I took the bigger bills and stuffed them into the pocket of fat Volker’s jeans.
Then I went into the kitchen and searched the drawers for a sharp knife. The shower was running in the background. I hoped Marieke would never tell her mother that she had slept with Abakay.
I returned to the entrance hall of the apartment with a butcher’s knife about thirty centimetres long, knelt down beside Abakay, and cut and stabbed him lightly in the chest and the stomach. Not deep wounds; I just wanted it to look as if there had been a fight, and I wanted Abakay’s blood on the blade. Abakay groaned again and twitched, but he didn’t come round. I crawled over to fat Volker, wiped the handle of the knife on my T-shirt, and closed his cold hand round it. The small wound, level with his heart, had stopped bleeding.
I took a roll of parcel tape from the office, a teacloth from the kitchen, gagged Abakay and bound his legs together.
After that I went back into the office, turned on the computer, and typed ‘Marieke’ into the window of the search engine. The name appeared on a list of various girls’ names with pseudonyms after them. The pseudonym Laetitia, in brackets, followed Marieke’s name, and then it came up in a kind of catalogue. The file was entitled ‘Autumn Flowers 2011’. The photographs were simple snapshots of fully clothed teenagers in the street or cafés, usually laughing. Laetitia was described as: Clever, demanding upper-class girl, political interests, likes conversations, will go to great lengths in her search for adventure if the tone is right, ready for almost anything, exotic, milk-coffee colour, very well developed, still fourteen for several months.
Fourteen; that accounted for the price.
Another girl with the pseudonym of Melanie was described as: Happy, natural suburban girl, loves horses, likes to have fun — laughter above all. More for the conventional ride than delicate games, blonde, fresh, youthful type. Sixteen.
Probably eighteen.
And then there was Lilly: Super special! Sweet little mouse in knee-length socks, still plays with dolls, virgin, to highest bidder.
I deleted all the data about Marieke, typed de Chavannes into the search engine, brought up Valerie de Chavannes’s address and a few photos of her taken secretly in the café. I deleted those as well. In the bookshelf I found a carton of photographs labelled Frankfurt in the Shadow of the Bank Towers. With the carton under my arm I went into the front hall and kicked Abakay as hard as I could between the legs. In spite of the gag he grunted out loud, fluid ran from his nose, and he doubled up before falling on his side unconscious again.
‘That’s from Lilly.’
As I waited in the kitchen for Marieke, I leafed through the photographs. Most of them were black-and-white photographs of devastated, wrinkled, old or prematurely aged faces against the background of the high-rise bank buildings of Frankfurt. An old Roma woman with a toothless grin and a cigarette end in the corner of her mouth, a dark-skinned youth with an Elvis quiff, a child’s guitar and only one eye, a junkie whore with an entirely vacant expression and an I Love Frankfurt button on her blouse, and so on. Not so bad, but not so new either. I felt as if I’d seen these photos many times before.
I put the carton aside and wondered what weapon, or what tool, could make such a narrow but deadly wound.
Chapter 4
We reached the inner courtyard by way of the back stairs, and went through the gateway to the street. The aroma of grilled meat wafted out of the kitchen windows of Café Klaudia. It was lunchtime, and I felt hungry.
‘We must find a taxi. My colleagues used our car to take Abakay away.’
‘How about Volker?’
‘There’s a doctor with him in the stairwell.’
‘Why didn’t you want us to go out the front?’
‘So that he wouldn’t see you again. There are cases where the customer, or rapist or whatever you like to call someone buying underage girls for sex — anyway, there are cases where the man tries making advances to his victim later, especially when it went wrong the first time. Naturally we want to avoid that. I don’t want him to get a chance to imprint your face on his mind.’
‘I don’t think he’s feeling very well.’
‘He’ll soon be better.’
We were standing on the pavement, and I was looking out for a taxi. My bike was gleaming in the sun twenty metres away.
‘Won’t he have to go to prison?’
‘What for?’
I looked at her. After her shower, the blonde Rasta braids tied behind her head with a blue velvet bow, in jeans and a white blouse, the square-framed designer glasses on her nose, she looked just like the stern and slightly condescending girl in the photos on Valerie de Chavannes’s glass-topped table. She’d been in shock half an hour ago, but it was clearly wearing off.
‘Attempted rape?’
‘It’s always rather difficult to prove that kind of thing. Particularly when the alleged victim has previously had a voluntary relationship with the pimp involved.’
Marieke’s features froze. For a moment she looked as if she were about to turn and march away, maybe spitting at my feet first, or something like that.
‘You’re wrong!’
‘Am I?’
‘Erden isn’t a pimp, he’s a photographer, and what’s more he’s a good friend of my mother!’
‘No, you’re wrong there. Maybe he’s a friend of your mother, but if so he’s not a good one.’
She shook her head in annoyance.
‘Erden’s far from being a pimp! He just wanted to do Volker a favour, he needed money and Volker has plenty of it. And to be honest, if he hadn’t behaved like such a pig with that nasty talk, and wanting me to get undressed at once and so on … I’m not usually such a prude.’
She gave me a brief, inquiring look, to see if I was shocked, and then went on, ‘And that’s why there weren’t any other girls before me. You just thought that idea up to make it all worse. Because you’re a policeman and so that you can put Erden in a cell. Maybe you’ll get a pay raise or a medal or something!’
‘My God! If people got medals for arresting little bastards like Abakay, I’d have gone into the metal trade long ago.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Apart from that — well, I don’t know how you imagine a pimp, but pimps with any intelligence at all will of course go to great pains not to resemble the image of their profession.’ As I said that, the big gold rings on Abakay’s fingers flashed into my mind, and I thought that either he was less intelligent than I had assumed, or I had less of a grasp of the subject than I thought. Maybe pimps with any intelligence at all played about with the familiar notions because that sort of thing turned some women on. The way Deborah had first turned me on in a bar at three in the morning: high heels, a generous décolletage and an eloquent smile, speaking in an affectionate whisper — ‘You’re something special. I can see that right away, and I’m something special too — together, darling, we’ll fly through paradise all night, only four hundred marks.’
‘That doesn’t make Abakay’s profession other than what it is … It’s like petrol stations that advertise their concern for clean air.’
Marieke did not reply. She was staring furiously ahead, both hands clutching the straps of her leather bag, presumably deep in thought about my coarse and heartless nature. Compared to Abakay: cuddles, sweet talk, sensitive films, sympathy, artistic talent, social responsibility — why had she freaked out like that when he said: ‘Darling, I’m sure ours is a great love, we’re so lucky, but to live with that great love we need money, sad to say those are the facts of society, so be nice to Volker, he’s a good friend who needs a little affection, and kissing a stranger can’t affect our great love, can it?’