Splinter

4

The shiny black Maybach parked at the mouth of the narrow cul-de-sac stood out like a sore thumb in this part of Berlin, and not only because of its exceptional size. Monsters of that order were generally to be seen cruising from one government ministry to another, not through the German capital’s most crime-ridden district.

Marc had simply walked off when the woman accosted him about his brother and was trying to get away as fast as possible. For one thing, because he had enough on his plate without hearing news of Benny; for another, because he wanted to put some distance between himself and this cheerless place. Besides, it was growing steadily colder.

He turned up the collar of his leather jacket and rubbed his ears, the most weather-sensitive parts of his body. Their invariable reaction to sub-zero temperatures was a stabbing pain that swiftly spread to his temples if he didn’t get into the warm in double-quick time.

He was just wondering whether to cross the street and head for the Underground when he heard the squeal of broad-gauge tyres behind him. The driver flashed his lights a couple of times, their halogen glare bouncing off the wet cobbles, but Marc kept to his side of the street and speeded up. If his work in the Berlin streets had taught him anything, it was to avoid responding to strangers for as long as possible.

The car caught him up and slowed to a walking pace, gliding almost silently along beside him.

The driver seemed unconcerned that he was on the wrong side of the street. The Maybach was so wide, an oncoming car couldn’t have passed it in any case.

Marc heard the characteristic hum of an electric window. Then a breathy female voice softly called his name.

‘Herr Lucas?’

The voice sounded friendly and rather feeble, so he risked a sidelong glance and was surprised to see that the speaker was an elderly man. He looked well over sixty, maybe even over seventy. Most voices tend to deepen with age. In his case the opposite had happened.

Marc was walking on even faster when he recognized the man in the pinstripe suit, the one who had waved to him a few minutes ago from the edge of the pool.

Fuck it, am I going to be pestered by nutters today?

‘Marc Lucas, thirty-two, of 67A Steinmetzstrasse, Schöneberg?’

The old man was sitting on a fawn leather bench seat with his back to the direction of travel. The limousine’s interior was clearly spacious enough for half a dozen people to sit facing one another.

‘Who wants to know?’ Marc asked, without turning his head. He sensed that the stranger with the white hair and thick, bushy eyebrows represented no threat. Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t be the bearer of bad news, and Marc had had more than enough of that in recent weeks.

The old man cleared his throat. Then, almost inaudibly, he said: ‘The Marc Lucas who killed his pregnant wife?’

Marc froze, incapable of taking another step. The damp autumn air had transmuted itself into an impermeable glass wall.

He turned to the car as the rear door swung slowly open. There was a soft, rhythmical electronic beeping, the kind that warns you your seatbelt isn’t secured.

‘What do you want?’ he asked when he’d recovered his voice. It sounded as hoarse as that of the stranger in the car.

‘How long have Sandra and the baby been dead? Six weeks?’

Marc’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’

‘Come on, get in.’

With an amiable smile, the old man patted the seat beside him.

‘I’ll take you to a place where you can turn the clock back.’