‘Who on earth’s that?’
Benny picked up his mobile, which seemed to be receiving another text message, and shot back on to the road via an unoccupied parking space. Their faceless pursuer did likewise.
‘One of Valka’s guys,’ said Benny. He glanced at the mobile’s display and put it down again.
‘Valka? You mean you’re still working for that psychopath?’
At that moment there was a flash outside the car. Benny had just driven across a red light at around 100 kph. The motorcyclist behind them had also ignored the speed camera.
‘There, straight ahead!’ Emma cried, pointing to the yellow Volvo, which had reappeared at last.
They were now speeding along Mehringdamm towards the city centre. All that slowed them down were the numerous delivery vans, more and more of which were double parked.
Twenty seconds later, only a Smart car separated them from the yellow saloon and the motocross bike seemed to have disappeared. Marc didn’t notice this until he realized he could no longer hear it blatting away behind them.
‘Have we shaken him off?’ he asked as they ignored another red light and turned right into Leipziger Strasse. It had now stopped snowing.
‘No,’ said Benny, and Emma uttered another scream. The motorbike had shot out of an entrance on their right and the man in the balaclava was alongside them.
‘He’s got a gun!’ Emma yelled, ducking down. Benny braked hard before the man could pull the trigger, and this time it really was a collision that hurled them all forwards. The heavy 4x4 behind them had failed to react in time and was now propelling them across the carriageway with all its considerable weight.
‘Bloody hell!’ Marc shouted, but it was already too late. In the fraction of a second it took for the car to slew round, he recalled the last few moments before his crash with Sandra: the photograph of nothing identifiable, the sound of a tyre bursting, the steering wheel escaping from his grasp and the clump of trees coming ever closer.
Then came a crash, but not in his memory: in the present. They had hit the motorcycle. The rider toppled over sideways and disappeared under their bonnet. There was a frightful, protracted grating sound, worse than that made by ten fingernails scratching a slate, and their car came to rest at last.
Benny was the first to open his door, after an instant’s shocked silence, followed by Marc. Emma remained sitting in the back, trembling but unscathed. ‘Where did he go?’ she said.
Benny and Marc stared at each other in dismay.
The bike was lying wedged beneath the bonnet sideways on. There was no sign of the rider.
They were quickly surrounded by a gaggle of interested spectators. Traffic jams developed in both directions. Horns blared.
Marc went round the back to see if their pursuer had ended up beneath the wheels of the vehicle behind them.
‘Are you crazy, you idiots?’ yelled the driver of the 4x4, who had been inspecting his chromium-plated radiator grille, which was stove in. A man in his mid-fifties, he was wearing a tracksuit, sweatshirt and camouflage-green combat boots. ‘You must have shit for brains!’
Marc took no notice of him, nor did he bend down to look for the vanished motorcyclist. He was staring uncomprehendingly into Benny’s boot, which had sprung open on impact.
What the…?
In addition to a canvas bag, the boot contained a small arsenaclass="underline" two knives, an automatic pistol, a pump-action shotgun and, unless his eyes deceived him, some secateurs, lying on top of a transparent plastic bag with some pink liquid sloshing around inside it.
Before he could reach for it Benny spun him around.
‘Leave it!’ he snapped.
‘But what have you been up to?’
Marc indicated Benny’s boot. His brother was now forcing the lid down with both hands.
‘That’s what I’d like to know!’ bellowed the tracksuited figure behind them. ‘Why slam on your anchors like that?’
Far away and faint as yet, police sirens could be heard approaching from Potsdamer Platz.
‘You push off, I’ll deal with this,’ said Benny. He rammed the lid shut.
Marc stared blankly at the car’s battered rear end.
‘I’ll explain later, I promise. There’s no time now.’
Benny looked at the intersection where the Volvo had turned off before the shunt brought them to a standstill.
‘There’s always a traffic jam on Friedrichstrasse. You could still catch them.’
His brother had to repeat himself before Marc shook off his inertia and resumed the pursuit on foot.
57
He hadn’t run far when he caught sight of her.
Sandra.
The driver of the Volvo had dropped her and disappeared into an underground car park in the next block, the illuminated sign above whose entrance proclaimed that there were still 317 spaces free. Sandra was waiting at some lights. She was wearing a cream-coloured winter coat with a synthetic fur collar and standing with her hands on her hips as if she had backache.
Or as if she was pregnant.
He was closing the gap between them and had covered half the block when the car park’s digital sign changed to 316.
What’s she doing here? And who was driving her? Constantin?
The pedestrian light changed to green and Sandra set off. She seemed in no hurry, in fact she was feeling for something in her outsize handbag as she went. Her golden-yellow hair bobbed up and down at every step. Marc felt so close to his wife he fancied he could smell the fragrance of her shampoo, although they were still at least fifty metres apart.
‘Sandra!’ he called, but the only response he got was some derisive remarks from a couple of youths slouching out of a mobile-phone shop. He clutched his side, breathing hard to relieve his stitch. Just as the urge to rest became unbearable, he spotted where she was planning to go.
She’s going shopping. Of course, it won’t be long now.
The window of the baby boutique was already decorated for the winter season. A snow cannon was showering the playpens and prams on display with fat flakes of artificial snow, and child-friendly customers were being lured into the shop by an over-lifesize snowbaby in pink rompers stationed outside the entrance.
Sandra slowed; she was now within arm’s reach of him. He put out his hand, longing to stroke her hair and run his fingers over the little bump on the back of her head – the one he always had to knead when she got a migraine. He wanted to massage her neck, hold her against him and gaze into her eyes, imagining they would give him the answers to all his questions. In the end, all he ventured to do was tap her on the shoulder and say her name. Louder than he intended, in a hoarse voice he himself failed to recognize.
‘Sandra!’
She swung round. For a moment she strove to retain her composure, wondering whether a smile or a word of greeting would be appropriate. Then fear gained the upper hand. The corners of her mouth began to quiver, and Marc could read her thoughts.
What does he want?
She retreated a step and opened her mouth, but it was Marc who spoke first: ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
He raised his hand.
Seen from the front, the woman bore not the slightest resemblance to Sandra. She merely shook her head in alarm.
‘No, no, I’m not after your…’ Marc stammered, pointing to the handbag which the far too old, far too heavily made-up blonde was clutching in white-knuckled trepidation. ‘I’m sorry, I mistook you for somebody else.’
She backed away from him, not turning round until she had put a safe distance between them. Marc stared after her and repeated his apology when she looked back at him over her shoulder with the expression people normally reserve for tramps and beggars. Leaving the baby boutique behind, she merged with a party of Japanese tourists who were just alighting from a bus at the Friedrichstrasse intersection.