Never Trust a Callboy (15 page)

Not long after that I arrive at my hotel. With a gravel like feeling in my stomach I go up the stairs. I try to calm myself with the thought that no one knows I'm back in Frankfurt. But I don’t believe myself. They found me in Ibiza, whispers a voice in my head, they can find me anywhere. I'm scared, and I have to force myself to go the few steps down the hall to my room.

I open the door carefully, wait at the threshold and listen. Then, I take a measured step forward so that I can look into the room. Only when I am sure that nobody is in it, do I venture inside completely. My heart beats violently in my chest as I slowly creep forward until I'm right in the middle of the room.

The small room is completely deserted. It is very quiet up here, only faint noises from the street reach me. Maybe I should look under the bed? I feel like a child who's afraid of monsters. Except that in my case they are fully-grown, muscular monsters who will stop at nothing.

This is ridiculous, but all the same... just to make sure, I take a look under the bed. A few dust balls, that's all I find. Apparently they don’t clean under the beds too often.

Now I just have to check the wardrobe and small bathroom. I’m just about to take a look when I think of something. The gun! With two quick steps I reach my suitcase, rummage through the underwear, and there it is, cold and hard in my hand.

Slowly I go to the wardrobe, the gun pointing vertically in the air, just like you see on TV. I carefully open the door, and exhale relieved. There’s nobody there. Now just the bathroom remains. I sneak to the door on tiptoe, and freeze trying to determine whether someone is hiding in there, before I go in. Finally I open the door, nothing. I stare at the shower curtain hanging motionless in front of me.

What was the name of that Hitchcock thriller? I swallow hard as I remember the movie. I reach out with the gun and use it to pull the curtain aside. Empty. Good! I can breathe again. I hadn’t noticed I was holding my breath.

Somewhat calmer I look in my suitcase for something to wear. Something more fitting to the German summer than the little black dress I wore on Ibiza.

After I am dressed and have put on my make-up I feel a little better. It’s amazing what a little make-up can do, I think to myself as I look in the mirror and notice with satisfaction how well hidden the shadows under my eyes now are. I look like I have several hours of sleep behind me.

Next, I do something that I've seen in quite a few movies. I take a few pieces of my hair and distribute them throughout the room so that I’ll be able to tell in future if anyone has been here while I’m out. I glue a hair across the wardrobe door, one above the door to the bathroom and then I secure my suitcase in the same way. At the door I hang the ‘Do not disturb’ sign, so the maid doesn’t get the idea to come in and clean.

After that’s done, I sit down with my laptop at the small table which stands by the window. From here I have a clear view of the street on which the hotel is located. Thoughtfully I watch a few pedestrians walk down the street. I must make a decision, and plan my next steps. Just as I promised Antonio, I will go to the police, just not today. First, I need to find out who's behind all this, and then hand over all the evidence to the police. Hopefully then I can avoid an indictment.

"It is very likely that Ron is a criminal and tried to frame you," Antonio’s words reverberate in my head. Since I found the sweater I've assumed that he must be the culprit. But then I'm reminded of another of Antonio’s comments: "Never assume anything. Just because something seems logical, it doesn’t mean it’s the right solution. Search for the facts."

With a sigh, I open a document to record what facts I know. When I see the list in black and white in front of me, one thing becomes clear: I need more information.

T
he next morning is a rainy one. I wish I were back in Ibiza. Instead, I'm in the city, in the middle of the intense activity that dominates this time of day. The Saturday shopping ensures that there is a traffic jam in the nearby city center. Here in the small, relatively quiet side street in the Westend, I can hear the traffic not far away from me in the main street as it rolls slowly along. Here, however, there are only a few cars. The obscure tangle of one-way streets in the Westend ensures that drivers rarely venture into them.

I have parked the rental car close to the underground car park where Ron parkes his Mercedes. I would like to pay a visit to his office, I’m hoping, somehow, to get access to Ron's safe. Maybe he’s kept documents that will be able to provide me with more information. If I know Ron, he’s used the same number for this safe as he does at home. It shouldn’t be too hard.

That is why I’m on a stake out at the entrance to the underground car park in the early hours of the morning. I need to know whether Ron is putting in a few hours at the weekend as usual. If I'm lucky, he has a normal Saturday planned, which would mean that he’ll work until lunch, then to go to the gym. As soon as he’s left the office, I will use the opportunity to snoop around.

I never expected to be glad to see Ron's Mercedes ever again, but I’m relieved as his car disappears into the parking garage with a soft purr.

If Ron hasn’t changed his habits, he will be in the office until about one o'clock.

I have a long wait ahead of me. The bad news is that I have no idea what to do with it. I could go to the main shopping street nearby to go window shopping, but for some reason I have no desire to. I want to answer all the questions that are on my mind. Right now. Since this is not possible, I opt for the second alternative, and stop for a bite to eat at the café Laumer.

A faint murmur reaches my ears as I enter the venerable café. The Laumer has quite an old time feel. Lush cakes are displayed in the pastry counter making it impossible to resist the temptation. Dark brown mountains of chocolates glimmer in the glass display case right next to it. The refined atmosphere is accompanied by classical music.

My mouth waters as I look at the display. The Sachertorte looks good. As I take the first bite the chocolate melts in a bitter-sweet explosion in my mouth. That’s so good! I don't know when I last had a Sachertorte, it must have been at some point in my childhood, as an adult I’ve always been much too busy paying attention to my figure.

Idly I flick through a newspaper. But the news does not interest me. One depressing bad news article after the other: euro crisis, Greece on the edge of bankruptcy, rising inflation. Then my eyes fall on a specific news piece and I can’t pull my eyes away, once again I forget to breathe.

"Missing Frankfurt banker victim of the euro crisis?" reads the headline. The following article explains the impact of the Greek plight. “Although the missing banker is not directly affected, suicide is suspected. The police... continued on page 3.”

Quietly I scan the page until I find the rest of the article... That's him! The dead man. The corpse in my kitchen, who has now found his final resting place in our garden. It makes me dizzy, because words that promise no good are not far below the picture of the dead man. The dead man is Michael Barelli, and the Bank he worked for, was Ron’s bank.

I put the newspaper down with trembling hands and take a deep breath. Although I already assumed that Ron was involved, the message has dealt me a blow. To read in black and white, that the dead man was an employee at Ron’s Bank, is completely different to merely having suspicions. The death is now much closer, much more personal.

I take a big gulp of coffee. Actually something stronger would be better, but caffeine will have to suffice at the moment, because I need a clear head now more than ever.

Luckily, I'm considerably more composed and collected by the time I enter Ron's Bank shortly after one o'clock. His Mercedes left the parking garage a few minutes ago.

"Good afternoon, Miss. Hartwig," the doorman greets me with a friendly nod as I hurry past. That’s the first hurdle passed. The trouble is that the second comes in the form of Mrs. Gardner, Ron's secretary, who appears in front of me. Damn. I hadn’t expected her. What's she doing here on a Saturday? Particularly after Ron has already left?

"I’d like to see Ron," I tell her.

"Mr. Krämer left a few minutes ago. You’ll have to try again on Monday."

I will definitely not be doing that. Instead I say loudly: "It doesn't matter. I just have to get something out of his office," and sweep past her. Faster than I would think her capable of she scurries around her table
a
nd stands in my way.

"That’s not possible. Mr. Krämer has given me explicit instructions, you are no longer welcome."

"Has he now?" With raised eyebrows, I look at her condescendingly. Even though inwardly I feel like a little girl who would rather hide behind her mother's coat-tails I manage to hold her gaze.

“Yes. Please leave now, otherwise I’ll have to call the guards." She gives me a look like a feisty terrier. The woman is willing to do anything to protect Ron from me. He should consider himself lucky. With a sigh, I retreat. I had imagined it going differently, but I'm not ready to give up just yet, so I turn to the left as soon as I leave the building, and sneak down the narrow passageway that leads to the backyard. Maybe Ron has left his window open. Since his room is on the ground floor, I could get into his office that way. This idea makes me a little nervous, but on the other hand, it might be the only way to get my life back.

There it is, Ron's office window, and it is open! "Thank you, God," I mumble, glad that Ron hates air-conditioning. Now I just have to climb through it. But that's not as easy as I had imagined. Despite the room being situated on the ground floor, the window sill is quite high. With a groan I pull myself up and manage to get a knee on the windowsill, I’m just pushing the window pane gently back so I can get in, as... Shit!

Hastily, I make my retreat, scraping my knee as I land on the concrete with a thud. I don’t wait to find out if Mrs. Gardner saw me or not, but instead sprint back to my car. It’s time to cut my losses and run.

Lost in thought, I meander through the maze of the Frankfurt’s Westend, responding automatically to the traffic, while I consider my next course of action. That was a bust. I hope she didn't see me! Just the thought of how I must have looked hanging on to the window ledge about to climb through makes me blush a vivid hot red. I would rather the ground swallowed me up than she saw that, and not just because the whole thing is embarrassing, but rather because Ron can’t know about any of this. It’s important to keep him guessing. As soon as he gets wind that I’m sniffing around his guard will go up.

With a disaffected grimace I brake before a red light, waiting for green with about fifty other motorists. Since that plan has failed, I need to think of something else. I wasn’t sure if I would find anything in Ron's office, but it would have been better if I could at least find out whether my hunch had any merit.

Given that I couldn’t find a satisfactory answer, I need to continue working through my list of ideas. It’s important to find out who his new girlfriend is. Since we’re selling our home and I'm no longer there, I expect Ron is also no longer spending his leisure time within our four walls. Ron is not a loner, and especially not a man who washes his own clothes or prepares his own food. No. If I know him, he is living with his girlfriend, or in a hotel, and I want to know which. What is he doing outside of his work hours?

With a bit of luck I can catch him, as he meets with some shady character, I think to myself cynically, and perhaps catch an incriminating conversation. With a shrug, I shake off these thoughts. Talking to myself does not help me. It’s better if I concentrate on the facts I can find out, and therefore I need to make a date for tonight with Ron.

W
hen is he going to show up? Not for the first time in my life I’m waiting for Ron, and just as usual it makes me angry. What is the idiot doing? If it wasn’t for the fact I want to find out where he is currently staying, I’d leave, but instead I sit and wait in the car for him to turn up for our meeting.

I’m parked in a small hidden parking space in the restaurant parking lot. From here I’ll be able to watch Ron, who will leave his car there too, because it is the only place from which you can easily reach the small wine bar on foot.

Then, after he's waited in vain on me in the restaurant and starts to make his way home, I’ll follow him. Except that as it stands at the moment, I am the one who has waited here in vain.

I start to get nervous. I want to put all of this far behind me and start my life again. But apparently it’s not going to be that easy. The parking lot is nearly empty, the shops have closed, only the bars and restaurants attract visitors still. Where is Ron?

The minutes drag by. God, this is boring! I’ll give him five more minutes, then I'm calling the whole thing off and going back to the hotel. Four more minutes... Three... Two... A car drives into the parking lot, a black BMW. It glides almost silently over the asphalt, and passes closer to me than I would like. I slide down in my seat hoping they don't see me. My hope that Ron has nothing to do with these dark figures, and would therefore come alone, bursts like a soap bubble.

The next minute I hear Ron's Mercedes. The soft purring is unmistakable. The black car drives up next to the BMW and stops. Ron gets out of the Mercedes, and the driver's door of the other car opens as well. A dark-haired man comes to the fore. Ron speaks to him then, when he’s finished, makes his way over to our meeting place.

Bile rises up in my throat. A black BMW, exactly the same as in Ibiza. I hear the screech of the tires in the parking garage again in my mind, the voice of the old man. "These young people nowadays. They barely have their driving licenses, and already they think they’re Sebastian Vettel." Except the driver obviously didn’t think of himself as Sebastian Vettel, but was apparently there on Ron's behest.

I take a deep breath, then take a big gulp of water from the bottle I have with me. I try to pull myself together, because I need to think. I can’t follow Ron now, not now that his accomplices are waiting for me. How do I get out of here, without them seeing me and following me in order to carry out their threat? What if they start to search the cars for me?