The Child by Sebastian Fitzek Read Free Book Online Page A

sleeve up his arm to the elbow. ‘That cannula will have to be replaced in due course,’ he muttered, looking at the back of the patient’s age-freckled hand, and told him to hold a ball of cotton wool over the puncture mark. Then he examined his bony arm for bruises or blood blisters. Although his hands would have graced a prizefighter, his movements were gentle – almost caressing.
    ‘Why in such a hurry? Cops after you, or something?’
    Stern was relieved that the nurse hadn’t discovered any cause for concern.
    ‘I’m really sorry, Herr …’ He couldn’t decipher the scratched plastic ID card on the nurse’s gown.
    ‘Franz Marc. Like the painter, but everyone calls me Picasso because I prefer his pictures.’
    ‘I see. I do apologize, I was a million miles away.’
    ‘We’d never have known, would we, Herr Losensky?’
    Immediately below Picasso’s earlobes, two luxuriant sideburns ran down his cheeks like strips of Velcro and culminated in a chestnut-brown beard. When he smiled, baring two rows of massive teeth, he looked like a carved wooden nutcracker.
    ‘I’ll naturally pay for any damage I’ve caused.’
    Stern produced his wallet from the breast pocket of his suit.
    ‘No, no,’ Picasso protested, ‘we don’t do that here.’
    ‘You misunderstand me. I was going to give you my card.’
    ‘You can put it back. Can’t he?’ The old man in the wheelchair nodded, cocking one of his bushy eyebrows with a look of amusement. Unlike the hair on his head, which was sparse, they presided over his sunken eyes like two big tufts of steel wool.
    ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
    ‘You just gave us both a nasty shock, and Herr Losensky can’t take too much excitement after his second heart attack. Can you, Frederik?’
    The old man shook his head.
    ‘So a few euro notes won’t be enough to get you off the hook just like that.’
    ‘What will, then?’ Stern wondered if he was up against two lunatics. He grinned nervously.
    ‘We want you to bow down in shame.’
    Stern was about to tap his forehead and walk off when he saw the joke. Smiling, he bent down and retrieved the black baseball cap he must have knocked off the old man’s head, then gave it back to him.
    ‘Perfect. Now we’re quits,’ Picasso said with a laugh. His elderly protégé chuckled like a schoolboy.
    ‘Are you a fan?’ Stern asked as the old man carefully adjusted the cap with both hands. It bore the legend ABBA in gold letters.
    ‘Of course. Their music is divine.’ Losensky lifted the peak of his cap once more and tucked a strand of snow-white hair beneath it. ‘What’s your favourite ABBA number?’
    Stern was rather at a loss. ‘I don’t really know,’ he replied. He wanted to visit Simon Sachs and talk about yesterday’s events with him. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk about a 1970s Swedish pop group.
    ‘That makes two of us,’ Losensky said with a grin. ‘They’re all good.’
    The wheelchair’s brand-new tyres whirred across the shiny floor as Picasso set it in motion again.
    ‘Who did you want to see?’ he called over his shoulder.
    ‘I’m looking for Room 217.’
    ‘Simon?’
    Stern caught them up again. ‘Yes, do you know him?’
    ‘Simon Sachs, our orphan?’ said Picasso. He took another few steps, then paused outside a gunmetal-grey door marked ‘Physiotherapy’. ‘Of course I know him.’
    ‘Who doesn’t?’ the old man muttered as he was wheeled into a big, light room equipped with wall bars, foam mattresses and sundry keep-fit machines. He sounded almost hurt that the conversation had ceased to revolve around himself.
    ‘Simon is our little ray of sunshine,’ Picasso said enthusiastically. He brought the wheelchair to a halt beside a massage table. ‘It’s a shame about him. First he has to be taken into care because his mother nearly starves him to death, and now they’ve found a tumour in his skull. A benign one, so the doctors say, because it isn’t forming any