Her heart throbbed in her throat as she entered a small hallway and used her pass to open a door. She found herself in a narrow side corridor. Nervously, she took in her surroundings. She had never actually checked whether there were any security cameras in the hospital, but there had to be some. At the main entrance and in the central hall at the very least. She scanned the walls and the ceilings but didn’t spot anything.

She had to get rid of the packages before she started work; otherwise, she would have to leave them in her locker all day along with her clothes, phone, keys, and wedding ring. She quickly pushed a door open and slipped inside.

The room was dimly lit and not much bigger than a typical bedroom. The walls were lined with wheeled trolleys, each about the height of a man. One was filled with plastic bags of general waste, while the second held laundry bags with white bedding inside them. The third had a stack of around a dozen blue plastic containers on it, with their bright-yellow plastic lids lying next to them. The fourth and fifth were empty. By the end of the day, they too would be full to the brim with all kinds of waste and refuse, ready for collection by Transport.

Stiffly, Helen separated the topmost container from the rest of the pile and placed it on one of the empty trolleys. She unzipped the bag and stared inside. A layer of condensation had already formed on the packages; their contents were starting to thaw. Fighting her repulsion, she removed them from her Italian bag one by one and placed them in the container. Then wiped her damp hands on her jeans and lifted the tub to check the weight. It felt heavy. Heavier than something like this ought to weigh?

Heavier than the people from Transport are used to handling?

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, the squeak of shoe soles.

She peered fearfully at the door. Her heart hammered behind her ribs as she hurriedly put the lid on the container, pressing down until it caught with a loud click. At the same moment, she saw the handle on the door move downward.

4

4

Directly in front of the red-painted door of number 8 stood a dark-gray Mercedes. The gleaming sports car looked out of place on this street—in this whole neighborhood, even.

Out of habit, Ralf scanned the license plate. “That’s Werner Möhring’s car.”

“You mean Sara’s father?”

He nodded.

“Do you know him?”

“No, but I know his car.” His eyes were focused on the Mercedes. “Brian once pointed it out to me when I picked him up at the Horn of Plenty. Or maybe I was dropping him off.”

Naomi made as if to get out, but Ralf grabbed her arm. “Wait a second.”