The Child Read online

He told Borchert about the birthmark on the boy blowing out the candles on his birthday cake.

  ‘It’s just where Felix had one. On the shoulder, and that’s very rare. They’re mostly on the face or neck. It’s much bigger now, of course, but the weirdest thing is its shape. It looks like a boot.’

  ‘And Felix …’ Borchert hesitated. ‘I mean, the baby you buried. Did he also have a birthmark like that?’

  ‘Yes, I saw it myself. Before he died and afterwards.’

  Stern closed his eyes as if hoping to shut out the memories. What he failed to shut out were the neonatal ward and the metal autopsy table on which his son was lying.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Nervously, he ran a hand over his brow. After a second’s hesitation he got out of the car. ‘I’ll quite understand if you don’t believe me and want nothing more to do with this.’

  He slammed the passenger door and made for the entrance to the building without waiting for Borchert to reply.

  A brief glance at the discreet nameplate on the wrought-iron gate told him that he’d come to the right address. He was about to ring the bell when he noticed the chock that prevented the gate from closing. Uncertain whether he would need a key for the lift, a feature of many Berlin apartment houses, he set off up the stairs. It took him a while to reach the top floor. He leaned against the worn banisters, breathing hard, then froze in alarm. It wasn’t his poor condition that concerned him, but the door to Dr Tiefensee’s practice.

  It was wide open.

  11

  ‘Feeling all right, Simon?’ Professor Müller asked, keeping the intercom’s talk button depressed. He looked through the plate glass window into the adjoining room, where the snow-white MRI scanner was located. Clad only in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, Simon was lying inside the tube they’d slid him into, like a loaf ready for baking. This was the fifth time in two years he’d had to undergo the half-hour procedure. Unfortunately, the previous magnetic resonance shots of his brain had revealed nothing but a rampant growth of cells inside the skull. Today, for a change, his tumour would not be the object of investigation.

  ‘Yes, everything’s OK.’

  Simon’s voice issued from the speaker loud and clear.

  ‘And it really works?’ Müller had released the talk button to prevent the boy next door from hearing what they were saying. His sole reason for consenting to such a test was curiosity. Having so far only read of this neuroradiological experiment, he was eager to witness it at first hand. In addition to himself and the police inspector, the computer room was occupied by an androgynous blonde technician. Introduced to Müller as a medically trained interrogation expert attached to the Federal CID, she was currently fiddling with something beneath the monitor table.

  ‘Yes. In fact, this method is far more accurate than testing with traditional polygraphs. Besides, you wouldn’t have allowed Simon to leave here in his state of health, so we’re falling back on the Seehaus Clinic’s very own in-house lie detector.’ Brandmann laughed. ‘You didn’t realize your hospital had such a thing, did you?’

  ‘Professor Müller?’ Simon asked over the intercom.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve got an itch.’

  ‘No problem. You can still move.’

  ‘What does he mean?’ asked Brandmann.

  ‘It’s his ears. They always itch after a while, when the foam earplugs warm up.’

  ‘OK, I’m all set.’ The gum-chewing blonde crawled out from under the table, having evidently succeeded in hooking up her computer to that of the hospital. She pulled up an office chair, sat down in front of a small grey monitor and pressed the intercom button.

  ‘Hello Simon, I’m Laura.’ Her voice sounded unexpectedly friendly.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘In a minute I’m going to ask you some questions. Most of them you must answer by simply saying yes or no, is that clear?’

  ‘Was that the first question?’

  The three adults couldn’t help smiling.

  ‘Good, that’s settled. Then we can begin. Just one more thing: whatever happens, you mustn’t open your eyes under any circumstances.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Gentlemen?’ Laura made a gesture of invitation.

  With practised movements, Müller activated the MRI scanner’s electronics and the test began, accompanied by the typical, monotonous crashes that sounded like a piledriver in action. In spite of the soundproof door, they could not only hear the thuds but feel them. After a few minutes these sounds gave way to deep bass notes that seem to tug at the stomach lining.

  ‘For a start,’ said Laura, ‘please tell me your first name and surname.’

  ‘Simon Sachs.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Ten.’

  ‘What is your mother’s name?’

  ‘Sandra.’

  ‘And your father’s?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Laura looked round at Müller, who shrugged his shoulders. ‘He’s in care. His mother gave him up. He never knew his father.’

  ‘OK, Simon, now it gets serious. I want you to lie to me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ve seen the computer pictures they’ve taken of your brain?’

  ‘Yes, they look like walnuts cut in half.’

  The policewoman laughed. ‘Exactly. At this moment we’re taking some more of those walnut pictures. You’ll be able to watch them later on video. When you lie to me, you’ll notice something really weird.’

  ‘OK.’

  Laura glanced at Brandmann and the professor in turn, then proceeded with her questioning.

  ‘Do you have a driver’s licence?’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  Müller stared in fascination at the high definition 3D images. None of the previous questions had elicited a reaction, but now a red rash had suddenly appeared at the front of the neocortex.

  ‘What sort of car do you drive?’

  ‘A Ferrari.’

  ‘And where do you live?’

  ‘In Africa.’

  Laura took her finger off the talk button. ‘You see?’ she said to Müller. ‘Heightened cerebral activity in the thalamus and amygdala. Note also the readings in all other areas responsible for Simon’s emotions, conflict resolution and thought control.’

  She tapped another pulsating red spot on the screen with the tip of a much-chewed ballpoint pen.

  ‘That’s quite typical. If someone tells the truth it remains cold, but when subjects are lying they have to exercise their imagination and concentrate harder. Our software colours this intense cerebration red and makes the lies visible.’

  ‘Amazing,’ Müller blurted out. No wonder this new system was far superior to traditional lie detectors. A conventional polygraph only measured changes in pulse rate, blood pressure, breathing and perspiration. Well-trained and psychologically prepared subjects could suppress some of those reflexes when lying, but no one could control biochemical changes in the brain, or not, at least, without years of practice.

  Laura swallowed her chewing gum and pressed the talk button again.

  ‘Very good, Simon, you’re doing fine. Just a few more questions and then we’re through. But from now on you must tell the truth straight away, OK?’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘What did you get for your birthday?’

  ‘Some trainers.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘A regression.’

  ‘With Dr Tiefensee?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From Carina?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you hypnotized?’

  ‘I don’t know. I think I fell asleep first.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Carina and the doctor told me. But you can check that yourself.’

  ‘How?’ Laura was now looking as mystified as Inspector Brandmann. She hadn’t been expecting this answer.

  ‘Easy. Dr Tiefensee recorded the whole session on video. You could watch it.’


  ‘OK, thanks for the tip. What happened when you woke up?’

  ‘I had that memory in my head.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘About the dead body. The one in the cellar.’

  ‘Had you ever had that memory before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has anyone ever mentioned the name “Harald Zucker” to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who told you to go to the factory?’

  ‘No one. I asked Carina if she could find me a lawyer.’

  Müller glanced at Brandmann, who could hardly tear his eyes away from the screen. There hadn’t been the smallest discoloration so far.

  ‘Why did you need a lawyer?’

  ‘I wanted to go to the police. I’ve done something wrong and I’ve got to tell someone, but in films the first thing they always ask for is a lawyer.’

  ‘Good, we’re almost through. Now comes my most important question, Simon: Have you ever murdered anyone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘I killed one man fifteen years ago and the other three years later.’

  Müller took a step towards the screen as if he’d gone short-sighted.

  ‘Simon, I’m now going to ask you to think of all the people who’ve talked to you in the last few weeks and months, whether in the hospital or outside. Think of Robert Stern, Carina Freitag, Dr Tiefensee, your doctors – no matter who. Did any of them tell you to tell us this story?’

  ‘No. I know you think I’m fibbing.’ Simon sounded very tired now, but more sad than indignant. ‘You think I’m trying to make myself look important – just repeating what someone else told me to say.’

  Laura and Brandmann caught each other nodding.

  ‘But it isn’t true,’ Simon went on, growing steadily more heated. ‘It was me. I murdered those men. The first one I killed with an axe fifteen years ago, the other I suffocated. There were some more as well, but I’m not sure how many.’

  Laura turned to Brandmann and Müller and shook her head in bewilderment.

  The absence of any change on the screen was simply incomprehensible.

  12

  That a front door in Berlin should be open was not so unusual when it belonged to a medical practice. That the reception desk should be unoccupied and the waiting room deserted was another matter. Stern had to control his instinct for self-preservation as he made his way inside and called the psychiatrist’s name.

  ‘Dr Tiefensee? Hello? Are you there?’

  The softly illuminated glass sign in the lobby was out of keeping with the way in which professional medics usually advertised their services. The interior decoration, too, differed appreciably from that of any medical practice Stern had ever been to in the past. This was immediately apparent from the waiting room itself, in which patients could take their ease in wing chairs that wouldn’t have looked out of place in an English country house.

  Stern took out his mobile and dialled the number given him by directory enquiries. Moments later a ringtone could be heard issuing from a room along the passage. He let it ring ten times until the answerphone cut in. He now heard the psychiatrist’s sonorous voice not only in his ear but, with a slight time lapse, coming from some twenty metres away.

  The passage made a left turn halfway along. Stern rounded the corner and Tiefensee’s recorded message grew louder. It was stating his hours of business. Today was Saturday. Consultations by special appointment only.

  Could he be with a patient right now? Is that why he isn’t answering?

  Stern knocked on the door of the first room he came to – the one in which he thought the answerphone, now silent, had been broadcasting its message. There was no response, so he went in and recognized it as the room Simon had described that morning: blue gym mat on the floor, everything scrupulously neat and clean. Although the gloomy light of the autumn afternoon barely penetrated its windows, the room made a friendly, welcoming impression.

  ‘Anyone there?’ Stern called again, then swung round abruptly. A muffled crash had come from the room next door.

  What was that?

  Another crash. It had a wooden, almost bony quality. Stern dashed out into the passage and along to the door of the adjoining room. He depressed the curved brass handle. No use, the door was locked.

  ‘Dr Tiefensee?’ He knelt down and squinted through the keyhole. His eyes took a moment to get used to the different lighting conditions because the psychiatrist’s desk lamp was dazzling him. He blinked a couple of times, and then he saw it: a chair overturned on the parquet floor. At first he couldn’t decide what was casting that wavering shadow on the floor, but the sound of choking dispelled all doubt. He wrenched at the handle again with all his might. Still no use, so he threw his weight against the door. He tried again, shoulder-charging it this time. The varnished pinewood panels trembled and the hinges groaned, but it only gave way at the fourth attempt.

  There was a deafening crash, and Stern tore the shoulder of his suit on a long sliver of wood as he toppled forwards into the stylish consulting room, complete with the splintered door.

  13

  Not again, please!

  Stern froze with his hand to his mouth, staring transfixed at Tiefensee’s legs. Encased in well-pressed, pale-grey flannels, they were jerking convulsively a metre from the floor. Much as Stern wanted to avert his gaze, it travelled higher. He could hardly bear the sight of the bulging eyes that stared so desperately into his own, but it was the psychiatrist’s hands that were to haunt his direst dreams in time to come. Tiefensee’s fingers were clawing in vain at the wire noose that had bitten deep into his throat.

  The hook in the old moulded ceiling had been designed to support a heavy chandelier, which was why it bore the tall man’s weight with ease.

  Stern wasted precious seconds setting the chair on its legs. For some mysterious reason the psychiatrist was hanging too high. His feet wouldn’t reach the seat from which he’d jumped.

  Or been pushed?

  Stern tried to grab hold of his legs, but they were thrashing around too violently. He simply couldn’t raise the man enough to relieve the pressure on his neck.

  Damn, damn, damn …

  ‘Hang on!’ he called as he strove to haul the heavy Biedermeier desk into position beneath the dying man, whose laboured breathing was growing steadily fainter. More precious seconds went by, and it wasn’t until Tiefensee’s convulsive movements slowed that Stern abandoned the desk and climbed on the chair himself. He caught hold of him around the knees and lifted him.

  ‘Too late.’

  The phone-distorted voice startled him so much, he almost let go.

  ‘Who’s that?’ he gasped, unable to turn round.

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  Of course I do. I could never forget that voice even if I wanted to.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Here. Right behind you.’

  Stern looked down at the desk, which he’d scarcely managed to budge. The flashing red light of the computer monitor’s webcam was directed straight at him. The bastard was talking to him over the Internet!

  ‘What the hell have you done?’ Stern demanded breathlessly. Tiefensee seemed to get heavier with every word he uttered, and he wondered how much longer he could support him.

  ‘I think you can let go now,’ the voice advised.

  Stern looked up. Tiefensee’s head was lolling forwards, his mouth open in a last, soundless cry. Although his eyes were completely lifeless, Stern refused to release his grip. To give up now would seem a betrayal.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he cried desperately.

  ‘The question is, what are you doing here? We had an agreement. You were to take care of the boy and we would deal with the psychologist.’

  ‘Why did you kill him?’

  ‘I didn’t. He had a fair chance. If he’d told me the murderer’s name he’d still be alive.’

  ‘You bastard!’

  ‘Let’s not ge
t emotional, please. We had a friendly chat with the man, that’s all.’

  Stern’s arms felt as if they were clasping a red-hot stove. Unable to hold on any longer, he let go. The ceiling hook creaked under its renewed burden.

  ‘Tiefensee could have ended his martyrdom quite easily, but he refused, so my associates perched him on the back of the chair. I was able to watch him from here. I timed how long he managed to stand on tiptoe: twelve minutes forty-four seconds. Pretty good for a man of his age.’

  ‘You’re perverted. Completely insane.’ Stern walked unsteadily towards the computer.

  ‘Why? You really ought to be pleased. Believe me, if Tiefensee knew how Simon was able to find the bodies, he would have told me before he lost his balance.’

  Stern’s mobile started vibrating in his pocket, but he ignored it.

  ‘That means you’ve got one less suspect to worry about. From now on, though, you should make better use of your time.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  Stern took hold of the mouse and the screensaver on the monitor disappeared, but he could see nothing apart from a normal user’s screen. He was about to check the Internet browser when the LED on the monitor went out. The voice had severed the connection. At the same time, an external program deleted all the browser entries and the computer shut down automatically. The voice was obliterating its digital footsteps.

  Damnation!

  Bathed in sweat, Stern flopped down on the chair behind the desk and stared at the psychiatrist’s lifeless body, which was suspended from the ceiling like a horrific pendulum. It was several seconds before he noticed that one of the lights on the office telephone in front of him was flashing.

  ‘Is that you again?’ he demanded.

  ‘Of course,’ the voice replied. ‘But you had better hang up.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Can’t you hear?’

  Stern got up and stepped away from the desk. He stared in the direction of the open doorway. Sure enough, it sounded as if a metal cable in the stairwell had drawn taut.

  The lift.

  ‘You’ve got a visitor. Take a look at the desk diary.’

  Stern’s eyes widened when he saw the entry underlined in red: Pol. interview – Insp. Martin Engler.