She nodded. ‘And in that case I would also send you his daily schedules.’
‘Great. And the threatening letters.’
‘And the threatening letters.’
‘I’ll wait for your call.’
We rose from the armchairs and shook hands. Then I showed her to the door and out into the stairwell, and pressed the light switch. The energy-saving bulb shed its cool grey light.
‘So what is the title of Rashid’s novel?’
‘Journey to the End of Days.’
‘Ah. Does something like that sell well?’
‘The advance orders were enormous. With a subject like that … and although the book is only just out, everyone’s already talking about it. That’s why we’re so anxious in case anything happens during the Fair.’
We nodded to each other once more, exchanging friendly smiles, and then Katja Lipschitz made her way downstairs. I thought of warning her about the low ceiling on the last landing, but then let it be. She must have enough experience with low ceilings to notice, and judging by her reaction to my remark about her imposing figure she would rather do without further references to her size.
Back in my office, I typed ‘Malik Rashid: Journey to the End of Days’ into the Google search box. Among other links, I found the Maier Verlag website. The novel had appeared in Paris a year before, and the French critics quoted by the publishing house were of course over the moon about it. Even elsewhere on the Internet I found, almost exclusively, praise for the book. Apart from a comment in a blog from one Hammid, who hated it like poison. Or at least my tourist French was enough for me to get the drift of un roman de merde and sale pédé. But as far as I could tell there were no reactions at all from Morocco or any other Arab country. So the fact that, according to Katja Lipschitz, the novel had caused a great stir there was a pure publicity spin. That was fine by me. Easy money again.
I took the station clock off its hook, opened the safe behind it and put the pistol and the handcuffs in my pockets. They should at least make a bit of an impression on Abakay if necessary. Then I shouldered my bike and set off for Sachsenhausen.
Chapter 3
The sun was shining on the terrace of the Café Klaudia, where people were sitting eating lunch or a late breakfast. Talk, laughter and the clink of crockery mingled to make an inviting cloud of sound. I padlocked my bike to a traffic sign and went to the front door of the building, which was next to the terrace. There was a smell of raw onions, and full glasses of cider shone golden and enticing on the tables. ‘The locals’ favourite drink is a laxative, Edgar would say.’ That had even annoyed me a little when Valerie de Chavannes shared it. What was the damn Dutchman thinking of?
The front door of the building was not locked. I found Abakay’s name on the list beside the doorbells, went into the hall and climbed the stairs to the third floor as quietly as I could. But it was an old building, and the wooden steps creaked. When I reached the second floor, I thought I heard another creak from above me.
I didn’t exactly know what I was planning to do. Listen at the door, ring the bell? ‘Good morning, Kayankaya here, city gasworks, you must have an old pipe in there somewhere that’s been supplied with gas by accident, may I take a quick look through the rooms?’ Or, ‘Hey, Abakay, old boy! Remember that night at the club the other day? You gave me your address, and here I am. It’s me, Ali!’ Or simply, ‘Hand over the girl or I’ll smash your face in!’ And suppose no one came to the door? Did I wait on the stairs or in Café Klaudia? Or stroll around and keep my eyes open for the pair of them?
I didn’t have to know for certain. I didn’t have to know at all. On the third floor the door to Abakay’s apartment was open. On the floor on the other side of it, a fat, half-naked white man was lying on his back. He wore jeans and white sports socks, and his paunch bulged over the waistband of his jeans like a large flatbread dough. His head had fallen to one side, his face was turned to me, saliva was running out of his mouth and his eyes had a blind, staring look.
I took my pistol out of my jacket pocket and got close enough to him to see what was wrong: a small stab wound to the heart with blood seeping from it. Next moment I heard a door close, and someone in the apartment called, ‘Okay, I’ve got the stuff, we’ll be ready soon.’ And after a short pause: ‘Herr Rönnthaler?’
Another pause, and then footsteps approached. I got behind the doorframe, took the safety catch off my pistol, and peered into the front hall of the apartment. Abakay — shoulder-length hair, black, gleaming ringlets, little moustache as narrow as a pencil stroke, a white shirt unbuttoned to the waist, black waistcoat from a suit, thick gold rings on his fingers — bent over the body.
‘Rönnthaler …?!’
I had no time to think about it. When Abakay raised his head and looked around I walked into the apartment, pistol pointed at him.
‘Damn it, what the …?’
‘Where’s the girl?’
‘What?’
‘Tell me where she is or you’re next.’
He put his hands up in a placatory gesture. ‘Hey, man, I’ve no idea what’s going on here!’
‘The girl!’ I was fingering the trigger.
‘Yes, yes, it’s all good! She’s in the room over there! Everything’s okay! Please don’t …’
I hit him hard over the head with the pistol, his knees gave way, and he sank to the floor beside the other man’s body. I spent a moment listening for sounds in the stairwell. I’d thought I heard a step creaking again, but all was quiet. I took Abakay by the arm, dragged him over to a radiator and handcuffed him to the pipe. After that I quietly closed the door and quickly walked through the apartment.
A long corridor, a lavatory, the living room where the TV set was on but muted, an open bottle of Aperol, an empty bottle of prosecco and three half-full glasses. Opposite the living room was a very tidy, spotlessly clean kitchen with a second door into the apartment between the china cupboard and the dishwasher. It was not shut, and it led to the back stairs. On the kitchen table lay a plastic bag containing five little balls of silver foil. I opened one of them and touched the white powder inside it with the tip of my tongue. I wrapped up the ball of silver foil again and hid the bag of heroin in a drawer under a stack of frying pans.
The next room was furnished as an office: a desk with a computer and printer, a bookshelf full of coffee table books and several cameras, on the wall a large, framed black-and-white photo of a good-looking young couple drinking coffee in Paris, with the Eiffel Tower in the background. Abakay, the good old underground photographer!
Next was a bathroom, with marble tiles, also spotlessly clean, and the corridor with more framed black-and-white photos to the right and left — trees, girls, cats, cloud formations — and finally a door with the key in the lock. I bent down to the keyhole and tried to see past the key and listen for sounds. It was an old door with a hefty lock, and there was a gap a millimetre wide round the key. All I could see through it was a white wall, and I couldn’t hear anything. On the other hand I could smell something. Something disgusting. All of a sudden I was panic-stricken. I imagined Marieke lying on the floor after an overdose, choked by her own vomit. I turned the key and pushed the door open.
At first I was dazzled by the sun shining in through the window. Then I saw Marieke. She was sitting naked on a king-size bed covered with gleaming white satin sheets, leaning against the pillows with her arms round her knees and holding her legs close to her body, and covered from head to toe with vomit. Grated carrots, bits of tomato, half pieces of pasta. Because the window was closed, the sour smell rising from the bed was overpowering.