One Eye On The Darkness

Chapter Eighteen

If you blinked, you might have missed the Kriminalkommisariat in Alter Steinweg. It was markedly unprepossessing. Had it not been for the grubby plaque stating just what the purpose of the building was, one could have been forgiven that nothing more remarkable than a call centre lay behind the doors of the bland four-storey structure. Visitors to Münster walked past it in broad daylight without as much as a glance. The nearby Prinzipalmarkt, with its attractive cobbled streets, and the imposing edifice of Ludgerikirche
looming over the picture-postcard Old City blinded them to the shabby police station.

But for Frieda the place was anything but unremarkable, anything but bland. As she climbed painfully from Schluter's car, she flinched as her senses attuned themselves to the aura that had attached itself to the place. Like some loudspeaker, it blared like a siren, as if the building reverberated with the murder and violence that it was committed to investigating and amplified it. As though a thousand victims of injustice had left their imprint in the brickwork, and its very foundation was death.

Even the multistorey carpark across the street wailed to her. It had, after all, seen its own fair share of suicides and violent crimes that had left an indelible residue in the fabric of the Parkhaus.

Schluter took her arm with a gentleness she would not have imagined him capable of and guided her as she limped awkwardly across
the street.

"And you're sure there's nothing you're not telling me, Frieda?" he pressed her for the tenth time at least. "Because we can nail the bastard who did this to you. Seriously."

Frieda shook her head and immediately winced as the gesture sent a burning pain down one side of her bruised neck.

"I've told you everything, Kommissar," she croaked, her voice almost gone. "Please believe me."

The imploring tone of her voice may have been more than she had intended. But she needed someone to exercise just a little faith for once. A mustard seed-sized amount would do just now.

The smell of stale coffee was the first thing that struck Frieda as they entered the Kommissariat. She welcomed the sensory diversion, and she held on to it for as long as she could, centering herself, focusing. She had never been more thankful for the aroma of old arabica.

Uniformed officers and Schluter's plain-clothed colleagues shot her curious glances as they passed. Frieda realised what a state she must look. When Schluter had shouldered his way into her apartment, he had found her a bruised, bleeding, shivering mess lying like a ragdoll on the bedroom floor. It had taken him ten minutes to rouse her, and she had finally burst into wakefulness with a scream that had caused even Schluter to flinch. She had raised her lacerated arms against him, blind to her friend, her instincts primed only to defend herself from another onslaught.

It had taken Schluter at least twenty minutes to calm her down, and another hour to bathe and dress her wounds. The detective had wanted to call an ambulance or drive her to accident and emergency, but Frieda had insisted that it was not necessary. In reality, she would have given anything to recover in a safe hospital bed, having her injuries tended to. But part of her feared that physical recovery by this route might be costly. Apart from Schluter she could count on no one believing her version of events. Her medical records would reveal her treatment with Dr Bloemberg, and the men in white coats could well make the unthinkable decision that committed her to the grim, institutionalised future that haunted her nightmares.

Schluter led her down a corridor to a grubby lift that carried them up two floors, to where the incident room dedicated to cracking The Stick Man murders was located. Three of Schluter's colleagues were waiting for them, and their expressions hardened as she entered the room.

"Fucking great," one growled, not caring to mask his disgust. "Nothing like progress."

"Looks like she's forgotten her crystal ball, though," sneered another.

Schluter didn't react, at least not at first. The comments were nothing Frieda hadn't already heard a thousand times before, but they still stung. No matter how
many times she was the brunt of such ridicule, the pain of it never abated. It hurt as much as her physical injuries.

After making sure she was comfortable in her chair, Schluter whirled, confronting his colleagues.

"Full of shit today, aren't we?" he challenged. He glared at one. "Still reading your horoscope, Lothar? Eh? Because last time I noticed, that's the page you head for first when you see a newspaper!"

The detective grumbled at the riposte, but Schluter was already moving on. "And what about you, Hedwig? Still going to church? And, Marius. For a sceptic, you have some very questionable tattoos."

The atmosphere in the room could have been cut with a knife, but Schluter seemed oblivious. He glared for a few moments, as though daring some kind of reaction. When none came, he cleared his throat and drew attention to a huge whiteboard on one wall. It was covered in untidy notes made in black marker pen, with occasional red arrows directing attention to various photographs situated amid the scrawl.

"Despite your cynicism, Frau Lockner
has already been of significant help to this enquiry," claimed Schluter as he took off his trenchcoat and threw it over the back of her chair.

Frieda shifted uncomfortably in her seat. Schluter was flattering her, being kind to defend his decision to include her on the case. She appreciated his need to save face in the eyes of his colleagues, but she felt sceptical eyes boring into her again.

"We found the Brink girl," sighed Schluter. "Or what was left of her at least."

Frieda's stomach heaved. She did not know if it was caused by the detective's grim revelation, the effects of her injuries, or a little of both. Her eyes locked with Schluter's.

"Hansaring, early this morning," he answered in response to the question in her gaze. "Most of her had been put out with the rubbish. The rest of the body was strung up in the cellar."

Schluter turned to the board and gestured to several photographs set in a circle around the name 'Brink.'

"Don't peer too closely," he advised. "It wasn't pleasant. The worst yet, in fact. No place for you, Frau Lockner. At least not yet. God knows how long it will take to clean the mess up."

Frieda felt her stomach lurch again.

"I want to help," she rasped regardless, trying to ignore her nausea and the burning pain in her muscles and joints.

"Well i guess they could use an extra mop and bucket," spat Lothar, causing Schluter to clench his teeth and spin on his heels.

"Get the fuck out!" he roared. "Now! All of you! Fucking pieces of shit!"

Lothar glared back, his face white, livid. With his close-cropped blond hair, he resembled an albino, so white had his pallor become. Frieda held her breath, waiting for an explosion of temper and testosterone that never happened. Lothar simply swung out of his seat and stormed out, Hedwig and Marius trailing after him.

"Fucking animals," Schluter growled as the door slammed. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Frieda."

She shrugged. She was so, so tired. Always so tired.

"No matter," she lied. Her head swam and she had to force down bile that had fountained into her throat. "Why did you bring me here, Kommissar?"

She needed desperately to focus. Whatever Schluter wanted from her, despite her ailing body, she would seize it for the sake of her state of mind.

Schluter dragged up a chair and sat on it the wrong way, arms draped over the back, fingers laced.

"We've found a crucial witness to the Brink murder," he said slowly. The care with which he seemed to be speaking, selecting his words momentarily reminded Frieda of Dr Bloemberg. "Someone you know very well. Very well indeed."

Frieda froze, frowning. Knew? Her already troubled mind swirled with confusion as she opened her mouth to speak. For a few seconds she gaped silently until she managed to force the question out.

"Who?" she whispered, her voice bereft of strength.

Schluter chewed at the corner of his lip thoughtfully before finally saying, "You, Frieda. You."