Artist Pitch For Murderers: Thriller

By Alfred Bekker

Artist Pitch For Murderers: Thriller

A Harry Kubinke crime novel

by Alfred Bekker

 

The size of this book is equivalent to 140 paperback pages.

 

A Berlin gallery is broken into. The owner seems to have been murdered - but his body cannot be found. Berlin investigator Harry Kubinke and his team begin their investigation. Very quickly it turns out that the gallery owner was involved in highly dubious business dealings. Within a short time, other people from his circle are murdered. When a colleague from Russia comes forward and offers Harry Kubinke his help, the case takes a new turn...

 

A gripping Berlin thriller with Inspector Harry Kubinke.

 

Alfred Bekker is a well-known author of fantasy novels, thrillers and books for young people. In addition to his major book successes, he has written numerous novels for suspense series such as Ren Dhark, Jerry Cotton, Cotton Reloaded, Kommissar X, John Sinclair, and Jessica Bannister. He has also published under the names Neal Chadwick, Henry Rohmer, Conny Walden, and Janet Farell.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alfred Bekker
• Release date: Jul 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223702542

Alfred Bekker

Alfred Bekker wurde am 27.9.1964 in Borghorst (heute Steinfurt) geboren und wuchs in den münsterländischen Gemeinden Ladbergen und Lengerich auf. 1984 machte er Abitur, leistete danach Zivildienst auf der Pflegestation eines Altenheims und studierte an der Universität Osnabrück für das Lehramt an Grund- und Hauptschulen. Insgesamt 13 Jahre war er danach im Schuldienst tätig, bevor er sich ausschließlich der Schriftstellerei widmete. Schon als Student veröffentlichte Bekker zahlreiche Romane und Kurzgeschichten. Er war Mitautor zugkräftiger Romanserien wie Kommissar X, Jerry Cotton, Rhen Dhark, Bad Earth und Sternenfaust und schrieb eine Reihe von Kriminalromanen. Angeregt durch seine Tätigkeit als Lehrer wandte er sich schließlich auch dem Kinder- und Jugendbuch zu, wo er Buchserien wie 'Tatort Mittelalter', 'Da Vincis Fälle', 'Elbenkinder' und 'Die wilden Orks' entwickelte. Seine Fantasy-Romane um 'Das Reich der Elben', die 'DrachenErde-Saga' und die 'Gorian'-Trilogie machten ihn einem großen Publikum bekannt. Darüber hinaus schreibt er weiterhin Krimis und gemeinsam mit seiner Frau unter dem Pseudonym Conny Walden historische Romane. Einige Gruselromane für Teenager verfasste er unter dem Namen John Devlin. Für Krimis verwendete er auch das Pseudonym Neal Chadwick. Seine Romane erschienen u.a. bei Blanvalet, BVK, Goldmann, Lyx, Schneiderbuch, Arena, dtv, Ueberreuter und Bastei Lübbe und wurden in zahlreiche Sprachen übersetzt.

Book preview

1

Federal capital Berlin - in 2007...

And this is supposed to be art! said the man at the curry sausage stand where my colleague Inspector Rudi Meier and I were fortifying ourselves. Do you know what I mean, Mr. Kubinke?

Well..., I said, because honestly I didn't really know what the curry sausage man was getting at. But the curry sausage he was offering tasted good. And that was what mattered.

He pointed to the scarecrow hanging from a lamppost, which had been pretty badly damaged by the recent rain.

They let it rot there and no one hangs the garbage away, because it's an art project. Ick wees nich, should probably illustrate the human decay and the passage of time or something.

I guess so, I said, chewing.

Yes, it could be or is it really like that, commissioner?

Rudi and I had been here a lot lately. That's why he knew our names. I, however, did not know his. A shame. But you can't keep everything.

Haven't given it much thought, I have to be honest now.

So if I put my bulky waste on the street at the wrong time, I get a warning. But if I were an artist, I could just leave any crap anywhere and that would be okay?

I wouldn't look at it that way right now, I said.

Yes, but I see it that way! And it's not right! Nobody can tell me that!

I haven't looked at it from that side yet.

Maybe you should, Commissioner Kubinke. Or are you even a chief inspector?

Actually, yes.

Then I'll ask Chief Inspector Kubinke now, with his great knowledge of paragraphs and such: can't you ban ditte?

I had choked and somehow got a piece of sausage with a lot of curry down the wrong throat. My colleague Rudi slapped me on the back. After a moment it was good again.

Are you okay? asked the curry sausage man.

It's all right, I said.

And my question?

How?

Yes, the answer is missing: can you not prohibit such a Verschandlung of the city, like ditte da?

Well, strictly speaking, it doesn't fall under our jurisdiction at the BKA, I said.

Ah yes, said Curry Sausage Man."

Good sausage, Rudi said, chewing. For real!

There's none better, I added.

That's what you like to hear, the curry sausage man said, then extended his hand toward the scarecrow. But it gives you eye cancer!

2

St. Petersburg, Russia.

Café Rasputin was a popular meeting place for artists, intellectuals and anyone who thought they were, to discuss the decline of Russia or listen to the performance of an experimental poet. Large-scale paintings in garish colors hung on the walls. Vladimir Bykov immediately stood out in his staid three-piece suit. He searchingly let his eyes wander over the guests. A babble of voices filled the room.

And cigarette smoke.

It hung in cold clouds over the tables and made it clear to Bykov how much twenty years in Berlin had shaped him. Smoking was banned almost everywhere in Germany, so Bykov was not used to the smoke biting his eyes and nose.

His gaze lingered on a man in a dark turtleneck, sitting alone at his table.

Bykov went to his table.

The man in the turtleneck took a drag on his filterless cigarette and blew the smoke toward Bykov. Well, finally! I thought you weren't coming! Sit down!

Bykov took a seat. We need to talk, Sergey!

The man in the turtleneck leaned forward and now spoke in a hushed tone. I'm getting out, Vladimir! Things have gotten too hot. And if you're smart and want to stay alive, you'll do the same!

3

What happened? asked Bykov.

Enough to keep my hands off in the future. The business is no longer running and I don't feel like burning my fingers. Two days ago Korzeniovsky was shot, and I don't want to be next.

Bykov narrowed his eyes.

Korzeniovsky? he echoed. I didn't know that...

You don't seem to know so many things, Vladimir!

Then explain it to me, Sergey!

I'll see that I get my money to Switzerland and then I'm off! the man in the turtleneck declared.

He leaned back and let the filterless smoker glow.

Bykov waved his hand to dispel the smoke.

Sergei grinned wryly. Sissy German! he muttered contemptuously.

As for the passport, that's true, Bykov countered.

Well, that will make it a little easier for you to deal with the new situation.

Bykov laughed hoarsely. You can talk, Sergey! After all, I have made commitments! In Berlin there are people who wait for the next delivery as eagerly as a junkie for his dope! They're going to be pretty pissed off.

Sergey shrugged his shoulders. Sorry.

What about Lebedev?

He disappeared from the scene weeks ago. Apparently he smelled a rat a little earlier than the rest of us and made sure he got his sheep in the dry.

Damn! Bykov involuntarily clenched his hands into fists. A dark blush covered his face.

Sergey looked more composed. That's the way it is. Everyone now has to see that they get out of this mess as best they can.

Well, great!

Sergey stubbed out the rest of his cigarette in the ashtray, finished his coffee mixed with vodka and rose.

Bykov had become pale as the wall.

Sergey looked at him and made a face. Hey, have you really become such a German wimp already, Vladimir? I thought you guys were always big on entrepreneurship!

Bykov twisted his face into a thin smile.

So do we.

Well, yours isn't going to fail just because the days of giant jackpots are over for you for a while now!

Very funny!

At least you're still alive - that's more than can be said for some of the others who took part in this! Patronizingly, Sergey patted his interlocutor on the shoulder. No hard feelings, Vladimir! It was a good time, and I think we'll be mourning the warm Euro-rain for a long time to come.

Bykov bared his teeth like a predator. Fuck you! he hissed.

Anyway. Maybe someday, when things have calmed down, we'll do business together again. One should always remain optimistic, after all! He grinned wryly and added, Besides, icons never go out of style!

Sergey looked at his watch.

Then he nodded to Bykov and went in the direction of the exit.

A man in a dark leather jacket, matching boots and a gray knit cap had just entered the room.

Sergey froze when he saw him.

The man in leather reached under his jacket and pulled out a pistol.

He pulled the trigger immediately.

Sergey was hit in the chest area, staggered back two steps and was then hit in the head and neck.

With a dull sound, the victim hit the wooden floor. Blood oozed from the wounds.

Panic broke out all over the café. Screams of horror rang through the room.

Bykov rose from his seat, turned around and reached under his jacket.

The man in leather swiveled the barrel of his automatic in Bykov's direction. The eyes of the two men met briefly. Then, once again, the muzzle flash licked out of the barrel of the automatic like a red dragon's tongue.

Bykov took a shot to the chest that sent him staggering against the wall. A second hit caught him just inches off - right where the heart was.

Bykov slid down the wall, trying to hold on, and in the process tore one of the large-scale paintings from its hooks.

He groaned and struggled for breath.

Meanwhile, the man in leather was already pushing his way through the panic-stricken patrons of Café Rasputin toward the exit.

To the right and left, the people in front of him pushed aside as best they could. After all, no one wanted to be shot with the gun in his right hand.

Moments later, he had disappeared outside into the crowd of passersby.

Meanwhile, Bykov groaned in pain.

He tried to move, but he felt like he was being pierced by several knives.

He was still gasping for breath. It hurt like hell to breathe. Carefully, he felt the places where he had been hit. The projectiles had torn open his clothes. Under the noble cloth of his Berlin tailor, the first layers of gray Kevlar appeared.

After all, he thought, the vest has kept what the manufacturer promises, even if the hits have still been very painful.

But the