangs from the bent rod with its head pointing down, as if it were dead. There is no one in sight. No other car, no light in the windows. Not even the beam of a torch.