Deception: Karre & Viktoria Crime Novels, #2

By Tim Svart

The deadly hunt continues ...

 

★★★★★ Book 2 of the bestselling crime series by Tim Svart ★★★★★

 

After the dramatic events of 'Sacrifice', Karre and the K3 team have no time for respite before the double murder of a young couple presents the detectives with another puzzle. No one seems to have a motive for the cold-blooded crime. But what at first appears to be an indiscriminate killing gradually reveals itself to be a murderous conspiracy of unimaginable proportions.

 

The more Karre and his colleagues drive the investigation forward, the more they put themselves and others in mortal danger. The investigative team gets caught in a spiral of death and corruption, from which there is no escape.

 

★★★★★ Books in the Karre & Viktoria Crime Series ★★★★★

 

SACRIFICE – Karre & Viktoria book 1
DECEPTION – Karre & Viktoria book 2
BETRAYAL – Karre & Viktoria book 3
REVENGE – Karre & Viktoria book 4

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pageturner Ink
• Release date: Jan 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393040651

Tim Svart

Tim is an award nominated, bestselling indie author. So far his books have been published in English, German and French. Tim was born in September 1976. Still attending school, he started to write ghost and vampires stories. He acted as co-writer and director of a vampire musical (as he could neither sing nor master a musical instrument sufficiently, but was eager to participate in the production). Tim's first full-length novel, the Horror Thriller “Das Schloss” (The Castle), hold #1 of Amazon's Horror Bestseller List for more than two months and made it into the German overall KINDLE Top10. A radio play based on this book was published as an episode of the "Dark Mysteries" series. His Lovecraft homage “Musik der Finsternis” (Music of Darkness) was nominated for the VINCENT PRIZE in the category “Best German-language Horror/Mystery Short Story of the Year”. "Damenopfer", the first book of the crime series featuring Karre and Viktoria, hit #3 on the German overall KINDLE Bestseller List. As of today there are four books in the Karre & Viktoria crime series. Tim lives in Essen, (Germany). He is married with two children and is a passionate diver, reader & author.

Book preview

Prologue

Shortly before she died, she was lying on her back, staring into the darkness. She could hear his even breathing on the other side of the bed. How was he able to slumber like a baby, when she couldn’t sleep at all despite the exhausting day?

The stifling air in the bedroom told her that the promised respite of the thunderstorm, now several days overdue, was still to come. Before she went to bed, she’d placed a fan on top of the packing box that served as a temporary nightstand. The small plastic blades had transformed the stagnant air into a pleasantly cool current. Now the damned thing wasn’t moving. Had it already given up the ghost on their first night?

She felt thirsty. Maybe that was what was keeping her awake. The pizza with extra garlic she’d ordered for them and their moving assistants, and the bottle of Lambrusco that the two of them had drunk together before going to bed, had left a furry layer on the roof of her mouth and tongue.

Without taking her eyes off the ceiling, she felt for the lamp switch. In doing so she knocked over a glass of water that had stood on the box beside the fan, and which now soaked into the brown cardboard and the pages of the paperback that belonged to a friend and had seen better days. She could make all this out in the faint moonlight that fell through the curtainless windows.

Furious about the mishap, she sat up and felt with both hands for the book. The sopping pages were already stuck together and dripped water onto her thigh. She put the soggy mass to one side and searched again for the switch on the lamp. Her fingers slid along the cable until she felt the toggle. It clicked when she flicked it, but nothing else happened.

She swore to herself. Not this now. There couldn’t have been enough water in the glass to ruin both the book and the lamp. She stood up, threw on her bathrobe and crossed the room with cautious steps. Packing boxes and crates lay everywhere. She felt her way through the bedroom and out into the hallway. The light switch was beside the door. It clicked too. Again, nothing happened. Still dark.

She sighed.

They would have to talk to their landlord about upgrading the electrical wiring. Neither she nor the owner of the apartment welcomed the inconvenience of extensive refurbishment, but it looked like the grace period for the interior of this old house had expired.

Even during the move, the fuses had blown a couple of times for no obvious reason, incapacitating drills and other electrical devices. She hated to think what might happen if the freezer went off for several days while they were on holiday.

She already knew where the fuse box was, so she felt her way in the dark to the back wall of the pantry next to the kitchen. An oppressive feeling weighed on her, at first just lurking in the depths of her subconscious, but rising closer to the surface with every step she took. In the darkness and silence that reigned, the space that had seemed so homely during the day now felt cold and threatening. She gasped in fright when the wooden floor boards groaned loudly under her naked feet.

She considered looking through the window to see if there were lights on in the neighbouring apartments. But at this time of night that was unlikely anyway. She should get herself something to drink and go back to bed as quickly as possible. She had an important lecture at uni the next morning.

It was quiet in the living room. She could hear the regular ticking of the wall clock, an heirloom from her grandparents, which sat on a stack of packing boxes waiting to be hung. It was startlingly loud in the quiet night and she wondered why she’d never been bothered by the noise before.

Her gaze swept through the room. The silhouettes of two scuffed, old leather armchairs, the much newer couch settee and the pale wooden table were dimly defined in the moonlight.

On the opposite wall stood an empty glass cabinet and in front of it the round dining table with its four mismatched chairs. Gelsenkirchen baroque, as she jokingly called it.

Everything looked exactly the way they’d left it a few hours ago when their bodies had demanded a break.

She passed the terrace door on the way to the kitchen and felt a sharp pain as she placed the ball of her foot on the floor. She flinched, swore quietly and tried to take another step, but the pain intensified. She put one hand on the arm of the sofa and felt the sole of her foot with the other. Her fingers touched a warm, sticky liquid and, in the moonlight streaming through the terrace door, she immediately recognised that it was blood.

Even in the low light she could see the deep cut. A narrow, dark red line, slowly widening, from which the first drops of blood fell to the floor. She ran her finger over the cut, then put her fingertip to her tongue. Then she crouched down and felt the floor with her fingers, and realised at once what was wrong – shards of glass covered the floor.

She broke out in a sweat. Not because of the ambient temperature, but because she knew what the broken glass must mean. A frightened glance at the terrace door confirmed her fears.

Beside the door handle there was a hole in the pane the size of a saucer. Someone had reached through and turned the handle; the door was open. All at once she felt the light breeze blowing through the open door. A feeling of nausea accompanied the frightening realisation that someone had broken in.

She sat motionless for a moment, holding her breath. She listened out into the apartment, but there wasn’t a sound apart from the ticking clock. If someone had gained access, they’d probably established pretty quickly that there was nothing valuable here, and had long since gone to try their luck elsewhere.

She’d report it to the police anyway. She ignored the increasing, throbbing pain in her foot and was about to continue to the kitchen when she saw a shadow rise slowly and silently out of one of the two armchairs. She wanted to scream but her throat constricted. Her knees trembled and she had to summon all her strength not to relinquish consciousness.

The shadow drifted towards her. She squinted, trying to make out the silhouette more clearly. If this was a joke, it was a bad one, she thought, and then was amazed at the absurdity of her own response to the situation.

It wasn’t a joke. She didn’t even hear the quiet pop emitted by the gun when it fired. Her legs gave up the fight against gravity and the rest of her body followed. She was dead before her head hit the floor.

1

He was standing on the edge of the precipice, staring into the deep. Above him the cloudless sky stretched out like the roof of a radiant blue tent. The sun warmed his skin, but he froze inside. A narrow strip of artificial grass running under his feet bordered the gaping hole in front of him. He felt like he was gazing into the greedy gullet of hell. But there was no fire and brimstone at the bottom of the pit. Instead he saw a white, flower-covered coffin.

Violet gerberas.

Her favourite flowers.

Karre had known this day would come. And yet he’d refused to give up hope right to the end. Even when they’d removed part of her skull in an emergency operation to relieve the pressure on her brain, he’d continued to hope that fate would be on her side despite her prognosis. This last straw of hope had kept him afloat; allowed him to keep swimming instead of succumbing to the temptation to drift into the endless blackness, to cross with her to the other side, from where there was no going back.

His thoughts drifted back to the phone call informing him about the necessity of the operation. He’d been standing with his colleague Viktoria von Fürstenfeld on an empty beach, looking out over the black carpet of sea that spread out before them in the night. A powerful storm was brewing, while flames several metres high continued to blaze on the other side of the dunes.

The K3 team had cleared up a series of murders and prevented another at literally the last second. All of them – Viktoria, Karim and especially himself – felt exhausted. And just at that moment his blasted phone had rung. And the news could hardly have been worse.

He’d let the doctor’s well-meaning explanation wash over him, closed his eyes and listened to the voice on the other end of the phone mingle with the roaring of the sea and the deafening howl of the rising storm, only scraps of words making their way into his consciousness. Like the sharp, metal shards of a grenade exploding next to him, they bored through his ear canal and into his brain.

A shudder of unbridled rage went through him when he thought about how, at that crucial hour, when life and death had hung in the balance, he hadn’t been at the one place he should have been.

Instead he’d been stuck on that damned island.

He woke with a start from restless sleep. The red digits beside his bed announced the relentlessly approaching morning. The sultry heat of the last few days hung under the rafters in his apartment. The brief but intense storm in the early hours of the morning had done little to relieve the oppressive atmosphere, which weighed on him like the toll of a deathly bell. His upper body, face and legs were bathed in sweat.

He lay still for several minutes, staring at the ceiling.

The dream.

It kept creeping into his skull like the harbinger of an inevitable future.

His skin was radiating feverish heat and he threw aside the covers and slowly sat up. He waited for the fierce throbbing in his temples to ease, then reached for the cardboard carton on his nightstand, pressed the last two 400mg ibuprofen tablets out of their blister pack and shoved them in his mouth. They stuck in his throat. Unable to encourage them on their journey by swallowing repeatedly, he got up. He felt his way through the dark apartment.

In the kitchen, he seized one of the water bottles from the bench, opened it and took a long draught. The lukewarm liquid tasted horrible, with only a hint of carbon dioxide left in it, but it did the trick and dislodged the foreign bodies in his oesophagus.

He went to the window and looked out at the school on the other side of the street. Black windows stared back at him. The building stood lifeless and abandoned in the darkness. The corridors that were usually bursting with life and the schoolyard in front of the building were desolate. A cat flitted like a ghost past one of the stone pillars flanking the main entrance. Nothing but a shadow that melted back into the darkness moments later.

During the gradually dawning day, some youths would probably show up on the basketball court to shoot a few hoops. Maybe they’d loaf around on one of the tennis courts and pass around drinks or cigarettes. They would enjoy a carefree Sunday. For them it was just another day near the beginning of their lives. And he’d watch them as days passed. The weeks, the months, the years. He’d see them grow older, celebrate their graduation, he’d watch the next generation of students follow, year after year. He’d hear their voices through the open window, their exuberant laughter.

These thoughts left him cold. He couldn’t bear it. Hanna would probably never experience any of this.

And then his ringing phone dragged him back to reality.

Her dread increased the closer she got to the crime scene. She rolled the Mini along the street past several patrol cars, two ambulances and the forensics minivan. Even the aging, garish green Porsche belonging to medical examiner Paul Gassner was among the vehicles restricting the already narrow lane.

Parking the car in front of a driveway that lead to a residents’ car park, she saw the two hearses.

Becker says it’s a grisly scene. She recalled her boss’ words and started instinctively looking for his Volvo, but couldn’t see it.

She was aware of an audible grumbling in her stomach region as she unbuckled her seatbelt. She’d received the call from her boss just after she’d set out for her morning jog. She’d had to forgo that as well as the breakfast she was planning to have afterwards. She rummaged in the glove box in search of something edible, to no avail.

A loud knock on the window startled her. She sat up quickly and saw a face bending towards her that belonged to a clearly bad-tempered person. A pair of aggressively glinting eyes framed by bushy eyebrows ogled the interior of her car.

Holger Becker.

Viktoria von Fürstenfeld opened her door, climbed out of the car, and the man immediately launched into a tirade.

Oh, so now the boss is sending his entourage instead of honouring us with his presence? Not his favourite time of day, is it? You may as well come and have a look. You don’t have a sensitive stomach, I hope? Have you had breakfast?

No. No. She slammed the car door.

He looked her up and down. Viktoria didn’t fail to notice where his eyes lingered before he finally asked, What?

Despite his imposing stature and the significant height difference made even more noticeable by her flat shoes, she met his intimidating gaze and looked him directly in the eye.

What do you mean, ‘what’?

What does ‘No. No.’ mean?

I was answering your last two questions. Already forgotten? No, I don’t have a sensitive stomach. No, I haven’t had breakfast. Unlike you.

She offered him a tissue, but he refused it and narrowed his eyes. His angry expression failed to intimidate the young Inspector.

What was it? she asked, smiling smugly. Nutella? Or hot chocolate? Maybe you should wipe your mouth next time you’re called out to a crime scene.

She turned away and walked with long strides towards the cordoned-off area. Halfway there, she turned around again. Have a nice day, sergeant. We’ll inform you if there’s anything here you should know about.

She stepped over the red-and-white police tape at the entrance to the building and Becker sent a tirade of curses after her.

2

He stared out the window, lost in thought. Every time the driver made an attempt at conversation, he nipped it in the bud with a monosyllable or simply didn’t reply. His gaze regularly wandered to the meter, then back to the buildings they were driving past.

Why did his car have to let him down today of all days? It had faithfully served him for almost sixteen years, pretty much since Hanna was born. But now the indestructible Swedish tank was faltering.

The traffic lights turned green and the driver accelerated so suddenly Karre was pressed back in his seat. He owed the man a decent tip for covering the distance in record time without a police siren. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the driver enjoying his morning joyride.

Transporting a Chief Inspector made a pleasant change from carting a pair of drunken louts home from a club. And there was always the danger with the latter that they’d vomit all over the back seat. Karre had been vaguely following his driver’s comments up to this point. But when he launched into a report of the most recent bachelor party tour, Karre’s thoughts drifted. It wasn’t until he turned into the street of their destination that the silent passenger came back to life.

You can let me out here.

Dear God. The taxi driver stared wide-eyed at the fleet of official vehicles. Has somethin’ happened?

I dare say. But I can’t tell you the details. Sorry.

No problem. Confidential. I know how it is. Don’t worry about it, I don’t take it personally.

That’s good of you. Thank you very much, replied Karre, slightly amused. When the car pulled up next to a black Mini, which he identified as belonging to his colleague, he generously rounded up the amount on the meter.

Keep the change. He handed the money to the driver and got out.

Wow. The head of the department gets himself taxied to the scene now. What’ll it be next? A limousine with a chauffeur? Karre recognised the voice at his back without turning around.

Which of you isn’t roadworthy? You or your car? Becker persisted before Karre had time to reply.

Watch what you say, Karre replied sharply, and walked away from Becker without a backward glance. But Becker wasn’t going to accept the rebuff and hurried after Karre, grabbing him by the shoulder.

Karre spun around, freeing himself from the uniformed officer’s grasp. Don’t touch me. And if you keep up these idiotic remarks, I’ll personally see to it that you spend the rest of your career sorting files.

Becker spat on the asphalt next to Karre. Are you still not satisfied? Isn’t it enough that you usurped my job with the Criminal Police?

Your job? Don’t make me laugh. As far as I recall, high-level service posts are assigned based on merit. You had the same chances as me. Save your breath. Go and do your job and let my colleagues and I do ours. Are we clear?

How’s your daughter? Such a terrible tragedy... There was no sympathy in his tone. The remark was obviously intended to provoke.

Karre paused, about to cross the red-and-white police tape. He let go of the plastic tape and went back to Becker. The two men, roughly the same height, stood facing one another like fighting cocks. They both waited for the other to make the first move.

You’re such a malignant, sleazy arsehole. But you always were. And if I hear Hanna’s name come out of your mouth one more time, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life, I swear. By everything that’s sacred to me.

There’s something that’s sacred to you? That’s news to me. Your best friend’s girl wasn’t even sacred to you.

You know what? You’re beyond help. Have you still not grasped after all these years that Sandra was never interested in you? Even if I’d never met her, you’d have been the last man on earth she would have thrown herself at.

It’s a shame. I mean, maybe then she’d still be alive.

Shut up and get lost, before I forget myself. Karre turned around and tried to put Becker out of his mind. He was annoyed that he’d allowed himself to be so provoked. But his former training partner knew exactly how to push his buttons. And using Hanna to get at him was the lowest of the low. On the other hand, he’d known Holger Becker long enough to realise he always resorted to foul means when he felt cornered.

Karre entered the building and climbed a couple of steps up to the ground-floor apartment, where he found Viktoria talking to a bald man – Paul Gassner, the chief medical examiner.

Viktoria glanced at her watch. Hell, where’ve you been? I thought you’d have arrived long before me.

Karre forced a smile.

I thought so too. But I didn’t know my car was going to leave me in the lurch.

He looked his younger colleague up and down. She’d clearly had other plans for her Sunday morning. She was wearing black leggings, a blackberry-coloured top and black jogging shoes with a coloured applique that matched the top. He knew she ran regularly, but it was the first time she’d arrived at a crime scene in such sporty clothes.

She raised her eyebrows at him. Her blonde hair, combed into a ponytail, glistened in the morning sun that streamed through the landing window. The hairdo exposed her even features and made her look a few years younger. He noticed she was wearing hardly any makeup compared to a normal workday. Very subtle, but still effective. Probably applied in the car using the rear-view mirror, Karre guessed.

He glanced at the medical examiner. Morning, Paul. What’s happened? And to Viktoria he said, Have you already been in?

Viktoria shook her head.

It looks bad. A real execution, said Gassner. Come on, I’ll show you.

Karre and Viktoria slipped into white overalls provided by Gassner and followed him into the apartment.

Gassner stomped through the narrow, windowless hallway with relatively long strides for his short legs. Karre noticed the packing boxes stacked along the walls on both sides. The tenants had obviously moved in recently, or were about to move out. The only door on the left was closed. Gassner answered Karre’s enquiring look with two words: Just boxes.

The doors on the right were open. The first led into a simple but modern bathroom. Karre and Viktoria walked past it in silence. Behind the second door was the bedroom – the crime scene, judging by the pervasive blood spatter amongst which forensics had distributed their yellow plastic markers.

Wait, Gassner blocked the detectives from entering the room. We’ll start in the living room.

In the living room? asked Viktoria with raised eyebrows. But as soon as she entered the room at the end of the hall, she saw why. Oh, shit, she muttered, casting a quick glance at Karre before turning back to the body lying on the floor.

A young woman, probably in her early twenties, lay on her back on the polished wooden floor. Her shoulder-length, black hair was fanned out around her head. The knee-length, satin bathrobe wasn’t tied and the thin fabric had slid off her thighs. She wasn’t wearing anything under it.

Karre studied her pallid but remarkably flawless skin. Although the woman was dead and he was just doing his job, he felt sordid looking at her like that. Even in death, her symmetrical face with its soft lines had lost none of its attractiveness. Only the eyes, wide with fright, ruined the impression of a sleeping Snow White.

And the gaping hole in her forehead.

Karre exhaled audibly. Calibre?

I’d say .30.

And no one in the building heard it?

That’s your job, but so far no one’s come forward.

She’s lying with her head towards the door, Viktoria noted.

Gassner nodded.

Does that mean the shooter was already in the living room when she entered the room?

I think we can assume so.

Any sign of a break-in?

Yes. According to Vierstein, someone made a hole in the terrace door pane and let themselves in that way. But there don’t appear to be any fingerprints.

Where is Viktor, anyway? Karre realised he hadn’t seen the forensics technician. Are his people already finished?

Yes. Do you think they’d have let me in otherwise? Vierstein left first. He said something about an important appointment and ditched his team here.

Viktoria looked at Karre. I think he said something a few days ago about a wedding. His niece or something.

Then I expect we’ll have his full report on the desk when we get back to the station. Paul, what can you tell us in the meantime? Other than the obvious?

The medical examiner rubbed his chin. He was well known for being reluctant to jump to conclusions before he’d completed his autopsy. But he was also well known for his assumptions – when he dared to express them – usually being right on the mark.

Well, he began finally. What I can say with certainty at this point is as follows. The cause of death is a shot to the head, not point blank, but from a distance. We’re dealing with a confident shooter. The wound shows none of the typical characteristics of a shot at close range. There’s no gunshot residue and no sprinkling of powder in or around the wound. There’s no exit wound at the back of the head, and the funnel-shaped wound on the forehead is clearly from a bullet. I’ll be able to tell you more about the bullet hole when I have the X-rays of the skull. But it looks like it travelled slightly diagonally downwards. That suggests the shooter was taller than his victim.

Did she die instantly? asked Viktoria.

I assume the projectile immediately destroyed vital brain function as soon as it entered the skull. So she would have been dead before her legs even registered they could no longer hold up her body.

How long?

Her back shows a butterfly-shaped gap in lividity around the shoulders and buttocks. The lividity itself has already spread over a large area – a process that sets in about two hours after death. The patterns are consistent with where she was found – that is, given that she was lying on a flat surface, the marks are quite typical. Combined with the other evidence, I’d say she was killed where she was found. Based on the lividity, she must have died a little less than twelve hours ago. To be safe, let’s say 10pm last night.

Does that fit with the rigidity?

Gassner nodded. Rigor mortis. Almost completely present. That also indicates a maximum of twelve hours. Probably less. And before you ask, her body temperature also confirms this. I measured 28.6 degrees rectally. Taking into account the ambient temperature of twenty-one degrees, that also supports our eleven-hour window.

What about the bedroom? said Viktoria, breaking the silence after the medical examiner had finished his summary.

Gassner sighed. Come with me.

3

The young man was also naked, lying partly on his side, partly on his front on the lilac sheet. The covers were hanging over the foot of the metal bed frame, but Karre guessed Gassner or someone from forensics had moved them there. Vierstein’s crime scene photos and videos should be able to confirm that.

Compared to the living room, the scene here was a bloodbath. The pillow and the sheet under it were equally blood-soaked. At the back of the man’s skull yawned a blood-encrusted crater.

This one was a shot at close range. Gassner moved a clump of bloody hair aside with tweezers. "Due to the resistance of the bone, the edges of the wound were