Goldstein

56

The wound was healing well. A scar stretched across the back of Alex’s hand, a keepsake, but there was nothing she could do about that. Too bad, she thought, but you were never the prettiest anyway. She gave her reflection a wry smile, threw the blood-soaked bandage in the rubbish and bound her hand with a fresh dressing. At the window she looked outside. She’d sooner be splashing through puddles like the kids downstairs than sitting up here holding her breath at footsteps on the stairs.

She was alone in the flat. Martha and Helmut were out; her sister-in-law had insisted on heading to the country with her husband. Helmut had suggested staying home to play cards, but saw the look on Martha’s face and yielded. Alex sympathised with her sister-in-law. It wasn’t just the sultry, warm weather that made her insist on the journey to Köpenick; a trip to the countryside meant a day without Alex.

Yesterday evening they had huddled together in the cramped flat and played cards, just like old times, when Alex and Helmut still lived with their parents and occasionally managed to persuade Mother to join in a hand of skat. It was Helmut’s idea and the game had lasted the whole evening. Alex would rather Helmut had taken Martha to the cinema or out dancing, but he wouldn’t be dissuaded. Martha dutifully fetched beer from the cellar and said nothing, even if her eyes told a different story.

It was too much. Alex had imposed upon her brother’s hospitality for long enough. She had enjoyed a roof over her head, eaten as much as she liked and licked her wounds. Now it was time to move on.

That woman, the court assistant or whatever she was, hadn’t come back. Alex couldn’t believe that she had appeared outside the door to ask her stupid questions. At the last moment she had hidden in the cubbyhole by the sink alongside scrubbers, brushes and preserves, and tried to breathe as quietly as possible. In the end the woman stayed outside in the stairwell. When she asked, in all seriousness, if Alexandra – Alex had almost forgotten that was her real name – might be staying with her parents, she almost laughed out loud. With her olds! Emil Reinhold, who let his own daughter fend for herself on the streets? Who had disowned his son? The woman had no idea.

Yet she couldn’t be completely stupid either. She had managed to find out Alex’s name, as well as Helmut’s address. This, despite the fact that Alex hadn’t said a word while she was in custody, or indeed afterwards. She had been scared stiff by all those blue uniforms, more frightened, even, than at KaDeWe when they chased her, or later when that cop opened fire.

Benny’s killer.

The whole time she had been in custody, she was afraid he might appear to finish the job. Each night she dreamed of him, his mug against hers, close enough to see every pore of the face she had marked for life. And then of Benny plunging silently to his death, every night plunging headlong to the ground. High above, the same face stared over the balustrade, grinning, sweating.

She’d recognise it twenty years from now, but she didn’t intend to wait that long.

She felt a kind of longing for the old factory. Not for the draughty corridors where she tried to sleep, but for the people, for Vicky and Fanny, Kotze and Felix. She’d have to accept that Kralle and his band of rats came with the package. There are two sides to everything.

Another of Benny’s phrases. God, she missed him!

If he was right, and everything good had its bad side, then didn’t everything bad have its good side too? Try as she might, she couldn’t find anything good about her situation, but perhaps all she needed was a few more days. At least she had seen Helmut again. Without all the shit that had happened to her, she’d never have dared turn up at his door. She was too ashamed of what she had done, of what Karl had done, but her big brother had taken her in his arms, and, suddenly, she didn’t feel the least ashamed of anything that had happened before Christmas. It was the first time she hadn’t celebrated the day. How many more Christmases would go uncelebrated? She couldn’t picture it happening in the old axle factory, anyway.

Beckmann’s death was such a joke. She didn’t mourn the Nazi, but hadn’t wanted him dead. Still, it was her fault; without her stupid idea it would never have happened. Without Alexandra Reinhold, Heinrich Beckmann would still be alive, damn it.

What a crackpot idea, paying the rent with stolen money. No one understood that she was trying to help, not her father who had thrown her out, nor her brother who thought she needed protection. It was Karl who had pulled the trigger, the idiot. How she missed him!

Helmut was the only one who’d been able to get on with his life, because he had cut ties and gone his own way. That was why she felt so ashamed about Beckmann. Only now, with her despair outweighing her shame, had she confided in him, and soon realised that all her worries were for nothing.

Without her brother she wouldn’t have survived the past few days.

She rummaged in the kitchen table drawer for the paper and pencil Martha used to write her shopping lists. She sat down to think, and suddenly knew what she was going to write. The pencil scratched across the page. Somewhere outside a car beeped its horn.

57

Bernhard Weiss spent most weekends at his private home in Dahlem, away from his official residence in Charlottenburg. As he turned into the tree-lined Bachstelzenweg, Rath could see why. No problem finding a parking spot here. Most people had their own garages. The only sound he heard when he cut the engine was the twittering of birds.

He had made the journey with mixed feelings. Weiss was his sole principal in the Goldstein affair, but, since he was at a summit in Breslau on Saturday, Rath had spent the day with Hotel Detective Grunert reconstructing the man’s disappearance. They had done a reasonable job, but Rath’s hopes of picking up the gangster’s trail before reporting to Weiss had been shattered. The Yank had disappeared and could be anywhere in this four-million-strong city. Why had he gone to ground? What had he done or, worse, what was he about to do?

This morning Weiss had invited Rath to submit a report. He opened the garden gate and entered an oasis of green. A walnut tree stood by the fence, with apple and pear trees in the middle of the lawn.

‘Are you looking for Papa?’ a child’s voice asked from above.

He looked up and saw a kind of treehouse in an old beech. A girl of eight or nine was gazing down curiously.

He nodded.

‘Are you a criminal?’ she asked, deadly serious.

Rath couldn’t help but laugh. ‘I don’t think so. I work for your father.’

‘Then you’re a policeman?’

He nodded again.

‘You can see how well guarded I am,’ a deep voice said. ‘No one gets by my Hilde unseen.’

Dr Bernhard Weiss stood outside the house, his hands buried in light canvas trousers. Over his shirt he wore a thin knitted waistcoat. ‘Please come in, Inspector,’ he said. ‘We have matters to discuss.’

‘I fear we do, Sir.’

Inside, a maid took his hat and coat.

‘We don’t want any disruptions,’ Weiss said, leading Rath into a spacious office that was far more impressive than his room at Alex.

At an upholstered suite, a pot of coffee and two cups stood on the table, along with fresh pastries. Rath interpreted that as a good sign. ‘Have you heard anything from Warrants?’ he asked.

‘Nor did I expect to,’ said Weiss. ‘We don’t even have a photo. In a city this large, all a description will get you is the wrong man. Or no man at all.’ Weiss poured coffee for his guest. ‘What have you found out, Inspector?’

‘According to what we know so far, the fugitive must have had help. What with our surveillance, he could only have made it outside using a pass key. He must have used an adjoining room, then taken the staff staircase.’

‘We should have thought of that.’

‘If we’d wanted to guard all exits, we’d have needed seven or eight men, but…’

‘I’m not making accusations. You did your best.’ For some reason, Weiss spoke momentarily in Berlin dialect before switching back.

‘I hope you’re right, Sir.’

‘You asked for reinforcements that I was unable to provide. Given the circumstances, keeping his room under surveillance made most sense. We couldn’t expect the man to get his hands on a pass key.’

Rath nodded.

‘You don’t have any leads?’ Weiss asked.

‘We have a statement from the laundry driver, who was surprised to see an elegantly dressed man with two suitcases at the staff exit. We asked him to describe the man, and it’s as close to a match as we’re likely to get. The driver says he left the hotel on Friday morning around six.’

‘Almost twelve hours before his disappearance was uncovered.’

‘We’ve been trying to trace him through the Taxi Drivers’ Guild. So far to no avail. It’s possible he took the U-Bahn. He did that a week ago when trying to give me the slip.’

‘Do you know how he got hold of the pass key?’

‘The hotel detective’s looking into it.’

‘Well,’ Weiss said. ‘That’s not a priority. First we have to see how we can get out of this shemozzle, before the press get wind that there’s an American gangster at large.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning: find Goldstein. As quickly as possible.’

Rath had to cross the city to reach his next destination. Niederschönhausen, another neighbourhood of villas. This time, however, he wasn’t seeing a police commissioner but an underworld boss. He got out of the car and looked around.

Where was he going wrong? He’d never be able to afford houses like these, either as a police officer, or as a gangster. Perhaps it was because he was neither one thing nor the other.

Johann Marlow lived in an impressive villa on Victoriastrasse. One of the reasons it was so impressive was that it didn’t need to try. There were no gun-toting thugs circling the property; Liang’s presence provided ample protection. The Chinese himself opened the door to modern decor decidedly more tasteful than Red Hugo’s nouveau riche apartment.

They traversed the house before stepping back into the open air on the rear terrace. Dr M. stood bare-torsoed, pointing a bow and arrow towards a large target at the opposite end of the garden. More muscular than Rath had thought, he took aim calmly, not letting himself be put off. The arrow struck right in the target’s centre.

‘Respect,’ Rath said.

Marlow lowered the bow and turned around. ‘Have you ever tried archery, Inspector?’

Rath shook his head.

‘It’s amazingly relaxing, and the perfect way to effect a silent kill.’

‘Like the Native Americans. Did you learn that in the States?’

‘They use different weapons these days. Above all, Thompson machine guns.’

‘You know your stuff.’

‘I’ve been to the States a couple of times. Once to Chicago and twice to New York. What are you trying to say?’

‘You really don’t know Abraham Goldstein? You’ve never had anything to do with him?’

‘No, what’s this about?’

‘I’m wondering why you helped him escape from his hotel.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘You smuggled the chambermaid into the Excelsior, didn’t you?’

‘Stop speaking in riddles. Tell me what’s happened and what you want to know. Then maybe I can help you.’

‘Isn’t it strange that one of your employees should begin as a chambermaid in Goldstein’s hotel just days before his arrival? Was she there to keep an eye on him, or was it about evading police surveillance?’

‘One of my employees? What are you talking about?’

‘Bosetzky. Marion Bosetzky. A dancer in Venuskeller.’

‘Marion? She hasn’t worked for us in ages. Sebald kicked her out.’

‘Why?’

‘A minor loyalty issue. She was working for someone else on the side, which we couldn’t tolerate. Maybe you should have a word with him. Maybe he’s the one who smuggled her in.’

‘Gladly. If you would be so kind as to tell me who he is.’

‘Not he, so much as they, Inspector,’ Marlow burst out laughing. ‘Your colleagues. That is to say: your former colleagues, you know, in E Division.’

58

Rath hadn’t been down this way in a long time, certainly not this early in the morning. He didn’t encounter many colleagues, but the officers he had worked most closely with in Vice were both dead, and he hadn’t had much to do with the rest. He had been with the squad only two months but, even so, seemed to have made a lasting impression on the division chief.

‘Inspector Rath,’ Werner Lanke said, offering a hand. ‘What a surprise! You were never this early back in the day.’ He gestured towards Kirie. ‘You must be working like a dog.’

Werner Lanke laughed at his own joke and Kirie wagged her tail, realising they were speaking about her. Rath managed a friendly grin. He had to remain civil, even if he and Lanke were linked only in mutual antipathy.

Krumme Lanke, after the lake, was an accurate nickname. The man had such a pronounced stoop that, over time, his official six foot three had become more like five foot eleven. There was something vulture-like about him, an impression intensified by his prominent nose and piercing eyes that peered over reading glasses.

‘A good thing I’ve caught you, Sir.’

‘I don’t know that it is. I’m in a hurry.’

‘Just two minutes?’

‘Alright then.’ Lanke sat down again. ‘To what do I owe this honour?’

‘I’m looking for a female witness…’

‘If you’re referring to Fräulein Lübbe, she isn’t here yet.’

Jutta Lübbe was Lanke’s secretary. Rath’s stock of dutiful smiles was dwindling. ‘The woman’s name is Marion Bosetzky,’ he said. ‘She became a Vice informant two years ago.’

‘I see.’

‘She was a nude dancer in an illegal nightclub until her employers learned of her sideline.’

‘You’re well informed.’

‘The alpha and omega of police work.’

‘What would you like me to do about it?’

‘I need as much information as possible on her, and I’d like to speak with her go-between. Who recruited her, is she still deployed? That sort of thing.’

Rath realised that it was a mistake to ask someone like Werner Lanke for help. The superintendent savoured his power even more in view of Rath’s helplessness.

‘You’re talking about things that are subject to strict confidentiality. E Division internal affairs, and I…’

‘I’m talking about an investigation in which Fräulein Bosetzky could be an important witness.’

‘If it’s so important Superintendent Gennat will put in a request to examine the files, as one division chief to another.’ Lanke stood and reached for his coat. ‘Now, please excuse me. I don’t want to keep Prosecutor Rosanski waiting.’

Lanke threw on his hat and black coat, looking even more like a vulture. A vulture with a hat. Rath followed him into the corridor, where Lanke made a point of locking the door, as if to show Rath how little he trusted him. He briefly tipped his hat and stooped down the corridor towards the atrium and his car.

Erika Voss was already there by the time Rath entered his office. She gazed in surprise, first at him then at Kirie. The dog wagged her tail. ‘Inspector,’ she said, replacing the receiver she had just lifted back on the cradle. ‘You’re working in the office again?’

‘Yes,’ Rath said, hanging his hat and coat on the hook. ‘The Goldstein affair is resolved for the time being.’

‘Goldstein?’

‘The man we’ve been keeping under surveillance.’ Rath hadn’t mentioned the assignment to his secretary, not even that they were stationed in the Excelsior.

Erika Voss was so surprised she forgot to stroke Kirie, who was standing expectantly before her. She fetched a well-thumbed newspaper from her handbag. Der Tag, a scandal sheet published by the Scherl Verlag, which underlined its headlines in red.

‘I read it every morning on the train.’ She pointed to an article. ‘Do you mean this Goldstein?’

Rath felt like he was in a bad dream. It was exactly the headline Dr Weiss had been seeking to avoid.

Below, the paper had printed a sketch that bore an unmistakable likeness to Abraham Goldstein. Rath recognised the work of a police artist whose services he had used in the past. He skimmed the article. An SA man, found on Wednesday morning with fatal stab and gunshot wounds in Humboldthain; witnesses unanimously described the man identified as Abraham Goldstein, a Jewish-American gangster striking terror in Berlin, as police apparently stood idly by.

59

Gereon still hadn’t been in touch. No word of apology, nothing. He hadn’t even come to collect his things. What a stupid man! She wouldn’t have thought it could come to this. In fact, she had sworn to never let things get this far again.

What on earth was wrong with him?

True, she had left him in the lurch on Wednesday night, and that wasn’t nice. Ditched him and headed home because she couldn’t take either the silence, that was like a wall between them, or his insensitivity about her search for the missing girl. Not that it justified treating him like that, and no doubt at some point she’d have apologised, but it didn’t give him the right to beat Guido to a pulp either! Did he think the whole world was just waiting for Gereon Rath’s next show of jealousy?

Seeing the roses on the hall floor, she had figured out what must have happened and, for a moment, the flowers mollified her. Until she saw what he had done to her friend. Since then, Gereon had been avoiding her. How would she have reacted if he’d appeared at her door with a second bunch of roses? Perhaps she’d have hit him, just to even things up!

Heymann was making her wait.

All was quiet in the corridors; not a trace of the bloody noses and worse of last week. She hadn’t thought scenes like that possible at the university.

She stared at Heymann’s door, knowing that time was on her side. She felt completely free now that she was relieved of her court duties. After Guido’s visit she had no desire to return to Weber’s stuffy office anyway, to these men who called themselves colleagues, but had never accepted her as one of their own.

She was learning that it was almost impossible for women to prevail in the service of Lady Justice, at least not without the presence of a strong male mentor. Even then there was the suspicion that you were providing services of a different nature.

She had never had that problem at the Castle. Böhm did everything in his power to encourage her. Gennat also valued her work, and she set great store by their judgement. She didn’t care what her other colleagues thought, Gereon included. Let him think she was fixating on matters that weren’t important. That she showed too much compassion. That she wasn’t suited to the job. Wasn’t that what he had meant? Pah!

How was it she was thinking about him again! Weren’t there other men in her life?

The door opened, and a student emerged. He was a few years younger than her, and still wet behind the ears, but already he wore a duelling scar with pride. He gave her such an arrogant look that she forgot to say hello. Goodnight, Germany, she thought, as she watched him swagger down the corridor: a skinny boy who thought he was creation’s crowning glory. Goodnight, if these were the people who stood to inherit the constitutional state. Last week, he’d have been one those hiding behind friends as he swung at Communists and Jews, as well as classmates he thought were Communists or Jews. Now, here he was at the Professor’s office, hair neatly parted, wilfully ignoring the fact that Heymann was of Mosaic faith so long as it served his career. She knocked on the door and went inside. Heymann sat at his desk.

‘Good day, Fräulein Ritter. Apologies that my previous meeting overran. Take a seat.’

‘Thank you.’

Heymann made a few notes while Charly surveyed the Hindenburg portrait above his desk. It reminded her of police headquarters, where a likeness of the German President hung in every office. It wasn’t so common at the university, however: Heymann must have hung it himself. The professor was a highly decorated war veteran and admirer of the general field marshal, but otherwise a genuinely nice man as well as a real authority in his field. Not a straight-out democrat, perhaps, but still a tireless propagandist for the constitutional state.

Heymann snapped shut his notebook. ‘I know I haven’t given you long to consider,’ he said. ‘A week isn’t much time when you’ve got your day-to-day work to think about, but the matter is urgent. Have you decided?’

Charly nodded. ‘Yes, Professor, I have.’

60

The headline in Tag caused a stir at the Castle, and made a meeting with Bernhard Weiss inevitable. This time he asked for Rath and Böhm together, but Rath had gone in feeling the more composed. It was Böhm who looked stupid, since the press were better informed about the Humboldthain murder than the officer in charge. For Böhm, the questions were not just who provided the paper with the police sketch but also, more worryingly, who identified it as Abraham Goldstein.

Until that point, no one who had seen the likeness had been able to put a name to the face, neither Böhm nor Warrants. But someone at Alex must have recognised Goldstein, and this same person hadn’t told Böhm, but Stefan Fink, a journalist who craved sensation as a morphine addict craves his next phial.

So, where was the leak? The police sketch had gone to Warrants and police stations citywide on Saturday evening. That meant someone must have passed it to Fink during the night.

Gereon Rath and his men were among the few who knew who Goldstein was, and Rath vouched for them all, even if he was a little unsure of Czerwinski. Weiss dismissed them with clearly defined tasks: Böhm was to step up investigations in the Kubicki case, while Rath was to continue searching for the missing gangster with the help of J Division, for whom the search was now priority number one. They couldn’t keep the fact that there was a known American gangster in the city under wraps any longer.

Rath’s men were already in position. Henning and Czerwinski had been in the Excelsior since eight o’clock continuing their interviews with hotel staff. Plisch and Plum were to question all employees who had been on duty in the relevant section of the hotel. If Goldstein had used the staff staircase, then perhaps someone had seen something.

It should have been Gräf conducting the interviews, but Böhm had pinched him again. He was in Interview Room B working his way through the list of witnesses. The number of people who claimed to have seen something, but really just wanted attention, had risen further since the article in Tag. More often than not it was anti-Semites taking advantage of the opportunity to remind police of their failure; there was an American gangster roaming the streets, a Jewish killer who clearly had it in for the SA!

Rath was especially tickled by the prospect of brownshirts up and down the city huddled indoors in fear of venturing out. If that were true, Goldstein’s escape had actually made the streets safer, but Rath didn’t envy Gräf the task of dealing with such idiots, knowing he lacked the patience for it himself.

By now it was lunchtime and he was at his desk. He had telephoned Czerwinski and spoken with Warrants but, so far, DCI Kilian had no leads. The paper’s unauthorised printing of the sketch had brought a number of innocent people to the department’s attention. None bore any resemblance to Abraham Goldstein. The one thing they had in common was that they were Jews, denounced by resentful neighbours or colleagues.

Needing fresh air, Rath attached Kirie to her lead. After stopping at Aschinger for a few Bouletten, he made for the telephone booths at the train station. Luckily, one was free. While the dog busied herself with the meatballs, her master pressed a ten-pfennig piece into the slot.

‘Herr Weinert isn’t in the office,’ said the voice on the line. ‘Didn’t you know? He’s with Dr Eckener.’

‘In the Zeppelin?’

‘That’s right. Didn’t he tell you? He’s covering the Iceland flight.’

Rath hung up. Berthold Weinert might have given him something on Fink’s informer, but he was hovering somewhere above the Arctic Ocean. He took Kirie’s lead and stepped back into the fresh air, heading for Monbijou Park to think things through.

When he returned to the office an hour later he had to use his key. Erika Voss had gone for lunch. He sat at his desk, with Kirie underneath.

He thought back to Lanke’s office that morning, before all the fuss about Goldstein had started. Rath could tell by the superintendent’s face that he knew exactly who Marion Bosetzky was. Since the division chief, a pencil-pusher par excellence, couldn’t have recruited the nude dancer himself, another suspicion presented itself. Rath decided to look into it before asking Gennat’s permission to access the files. The bureaucracy involved there, he’d be drawing his pension by the time it was approved. He couldn’t wait that long.

He had left the door to the outer office open and, while he was still thinking, there was a timid knock. Who the hell could that be? Another knock.

‘Enter!’

A short time later, there was a third knock. Whoever it was, they were as stubborn as they were deaf. He stood up and went to the outer office. Kirie pitter-pattered after as he threw the door open. ‘What in God’s name do you want?’ he asked, staring at the figure outside.

An old man, dressed in black, with a grey beard and sidelocks; an orthodox Jew who looked as if he had just arrived in Berlin from his shtetl in Galicia.

‘Detective Gräf, please,’ the man said, looking now at Rath, now at the dog.

‘I’m sorry, he isn’t here.’ Rath hated giving answers that were Erika Voss’s responsibility. ‘If you’re a witness, Interview Room B is down the corridor, then the second or third door on the right. There’ll be a sign outside.’

‘I already was, the room is closed. I ask but am sent here.’

‘Detective Gräf must be at lunch.’ Rath gave a pointed look at his watch. ‘If you come back in an h…’

‘Please, I do not have much time. I need to make statement.’

‘Then please take a seat.’ Rath pointed down the corridor. ‘There are benches outside.’

‘Please, I do not have much time.’

Rath bade the man enter, Gräf’s witness or no. At least he wasn’t an anti-Semite here to insult the police. ‘Please sit down, and I’ll take your statement,’ he said.

There was no stenographer, but that wouldn’t matter. He showed the old man to a chair and sat behind Erika Voss’s desk, opened his notebook and pulled out a pencil.

‘So, let’s get started,’ he said. ‘Your name, please.’

‘Please, I just want to make statement.’

‘I understand that, but I still need your name.’

‘I can’t give you name, I just want to make statement.’

‘To make a statement we need your name and address.’

‘Please, I just want to make statement.’

‘Which is why I need your name.’ Rath rolled his eyes. ‘Tell me what you saw, and we’ll take care of the formalities later.’

‘Not tell. I met man you are searching for.’

There was a pile of newspapers in Erika Voss’s filing tray. Rath took one and passed it across. ‘You mean this man?’

The old man nodded, and Rath sat forward.

‘Where and when did you see him?’

The old man pointed at the photograph. ‘Didn’t have knife. Had pistol.’

Rath cleared his throat. ‘Can we agree on something? I ask the questions and you answer them.’ The man nodded. ‘So: where and when did you meet him?’

‘Helped me, this man.’

‘Where and when?’ Rath felt like a broken record.

‘Under the ground. They were bad men.’

‘You mean the underground?’

The man nodded. ‘Men insulted and cursed me.’

Rath thought of the witness statements made by several passengers at Gesundbrunnen. He drew a swastika in his notebook. ‘These men?’

Again the man nodded. ‘I wanted go. Didn’t want no trouble. Better dog in peace than man at war.’

‘But they didn’t leave you in peace?’

‘They chase me, into woods.’

‘Four men, is that right?’

The old man nodded.

‘One more time for the record: four men in SA uniform abused you at Gesundbrunnen U-Bahn station; you tried to avoid a confrontation, but the men followed you to Volkspark Humboldthain…’

The old man nodded.

‘What happened in the park? Is that where they met him?’ Rath tapped the Goldstein picture.

‘Not there. Was before. Already in station.’

‘He followed them?’

‘I don’t know. I only know he reappear when men attack me.’

‘Then what happened? Tell me exactly.’

‘Well… He hit them and drive them away.’

‘Who did he hit?’

‘Two men he knock to ground. The third he shoot in foot, the other he just make scared. But all run away.’

‘He pursued one of them, am I right? The man whose foot had been shot?’

The old man shook his head. ‘He do nothing. He just bring me back to station. A good man. But he shouldn’t have shoot. Shooting is sin.’

‘Hang on: he brought you back to the station? He didn’t chase any of them? None of the men?’

‘Men were all gone.’

‘He brought you to the station. Then he went back to the park?’

‘The man sit with me on train. Get out with me, too, at Rosenthaler Platz.’

Rath was astonished. Goldstein had an alibi for the murder of Gerhard Kubicki. Or had the gangster bought the old man as a defence witness? Rath looked at him, his bearded face, and saw in his eyes an indelible faith in God. No, he didn’t look like someone who could be bought, not even with Abe Goldstein’s American dollars.

‘Can you show us the place where you were attacked?’ The old man nodded. ‘Did you sustain any injuries?’ The old man waved the question away, although there was a bruise under his beard. Rath made a renewed attempt. ‘Your statement is very important. If you set any store by our investigation, then we need your name and address.’

‘No name. I just want to make statement.’

Even Charly’s stubbornness paled in comparison. ‘Your address then. So we know how to reach you, in case…’ The telephone on his desk rang. Rath glanced over his shoulder towards his office, then back at the old man. ‘Would you excuse me a moment?’

The man nodded.

He went into the adjoining room and lifted the receiver. Kirie followed, almost as if she knew who was on the line.

‘Hello, Gereon.’

She didn’t even sound unfriendly. He had to sit down. ‘Charly! I wasn’t expecting you to call.’

‘We should talk, don’t you think?’

Damn it, she was good at catching him off guard. He stretched out an arm and closed the door to the outer office. ‘What is there to talk about?’

‘What do you want? For me to send your toothbrush in the post?’

Of course he didn’t want that.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but these last few days… I had the feeling you were trying to get rid of me. And then this guy…’

‘If you mean Guido, he’s not some “guy”, but a friend. Someone you should be apologising to. He didn’t deserve to be treated like that.’

‘I’m sorry. The roses were meant for you. A peace offering.’

‘I wouldn’t like to see a declaration of war.’

Rath couldn’t see her, but could tell from her voice that Charly was grinning broadly, or at least trying her best not to. His heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t lost her yet! ‘I’m really, truly sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise to me, apologise to him.’

Did she have to keep mentioning that idiot? ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We need to talk. Your place or mine?’ The possibility of reconciliation turned him on. It didn’t matter if it was in his bed or hers.

‘Neutral ground. That’s what you do during a ceasefire, isn’t it?’

‘No idea.’

‘I was thinking Café Uhlandeck, you can…’

‘Not Uhlandeck.’

‘Then make another suggestion.’

‘How about I invite you to dinner? Tonight. Kempinski on the Ku’damm.’ The restaurant had a lovely terrace, and Rath was hoping for a balmy summer’s night.

‘Agreed.’

He could have jumped for joy, but despite the closed door decided against it. He replaced the receiver carefully in the cradle and let out a yelp of delight. Hell, he might just get out of this! He had overreacted with the grinning man; of course there was nothing going on with Charly. Still, the bloody nose served him right. Even if there was nothing going on, Rath was certain old perma-smile would jump at the opportunity. If Charly insisted he apologised, he would, but he’d also make it clear that it was time grin-face found himself someone else to comfort.

He stood up and moved towards the door. ‘My apologies,’ he said, pausing when he reached the outer office.

The old man’s chair was empty.

Rath ran out of the office and looked down the corridor, but there was no chance of catching him. He shook his head. He was a strange bird, but what he had said was entirely plausible.

It looked as if Abraham Goldstein hadn’t manifested himself as a killer, but as some kind of Boy Scout. At any rate a man of civic courage.

61

Charly felt strange as she stepped out of the telephone booth at Alexanderplatz. She had telephoned him within view of the station. Couldn’t she just have gone in? No, of course not, but the call had been smoother than expected. He didn’t realise how serious it was. Now she just had to see it through.

Crossing the enormous construction site, which was beginning to hint at how Alexanderplatz would soon look, she headed for Tietz. The department store’s restaurant was a good choice. Close to the station, but a place few police officers visited of their own accord. Who wanted to spend their lunch break among whining children and ill-tempered mothers?

It took a moment to see him. Lange had found a secluded table where they could talk uninterrupted.

‘Fräulein Ritter,’ he said, straightening her chair like a gentleman of the old school. ‘I’m glad you found the time to speak to me.’

He must be glowing red, she thought, taking her place opposite.

‘No doubt you’re wondering why I asked to meet here, rather than my office.’

‘I’m perfectly happy here,’ she said.

‘I have my reasons. The matters I’d like to discuss with you are strictly confidential.’

‘Aha.’ She lit a Juno. It seemed to make him nervous, or was he nervous already?

‘Superintendent Gennat thinks very highly of you. Did you know that?’ She found praise a little embarrassing, but it was good to hear. ‘Can I count on your discretion?’ he continued. ‘Only Superintendent Gennat, Dr Schwartz and I know about this.’

‘Not even Böhm?’

‘Not even Böhm.’

‘I thought you were working together.’

‘Not on this.’

‘Is it about Alexandra Reinhold?’

‘Indirectly. When we spoke recently we were interrupted by DCI Böhm.’

‘Don’t keep me in suspense.’

‘It concerns the death of Benjamin Singer. Alexandra’s accomplice, who died attempting to escape.’

‘The case you’re investigating, but that’s no secret.’

Lange cleared his throat, finding it very hard to utter the decisive sentence. ‘We have reason to believe,’ he said finally, taking a sip of Selters, ‘that Benjamin Singer was sent to his death by a police officer.’

He said it very softly, but still looked around as if someone might be listening. All of a sudden, Charly realised what he was after, and where the fear in Alex’s eyes had come from. ‘You need Alexandra Reinhold as a witness?’ she asked.

‘We received an anonymous call. Probably from this Alexandra. You cops killed Benny, the caller said.’

Charly was contrite. ‘All the more infuriating that she gave me the slip.’

‘No, no,’ Lange appeased her.

‘If Alex really did witness the murder the killer might have seen her too.’ Lange nodded. ‘Then she’s in danger.’ Lange nodded again. ‘Do you have a suspect?’

‘A sergeant from the 127th precinct, but I fear we won’t get him without a witness statement. It’s a difficult thing, accusing a colleague of murder.’

‘You think they’d believe Alex in court?’

‘We have other evidence,’ Lange said, ‘but it’s no use without a witness.’ The waiter arrived with the menus. ‘It’s on me. Homicide will pick up the tab.’

Charly ordered a mineral water before the waiter disappeared. They looked at the menu.

‘I saw her,’ she said after a while. ‘She was scared stiff. Do you think it’s possible he’s the officer who chased her?’

‘Absolutely,’ Lange said, and couldn’t help but smile. ‘For all the good it did him. This Alex must have claws, or at the very least a knife.’

‘Is the man still on active duty?’

Lange nodded. ‘Didn’t even want to take sick leave.’

‘Why have you summoned me here, Herr Lange? I’d like to know before I order anything.’

‘Two things. I know you’re looking for the girl. Keep going. Try to find Alexandra.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because Superintendent Gennat was hoping you’d still be interested.’

‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll help you, but under one condition.’

‘Which would be?’

‘You have to promise to protect Alex.’

‘Her cooperation will mitigate her sentence.’

‘I’m not talking about that. I can’t just hand her over to you, that won’t work. If she comes in, it will be of her own accord. And if she decides to go, then you have to let her.’

‘What am I supposed to say to the public prosecutor? I did question a witness, but unfortunately she gave me the slip?’

‘It’s that or not at all. I don’t want to be responsible for anything that happens. If she’s killed, for instance.’

‘Do you really think she’s in that much danger?’

Charly nodded. ‘Yes, I do.’

Lange took a sip of mineral water and appeared to consider. ‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘You have my word. I’ll protect the girl.’

Charly stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Two things, you said. What’s the second?’

Lange pushed a copy of a personal file across the table. ‘Keep an eye on this man, as best you can.’

Charly opened the file and stared into the face of Sergeant Major Jochen Kuschke. ‘That’s him. That’s our suspect.’

‘I can’t tail him around the clock,’ she said.

‘You don’t have to. So long as he’s on duty, we’ll have him in our sights; he isn’t walking the beat alone. We want you to look out for him in the evening. If you can manage, that is – the search for Alex takes priority.’

‘Why me? What about J Division?’

‘He doesn’t know your face. With Warrants he might suspect something; perhaps he knows the odd officer there. We don’t want to take any risks.’

The waiter arrived to take their order. She decided not to worry about the cost.

As she stepped out of the U-Bahn on Frankfurter Allee an hour later, Charly was still thinking about her meeting with Andreas Lange. Superintendent Gennat had put the young assistant detective onto her because he needed allies in his bid to prosecute a Prussian police officer for murder. Ernst Gennat was Charly’s great hero, perhaps even her role model; so naturally she had agreed. Especially since, through Lange, he had offered her something in return. A position as police cadet, to be taken up in summer 1932, before the conclusion of her legal preparatory service, with the prospect of a senior role at the Castle.

For that, she’d gladly call it quits with Weber; it was better than making a timid request for half a year’s unpaid leave which he would most likely refuse, if only to torpedo her joint project with Heymann. He wouldn’t be able to reject her resignation.

Charly wasn’t sure that she hadn’t been bought. Still, she was only carrying on what she had already started: looking for Alexandra Reinhold. So why did the offer make her feel so uneasy when, a year from now, she’d be a CID cadet?

Because somehow it didn’t feel right.

There was too much secrecy. Although, at least she could be sure that nothing would happen to Alex. Lange had promised. She just had to make sure she found the girl before Warrants did.

In Kopernikusstrasse she stood for a moment before entering the stairwell. This time, she knew, she’d make it inside.

As she hoped, Martha Reinhold was home alone and recognised her straightaway.

‘It’s you,’ she said. ‘My husband isn’t here. I’m sorry you’ve made the trip for nothing.’ She tried to shut the door of the flat but Charly wedged her foot in the crack.

‘No matter, Frau Reinhold,’ she said politely, pushing the door open and stepping into the narrow corridor. ‘I just wanted to have a quick look around.’

Martha Reinhold didn’t protest. Charly went to the kitchen-cum-living-room, where a wooden door led to a little cubbyhole next to the stove and sink.

‘What is it you’re after? Martha Reinhold had followed her, but her resistance was broken. When Charly sat at the kitchen table, she sat too. ‘Didn’t my husband tell you that he’s cut all ties with his family? That he no longer has anything to do with those Communists?’

‘Alex isn’t a Communist, is she? Has he cut ties with her too?’

Martha Reinhold was silent. She seemed to be one of those people capable of withholding the truth, but incapable of telling a lie.

‘When did you last see Alexandra, Frau Reinhold?’ Charly asked. ‘She was here, wasn’t she? Maybe she still is?’

‘No!’

‘But she was here! The last time I called she was in the flat, am I right? Your husband deliberately laid a false trail with that business about his parents?’

‘How am I supposed to know?’

‘Was Alexandra here or not?’

Martha Reinhold began nodding. First slowly, then quicker.

‘So she was here.’

‘I told Helmut it wasn’t on, while police were out looking for her.’

‘I’m not from the police, Frau Reinhold. I know Alex is afraid of the police. I want to help her. There are some dangerous people looking for her.’

‘Helmut can never know I betrayed his sister.’

‘Don’t worry, he won’t. I wasn’t even here. All I want is for you to tell me where I can find Alex. Where is she hiding?’

‘If only I knew. She’s been with us the whole time, since Tuesday. But…’ She fetched a crinkled piece of paper from her apron pocket and unfolded it. ‘I found this on the kitchen table when I got back from shopping today. Helmut still doesn’t know; he’s away on a job and won’t be back until tomorrow.’

I’m sorry, the note said in scrawled but legible handwriting. You’ve both helped me a lot. Thank you for everything. I won’t forget it. But I have to keep moving, there’s still something I have to take care of. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be OK. Some day I’ll return the favour, I promise. Alex.

‘You don’t have any idea where she went?’

Martha Reinhold shook her head, and Charly believed her. She thought there was a touch of relief there, and not just on account of her confession. Martha Reinhold was glad to be rid of her criminal sister-in-law.

‘I don’t think it’s her style to fit in with other people,’ she said. ‘I knew she’d be gone soon, but Helmut…’ She looked at Charly. ‘I think he wished she could stay forever. It was almost like having his family back. And now… now they’re scattered to the four winds just like before.’

62

Rath hadn’t told anyone about the old man, who now seemed more like an apparition, with nothing tangible left but a few notes in his black book. Not even a name or address.

Erika Voss was surprised by the note with the swastika she found on her desk. She had returned quarter of an hour after the old man vanished, looking round in confusion before throwing the crumpled paper in the bin. Perhaps there was a Nazi in the office.

Reinhold Gräf also popped his head in after the lunch break before returning to his interview marathon. Rath briefly considered closing the door and telling his colleague about the old man, but decided against. He couldn’t face admitting to a junior officer that yet another witness had slipped through his fingers.

Especially not after Gräf had told him about the trader from the Scheunenviertel, who recognised Goldstein from the sketch. He had promised to protect him from criminal proceedings and received a valuable statement in return. A man fitting Goldstein’s description had bought a pistol from the trader’s shop the week before. He had paid with dollars for a Remington 51, a gun seldom used in Berlin.

‘It could be a direct hit,’ Gräf said, before returning to the interview room. ‘If the Kubicki bullet was fired from a Remington.’

Rath agreed, fetched a Pharus map from the drawer and unfolded it on his desk. Walking with Kirie it had occurred to him that they should be looking for Goldstein in Wedding, and Wedding alone. At first Rath had suspected it was Goldstein’s taxi driver who had advised shaking him off in Kösliner Strasse. But then: Goldstein’s second excursion: Humboldthain, Gesundbrunnen U-Bahn station – the same neighbourhood, a kilometre or two away from Kösliner Strasse at most.

That couldn’t be coincidence.

During that first, seemingly random, taxi journey across Berlin, Goldstein must have been up to something, but Rath got in the way. Something in this neighbourhood exerted a magical pull on Abraham Goldstein.

Studying the map, Rath took out a soft pencil and marked, first, Kösliner Strasse, then, Gesundbrunnen U-Bahn station. After staring for a while he drew a large circle around the area between the Ringbahn line and Christiania Strasse. Folding and pocketing the map he left Kirie in the devoted care of Erika Voss, and set off.

The longer he sat in his car, the better he felt. Something to do at last! He drove north via Rosenthaler Strasse until, at Humboldthain, he throttled back to look across at the Himmelfahrtkirche where they had found the dead SA man. Driving at a leisurely tempo past the southern entrance of the U-Bahn, where Goldstein must have emerged in pursuit of the old Jew and the brownshirts, he crossed the tracks of the Ringbahn.

His plan was simply to drive around the area he had circled. If there was something here that could help them pick up Abraham Goldstein’s trail, he’d find it. He usually did his best thinking while driving anyway.

From Badstrasse he turned left onto Pankstrasse, the road linking Kösliner Strasse with Gesundbrunnen, the two most prominent markings on his map. The road opened onto a large square on the right-hand side, above which stood the forbidding stone structure of the Wedding District Court.

He pulled over and surveyed the stern neo-Gothic façade as if it had something to tell him, trying to picture Goldstein here. What business could an American gangster have in a German court? Did he mean to kill a German criminal, a judge even? He made a few notes, drawing three large question marks underneath.

At Kösliner Strasse he stopped to glance at the Rote Laterne, which was already open, leaving the engine running. No, that wasn’t it either. Goldstein had gone into the pub to shake off Rath’s tail and recruit a few volunteers to smash up his Buick. A few curious faces peered through the vehicle’s windows. This, after all, was a red stronghold where two years ago Communists had taken to the barricades. Park an overly expensive car here, or even use a car, and you made yourself suspicious. He engaged first gear, turned right at the corner and continued along the banks of the Panke, which was concealed by thick trees and shrubs, until the rear façade of the District Court reappeared overhead. At length he reached the long wall of an S-Bahn depot, to re-emerge onto the busy Badstrasse.

As he was considering his next move, he realised he had found what he was looking for. A large sign at the junction at Exerzierstrasse said:

Jewish Hospital.

He took a sharp left onto Exerzierstrasse, a quiet residential street with next to no traffic. A lone tram rumbled over the road surface. Rath kept behind it until a three-storey building appeared on his right. More reminiscent of a school than a hospital, its carved lettering left him in no doubt. Krankenhaus der Jüdischen Gemeinde, it said. Jewish Community Hospital.

He parked the Buick under a tree and searched for the police sketch in the glove compartment. Before pocketing it, he unfolded it and looked again at the face: a good likeness. If Abraham Goldstein had been here in the last few days, he could be recognised from this.

He walked the few steps back to the hospital. The building on Exerzierstrasse was only one part of the complex; the much larger ward block rose behind it, with its entrance on Schulstrasse. Rath paused outside, unsure for a moment whether he should go in. Wasn’t he just making a fool of himself?

He had just decided to enter the grounds when a surprised cry prevented him.

‘Inspector?’

On the other side of the road, Sebastian Tornow, the police lieutenant training as a CID inspector, stood in the shadow of a tree. Rath almost didn’t recognise him in plainclothes. He went over.

Tornow surveyed him curiously. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I could ask you the same question.’ Rath sounded more caustic than he intended, but somehow felt caught out. Stupid: apart from being on his own, he had done nothing wrong. ‘This is a coincidence.’

‘I’m working for Warrants. We received a tip-off.’ Tornow gestured towards the hospital. ‘Abraham Goldstein. Apparently he’s been seen here.’

The cadet didn’t seem particularly excited. In fact, he gave a disengaged impression overall. No wonder, with all the false sightings, but could this be the one? Suddenly, Rath was seized by the fever, that tingling in his veins he felt whenever things started to come together.

‘Well, perhaps you’re right this time,’ he said. ‘I’ve also received information which suggests Goldstein might have been here.’

Tornow brightened. ‘Perhaps we could go in together? Although it would be the fifth false lead for me today.’

‘Not quite as exciting as you thought then, CID work?’

‘What are you going to do?’ Tornow asked. ‘An apprentice is not his own master.’

‘Let me guess – Kilian said that?’

‘Respect! I see you know our colleagues well. You’ll have to tell me more about them sometime.’ He looked in the direction of Badstrasse. ‘There are a few nice cafes over there. What do you say?’

‘Business before pleasure. DCI Kilian must have taught you that too, or hasn’t he had the chance?’

‘Lack of business or lack of pleasure?’

Rath pointed to the hospital complex. ‘Come on. Let’s go inside and ask our questions, then the coffee’s on me. How about that?’

‘Your wish is my command, Sir.’

They crossed the street, Rath surveying the cadet out of the corner of his eye. They could use a man like him in Homicide, he thought, he’d be a good addition to his team. He’d be only too happy to part with Paul Czerwinski in exchange. He wondered why someone like Sebastian Tornow was assigned to DCI Kilian, of all people.

Although expecting to uncover a lead, Rath was still surprised to see the porter nodding through the glass after one look at the sketch.

‘He was here,’ the porter said. ‘A few days ago. With a bouquet.’

‘Was he visiting someone?’

‘I’d say so. Asked for someone anyways.’

‘Do you remember who?’

‘A Herr Goldstein, I think.’

‘Goldstein?’ Rath said, trying to stay cool. He gave Tornow a discreet nod. ‘That’s the name of a patient?’

‘Yes,’ the porter looked at a long list. ‘Jakob Goldstein. First floor, room 102.’

‘Do you remember when he visited?’

‘I’d reckon Wednesday or Thursday. During afternoon visiting hours, anyway. I can’t tell you any more than that. Only that he wasn’t the only one with a bouquet of flowers.’

‘Did he come a second time?’ Rath asked.

‘Not that I’m aware of. At least not while I’ve been on shift.’

‘We’d like to visit Herr Goldstein in room 102. Is that possible? Now, I mean.’

63

The old man was clearly in pain. The skin in his face seemed thinner, more transparent somehow. On the table stood fresh flowers, another bunch that was beginning to wilt, just like him. Everything in the room smelled of death and departure.

Abraham Goldstein had pictured his grandfather, whom he knew only from his father’s stories, with a long, white beard like all the old men in Williamsburg. And, of course, sidelocks – an older edition, so to speak, of his father Nathan. But Jakob Goldstein was about as much of a black hat as his grandson, Abraham, or he’d never have asked for such a favour.

Looking at his grandfather was like staring into a mirror: Abraham Goldstein fifty years older. No beard, no sidelocks, the same facial characteristics, only more prominent, the skin more wrinkled, the eyes deeper, the nose bigger, and the ears. Since arriving in Berlin he had realised that he looked more like Jakob than Nathan; and that Jakob looked more like him than his son.

Having only wanted to come once, he was now a daily visitor, and entering the hospital by the rear door had become almost routine. He moved through the corridors with the confidence of a young chief physician and, so far, no one had smelled a rat. A little bit of chutzpah made things easier, he’d known that for a long time. Even dying.

‘Abraham, there you are,’ the man smiled into his pillow. He barely had any strength left. Each word caused him pain, but it was clear from his face that he wanted to speak for as long as he still could. ‘Have you been to see your aunts?’

‘I don’t know if they really want to see me. You haven’t mentioned anything?’

‘You have to go and see them! They’re your father’s sisters. The mishpocha is important, even when it gets on your nerves.’ He laughed softly before the pain became too much. Abe nodded vaguely.

The old man gripped his hand. ‘Did you get it?’

This time Abe’s nod was more decisive. This would be his final visit. ‘Yes.’ He squeezed the old hand in return.

His grandfather’s face relaxed. ‘Show it to me,’ he said.

Abe took the syringe out of the bag. He had already filled it, prepared everything in the hotel – a nasty little flophouse that bore no comparison with the Excelsior. Still, they didn’t want to know his name or see his passport, and the porter had a few useful tips up his sleeve, like where you could get hold of cheap morphine.

He showed his grandfather the syringe, and the old man gazed at the liquid shimmering through the glass bulb. He nodded contentedly, gave a soft groan and grimaced. His hand clenched around Abe’s and held tight.

The flash of pain was over; his grandfather looked at him. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘I want it now.’

‘Right this minute? What’s the big hurry?’

‘Before dinner.’

‘It must be goddamn awful…’

The laughter lines around his grandfather’s eyes tightened. ‘It is,’ he said and nodded. ‘I’d rather die than eat that slop again.’ He laughed at his own joke, but it only hurt more. ‘Now,’ he said, serious this time.

Abe nodded. He took the syringe out of the case and pressed lightly, until the first drop of morphine appeared. He exposed his grandfather’s right arm and searched for a vein. The arm was shockingly thin, the skin pale and covered in age spots, the skin of a dead man. Abe squeezed the entire contents of the bulb into the vein, before dabbing the injection site with a cotton wool ball. There was no going back.

When Abe set the syringe aside, his grandfather gripped his hand once more, holding it tight, as if he never wanted to let go. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘How long?’

‘A few minutes. You’ll fall asleep. There’ll be no more pain.’

The old man sank back into the pillow, feeling the effects of the morphine already.

‘Broadway,’ he said, and his tired eyes sparkled at the word. ‘Tell me about Broadway.’

For all his visits to the hospital, Abe still hadn’t been able to reveal the truth: that there was a big difference between the Broadway in Manhattan, which everybody knew, and the one in Williamsburg, where Nathan Goldstein and his family eked out their existence. So, Abe maintained the same cock and bull story his father had begun all those years ago. Nathan Goldstein had written regularly to Jakob, who had remained behind in Berlin, but Abe never knew how the pious old fool had littered his correspondence with lies: how he had made his fortune in America after starting his own clothing factory and moved into a flat on Broadway. What else could he write?

Only now, in Berlin, did Abe realise what hopes the Goldsteins had invested in Nathan, the eldest son. They had only been able to cobble together enough for one passage, and sent him on their behalf, expecting him to bring them over when he was able. But Nathan’s sisters found happiness in Berlin, persuaded Jakob to stay, and no one learned what a pig’s ear Nathan Goldstein had made of things in the States. The only person who knew was his son, Abraham, and he kept his father’s secret.

Aunt Lea had married a scrap metal dealer, a black hat who devoted his life to God but was no less successful in business for that. Aunt Margot, meanwhile, became a lawyer’s wife, a liberal, secularly minded man, which regularly led to huge family arguments and amused Abe’s grandfather no end.

With each visit Abe embellished his father’s fantastical tales, taking delight in the sparkling eyes of the sick, old man. Even now he told his grandfather about the day Nathan Goldstein hit upon the idea of combining the production and sale of off-the-peg clothing within a single company, although he sadly did not live to see its success. Abe recounted his father’s funeral in such heart-rending terms that he felt almost moved himself, as if half of New York had been part of Nathan Goldstein’s cortège, when in reality it had been a wretched affair, the appearance of a drunken son being its questionable highlight.

Abe had avoided his German relations because he didn’t feel like serving up the same old lies. In fact he had only seen his aunts and their families on one more occasion, yesterday, as he waited in the shadow of the trees on Schulstrasse for visiting hours to end. The young black hat was there again, Joseph Flegenheimer, going by his grandfather’s description. The oldest son of the scrap metal dealer was roughly his own age. His cousin had squinted across and hesitated for a moment, before turning to face the others. Since then, Abe, who had pulled his hat over his face, had been wondering whether Jossele, as his grandfather called him, had recognised him from their brief meeting in the hospital corridor. Or perhaps he had seen that blasted picture in the newspaper.

The old man was speaking so softly now, Abe had to lean over the bed to hear. ‘It’s almost time, Abraham. We must say our goodbyes.’

Abe squeezed his grandfather’s hand, feeling an indefinable ache as he stared into the wrinkled face that would soon no longer stare back. Had Jakob Goldstein written to his grandson in America in order that he fulfil this wish? Did his grandfather have some inkling that he wasn’t a harmless textile dealer who had taken on his father’s flourishing business?

For some reason he felt much closer to this old man, whom he had met for the first time five days ago, than he ever had to his father. He felt almost ashamed of having loved his father so little, just as he felt ashamed of turning up drunk at his funeral.

‘Promise me something!’ The bony, old hand squeezed his palm with astonishing force, the eyes gazed at him, miraculous in their youth. Such intense eyes in such a weak, withered face, Abe thought, leaning over to hear what he had to say.

‘You have to say Kaddish at my funeral. Promise me you will.’

Abe made a promise he wasn’t sure he could keep. He hadn’t said Kaddish for an eternity, but that wasn’t the problem. The Kaddish was one of those things he’d never forget, that he’d carry with him for the rest of his life. That, at least, his father’s upbringing had achieved. The problem was that he needed to get out of Berlin as soon as possible. He hadn’t planned on attending his grandfather’s funeral, but, still, he nodded, the old man saw him nod, and that was enough.

‘That’s good,’ Jakob Goldstein said. ‘Schma Jisrael, Adonaj Elohejnu, Adonaj Echad.’ His voice grew softer and softer.

Somewhere deep inside Abe recognised the words, even if he hadn’t spoken them for years, and inwardly he prayed, despite no longer believing in the figure he was invoking.

His grandfather closed his eyes, as if recovering from a great exertion, though it wasn’t clear if it was the exertion of speech, or the exertion of a life fully lived. His face was calm and contented, and his breathing grew steadier as the morphine took control of his emaciated body.

Abe held his grandfather’s hand. ‘Farewell, Seide,’ he said, and the old man opened his eyes once more.

‘Not farewell. Until we meet again,’ Jakob Goldstein smiled. ‘You’ll visit me at my grave, say Kaddish. You promised.’

Abe nodded and his grandfather closed his eyes, the contented smile remaining on his face long after he had ceased to breath.

Goldstein didn’t know how long he had sat at his dead grandfather’s bed, but the old man’s hands were still warm when he was startled by a loud noise in the corridor. The nurses usually took their break about now, before everything started again and dinner was brought to the rooms. He opened the door a crack and peered out.

Two men approached from the corridor, one of whom he recognised. Detective Rath, that stubborn mule! He should have known they’d pick up his tail. But now! Today!

Rath’s companion must have bumped into one of the serving trolleys standing ready for delivery. A teapot had fallen to the floor, which he bent to pick up. The door to the nurses’ room opened and a fury in white shot out and took the two officers to task.

Abe closed the door, and returned to his grandfather’s bed. He pocketed the empty syringe, cast his grandfather a final glance and went to the window. A kind of pergola extended around the whole building. He swung onto it and looked down on the rear courtyard just as an ambulance arrived.

Driver and passenger climbed out and opened the rear door. For a moment he thought about jumping on top of the vehicle, but in the end climbed over the railings and clambered onto the rainwater pipe that led down from the roof. An elderly patient in a dressing gown, taking a stroll through the grounds, saw him but said nothing.

The metal buckled a little during his descent, and he ripped his coat but, after a few seconds, he was safely down. A quick upward glance told him the cops still didn’t know he had escaped, but he couldn’t afford to lose any time.

The ambulance puttered away on idle while two orderlies lifted out an unconscious man on a stretcher and carried him towards Accident and Emergency. They hadn’t noticed him. The man in the dressing gown was the only one watching.

Goldstein opened the driver’s door, gave the elderly patient a friendly nod and sat behind the wheel. Releasing the handbrake he engaged first gear and accelerated. The rear door swung this way and that as the vehicle lurched forward, tyres spraying gravel.

64

This nurse was a tough customer. The combined persuasive power of two police officers could not appease her.

Tornow had overlooked a service trolley and knocked a teapot to the floor. They were picking up the pieces when she stormed across the corridor and had barely got a word in since. The greatest crime wasn’t the destruction of the teapot, no, it was that two men, police officers or not, had dared to make such a racket – and outside of visiting hours at that!

How her own raised voice promoted the patients’ afternoon rest was another matter. This time Tornow attempted to appease her.

‘My good woman,’ he said, ‘we just want to take a quick peek inside room 102. It’s possible your patient can help us trace an escaped criminal.’

‘I’ll give you my good woman…!’ When the sister began another tirade, Rath lost patience.

‘Now, listen here! You can complain to the police commissioner himself for all I care, but, if you detain us any longer, I’ll charge you with obstructing a police investigation.’

She fell silent and, after a moment of paralysis, said meekly: ‘Room 102.’

Rath gave a friendly smile.

‘It’s over there,’ she said, ‘but please don’t get the patient too worked up. He’s on his deathbed.’

‘We’ll proceed with caution,’ Tornow said.

The sister followed them to the door at a respectful distance. Tornow knocked, but there was no response.

‘Perhaps he’s sleeping,’ she said. ‘He sleeps a lot, when he’s not in pain.’

Rath opened the door quietly.

There was a lone patient, an old man whose gaunt face was nestled deep inside his pillows. On a handwritten sign at the foot of the bed was the name Jakob Goldstein. The bedside table held an enormous bouquet of flowers.

Rath had seen enough dead bodies to know the man smiling peacefully was no longer alive.

Loud cries came through the open window, and the sound of a roaring engine. An ambulance was heading towards Schulstrasse at full tilt, its rear door swinging this way and that. Two male orderlies gazed after it open-mouthed. A man in a dressing gown shuffled over the gravel path towards them.

‘He just left,’ Rath heard him say. ‘Came down from up there and climbed into the ambulance!’

He explained what he meant by up there by pointing directly at Rath.

‘What’s wrong?’ Tornow asked.

‘Goldstein. He’s escaped.’

‘Damn it!’

They stormed past the sister, out of the room and into the corridor and, a minute later, were on the street. It was already too late. The ambulance was long gone.

Tornow kicked the nearest waste bin. ‘It’s my fault. That stupid service trolley must have warned him!’

‘Not so much the service trolley as dear old Sister Rabiata,’ Rath said. ‘Don’t blame yourself. We couldn’t have known he was in the building. We came here to question a witness, not chase a fugitive.’

‘A witness who’s now dead. Must be our lucky day.’

Back at headquarters, Goldstein’s reappearance caused quite a stir. Wilhelm Böhm summoned Rath and Tornow to his office. The Bulldog seemed to have a clearer take on the issue of culpability, blaming neither Tornow, the service trolley, nor the recalcitrant sister; least of all the fact that Goldstein just happened to be in the building at that precise moment. Instead, he laid the blame squarely on the shoulders of Gereon Rath.

‘Am I right in thinking you’ve let a murder suspect give you the slip for the second time in a matter of days?’ he yelled.

Rath knew it was pointless defending himself, but tried nevertheless. ‘We couldn’t have known the suspect was in the building. Officer Tornow and I received a tip-off that he had been seen at the Jewish Hospital. We then established that his grandfather…’

Böhm interrupted: ‘What tip-off, and why do I know nothing about it?’

‘We can’t go bothering you with every anonymous call.’

‘Not every one, no, but the important ones.’

‘With respect, Sir,’ Tornow said. ‘It was me who took the call not Inspector Rath, and I’m assigned to Chief Inspector Kilian, J Division, not Homicide.’

Böhm wasn’t used to subordinates interrupting. Rath was also astonished, but gave nothing away.

‘Besides,’ Tornow continued, ‘it’s only possible to judge the importance of a call like that with hindsight. In the last few days Warrants have had any number of tip-offs, and more or less every single one has come to nothing.’

It took a moment for Böhm to regain the power of speech.

‘Then tell me how the whole thing went so belly-up,’ he growled, which, for a man of his temperament, was akin to a peace offering.

‘We knew from the porter that there was a Jakob Goldstein in room 102,’ Rath said. ‘As it turned out, Abraham Goldstein’s grandfather.’

‘He was the one you wanted to question?’

‘Correct.’

‘So did you see the Yank?’

‘When we entered the room he had already escaped through the window onto the courtyard, then stole an ambulance.’

‘How the hell did he get warning? Surely he wasn’t intending to escape through the window!’

Tornow was about to say something, but Rath got there first. ‘Chance. Perhaps Goldstein opened the door just as we entered the corridor. He knows my face; we’ve run into each other a few times at the Excelsior.’

‘He recognised you,’ Böhm mumbled and nodded. The answer appeared to satisfy him. ‘In future you ought to remain in the background, so that Goldstein isn’t warned again.’

Rath nodded demurely.

‘Did you get anything out of the witness?’

‘No, unfortunately. Jakob Goldstein is dead. We found him when we entered the room.’

Böhm hesitated. ‘You’re not trying to tell me that Goldstein killed his own grandfather?’

‘It’s a strange coincidence that he should die precisely at that moment, don’t you think? After consulting with the public prosecutor, I’ve had the corpse sent to Pathology.’

‘You’re aware that an autopsy is forbidden by the Mosaic faith?’

Rath hadn’t been aware until a few hours ago, but the ward doctor had told him in no uncertain terms. ‘Dr Schwartz is Jewish,’ he said. ‘He’ll know what to do.’

‘Dr Schwartz is a goddamn agnostic. He’ll cut anything he gets his hands on.’

‘Then I’ll ask him to proceed with caution. Maybe a blood examination will be enough. The man was terminally ill. He had pancreatic cancer.’

‘You should mention that too. We don’t want Schwartz examining a man who might have been dead for hours.’

‘He can’t have been. His family was with him until just before the end of visiting hours.’

‘Goldstein has more relatives in Berlin?’

‘Two aunts, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘Damn it! Why are we only hearing about this now? Pay them a visit. Maybe they know something. You can show our cadet here how to winkle information out of people.’

Tornow rose from his lethargy and looked at Böhm in disbelief. ‘My apologies, Sir, but I’m assigned to Warrants, DCI Kilian, not DI Rath. I…’

‘I’ll speak to Kilian, everything will be fine. For the time being you’ll work with Rath.’ Böhm gazed sternly at him, trying to regain lost authority. ‘You’ve made your bed, now you have to lie in it. Goldstein is the priority for both of you. Understood?’

Rath gave a dutiful nod. The audience with Böhm was over.

‘It looks like you’re my new partner then,’ he said, when they were back outside. ‘Here’s to us.’

The cadet shook his hand. ‘I know I made a mess of things in the hospital. But you didn’t have to protect me like that. All the same, thank you.’

‘You didn’t make a mess of anything. But there’s no reason for Böhm to know every last detail.’

‘I’m here to learn,’ Tornow grinned.

‘That’s right, you’re my apprentice now. What I’m interested in, is why you became a policeman?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I ask every new colleague. You can give me several reasons if you’re not sure.’

‘There’s only one reason.’

‘And that would be?’

‘My sister.’

Rath waited, but nothing followed, and Tornow was so serious he didn’t probe further. ‘Fetch your things,’ he said, to end the silence, ‘and I’ll introduce you to your new colleagues.’

‘There isn’t much to fetch. Besides, I’d rather Böhm speaks to Kilian before I show up in Warrants again.’

‘Right then. We’re just around the corner.’

When Rath opened the door Kirie stood expectantly, wagging her tail.

‘You bring your dog to the office?’ Tornow asked.

‘Only when it can’t be avoided.’ He gestured towards Erika Voss, who was sitting behind her desk on the telephone. ‘Our secretary, Fräulein Voss.’

Erika Voss hung up and looked across curiously.

‘A new colleague, Erika,’ Rath said. ‘Herr Tornow is a cadet who’ll be working with us for the time being.’

The secretary returned Tornow’s smile. She seemed to like her new colleague.

65

Charly had to resist a buying frenzy in this cathedral of consumption. Tables of clothing and scents, wrap-around galleries across four floors, the enormous skylight that crowned it all, it was hard to escape the magical appeal. Wertheim on Leipziger Platz had been her favourite department store since she was a little girl accompanying her mother. Today she wasn’t here to shop, but even so caught herself browsing the summer offers. She could definitely use a new blouse…

‘Does the young lady require assistance?’

A saleswoman had noticed her.

‘I’m looking for Personnel.’

‘I’m afraid we’re not hiring.’

‘That’s not why I’m here. I just need some information.’

A little later, Charly sat in a small office overlooking the venerable row of houses on Vossstrasse.

‘Alexandra Reinhold?’ The man had introduced himself as Herr Eick, stressing the Herr as though it were his first name, and stood by a wall-high shelving unit of files. He fished one out. ‘Let’s take a look.’

Herr Eick made every effort to appear important, as well as being extremely helpful. He stole a glance at Charly’s legs before sitting down to skim through the files. ‘Might I ask why you are interested in Fräulein Reinhold?’ he said, without looking up, but he was still squinting at her out of the corner of his eye.

‘We’re family,’ she lied, crossing her legs, which threw Herr Eick for a moment. ‘I’m in Berlin for a few days and wanted to surprise my cousin. I thought I’d pick her up after work.’

‘Here we are! The delicatessen section.’ The man gazed triumphantly, then regretfully. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to pick her up,’ he said.

‘Oh?’

‘We had to let her go. In October ‘30.’

‘I didn’t know that. Why? I hope she didn’t do anything wrong?’

Eick shook his head. ‘No, no, don’t worry. Purely a budgeting measure. Times are hard.’

Charly stood and stretched out a hand. ‘Well, what can you do? Thank you for your efforts, Herr Eick.’

He seemed disappointed that she was leaving so soon. Before he could say anything – invite her to dinner, or maybe out dancing – she departed the office.

In the delicatessen, she could no longer resist temptation and bought a crab meat salad and a bottle of champagne to go. She might need consoling after meeting Gereon later, and wasn’t sure if she should accept his invitation to dinner. It might be better to insist on just a glass of wine. She was afraid he might attempt to bribe her. In more ways than one.

Asking the saleswoman in neat white overalls to weigh out a hundred grams, she added casually: ‘An Alexandra Reinhold is supposed to work here. You don’t know where I can find her?’ The woman hesitated. ‘I’m her cousin.’

‘From Jerichow?’ She had a Berlin accent.

Charly nodded.

‘Alex didn’t tell you either! She hasn’t worked here for ages. Almost a year now.’

Charly feigned surprise.

‘I remember her da’ standing here just a few weeks after it happened. He didn’t say a word. He’d come to pick her up, just like you.’

‘Do you know where I can find her?’

‘You don’t have an address?’

‘The Reinholds have moved. There were strangers in the flat.’

The woman wrapped the packed crab meat salad in wax paper and passed the package across the glass counter.

‘They’re homeless, apparently, the Reinholds,’ she said, quiet-ly, as if ashamed to discuss it. ‘I thought they’d moved out to you, in Jerichow. But they must be somewhere else.’

‘Homeless? I don’t believe it!’ Charly feigned shock. ‘There’s no one here who might still be in touch? Who might know where she’s living?’

‘Maybe Erich. The butcher’s apprentice, here at Wertheim. He had his eye on her. The way he looked at her when he brought up the stock.’

‘Were they friends? I mean: together?’

‘Not officially, anyway.’ The saleswoman shook her head. ‘It’s strictly forbidden here. You carry on with a minor and you’re out the door, but he certainly had a big crush on her. If you ask me, your cousin wasn’t completely averse either…’ She winked at Charly.

‘You think he might be able to help?’

‘If you’re unlucky, she’ll have told him just as little as she told everyone else. She hasn’t been back since she got the boot. I think she was ashamed.’

‘Erich, you say?’

‘Erich Rambow. In the butcher’s downstairs.’

Charly picked up a bottle of champagne and paid at the till. She had something to celebrate, after all: her future with the Berlin Criminal Police. Besides, she had skipped lunch so could afford this little luxury. Shopping bag in hand, she asked the way to the butcher’s, but this time her luck was out. Erich Rambow had already left for the evening.

66

Rath arrived at Kempinski ten minutes early. He couldn’t afford to be late, not tonight. He had thought about taking Kirie, who was always useful when he needed to appease Charly, but the poor dog wouldn’t have been allowed in. Instead, he had fallen back on the services of Frau Lennartz and her husband, who enjoyed taking her overnight, especially as it meant money for them. If things continued like this, they’d soon be earning more from Kirie than their day jobs.

He handed the bouquet to the head waiter and slipped him a small note to ensure they sat on the terrace overlooking the Ku’damm, far enough from the action to talk in private. Everything had to be just right. He wanted her back; wanted, finally, to show her how he felt and put an end to the atmosphere between them. He was ready to go the whole hog again, but this time hoped for better luck. He hadn’t simply showered and thrown on a new suit, but pocketed the rings that had waited in vain in champagne glasses all those weeks ago in Cologne.

He smoked while he waited. The waiter placed the flowers on the table in a pretty, modern vase with the Kempinski ‘K’, changing the ashtray with the same exaggerated attentiveness as the boy in the Excelsior, when she appeared. Rath held his breath.

She looked stunning in her red dress. He savoured the moment as she looked around and was approached by the head waiter. In that instant Rath knew he would do anything for this woman, but first he had to convince her that he, Gereon Rath, was the right man for her. The only man for her – in spite of everything.

His heart started beating faster as the waiter escorted her to the table and he thought he saw a smile flit across her face. He straightened her chair, but she kept her distance as she greeted him and sat down. No embrace, no sign of a kiss. Rath was just as cool, however difficult he found it.

She looked at the flowers, realising they hadn’t been paid for out of Kempinski funds. The flower arrangements on the other tables were more modest. ‘From you?’ she asked.

‘There was a complaint about the last batch. I hope these are up to scratch.’

Without smiling, she looked in her handbag, took out her cigarettes and a carton of matches, and placed both on the table. It looked as if she were preparing her weapons for a duel.

‘How was your day?’ he asked.

‘So-so.’ She lit a Juno and threw the match in the ashtray. ‘Yours?’

‘Our surveillance has gone belly-up. Goldstein gave us the slip.’

She pricked up her ears. A reaction, at last! ‘The gangster?’

Rath nodded. ‘Some time on Friday. A member of staff helped him.’ He lit a cigarette too, even though he had stubbed out his last only three minutes before. ‘Any progress with your Alex?’

Charly shook her head and blew smoke into the hedgerow that separated the terrace from the Ku’damm.

‘I’m sorry about recently,’ he continued. ‘You mustn’t think I’m not taking things seriously. You’re right to look for this girl.’

‘You understand what I’m going through now that you’ve got problems of your own?’

‘I’ve had problems before. You know that. This isn’t the first time.’

Charly nodded. He had never seen her draw so greedily on a cigarette, but perhaps he had just never noticed before?

‘Did you try the brother again?’ he asked, playing the experienced man. ‘That’s where I’d start, or at Wertheim. Her father said she used to work there.’

‘Thanks for the tip, Inspector. Let’s talk about something else.’

He drew quickly on his cigarette to avoid saying something he regretted. Last week she had picked a quarrel because he wasn’t taking her concerns seriously enough; now she couldn’t wait to get him off the subject. They’d barely been here two minutes, and already he was struggling to keep it together. He tried a different approach.

‘I have a new colleague.’ The waiter’s arrival closed this line. Rath ordered a Gewürztraminer, Charly a Selters.

‘Thank you for the invite,’ she said.

‘You can order something more expensive, you know. I’ve got plenty of cash. Or are you afraid I might get you drunk?’

Charly didn’t respond to his tired joke. It seemed she hadn’t even heard. He drummed his fingers quietly on the tablecloth, growing impatient. No more jokes. He wouldn’t even try to lighten the atmosphere, if that’s how she wanted it. ‘You said we needed to talk,’ he said. ‘So, let’s talk.’

‘Yes, let’s talk,’ she said. ‘But perhaps we could mention the elephant in the room. Are you going to apologise to Guido?’

Was that all they were here to talk about? The fucking grinning man? ‘Yes, for God’s sake,’ he said, louder than intended. ‘I told you I would on the telephone. Is that all you wanted to discuss?’ He was taken aback by his own aggression, but she wasn’t making things any easier.

She stubbed out her cigarette and fumbled around in the carton, almost pulling out a replacement before pushing it back inside. Her coldness was a mask, he realised. She was more nervous, even, than him. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or a bad sign.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I know I messed up. Maybe that’s why I’m acting so annoyed. It won’t happen again.’

This time Charly did take another Juno from the carton, while Rath drew on his Overstolz. Let’s have a smoking competition, shall we? he thought, but understood that whatever she wanted to discuss would not be good news. He was expecting the worst, but wouldn’t just give up. That much he could promise already.

He gave her a light, and she looked at him with an expression that broke his heart: tentative, questioning, uncertain. What was wrong with her? Something was weighing heavily. Surely she didn’t want to…?

The waiter burst into the silence with the drinks. Even he seemed to realise something wasn’t quite right. When he disappeared again Rath raised his glass in such a way that it wasn’t clear if he was toasting her health or not. The wine was fine, the temperature just right. He took another sip. Charly smoked quickly, without touching her Selters.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘Let’s not keep on about this Guido business. We have more important things to discuss.’

Rath watched his worst fears become reality. That was how he would have started if he’d wanted to draw a line, but that wasn’t what he wanted, damn it! Not what he wanted at all.

He kept looking at her mouth, waiting for the next sentence, not daring to breath. She seemed to find it difficult to say what she had to say. The silence lasted an age, and Rath feared he might suffocate.

‘You remember Professor Heymann,’ she said at length. ‘Criminal law. My supervisor if I ever do a doctorate.’

Rath only vaguely remembered, but nodded anyway. The legal world, all these academic circles, had always felt alien to him. He had picked Charly up from the odd meeting and run into a few professors or classmates in the process but, apart from the grinning man, he couldn’t remember a single face. If Heymann was who he thought he was, then he must be pushing sixty, perhaps even seventy. Rath felt his mouth grow dry. What was this? Was she about to confess to a relationship with her former professor?

‘Heymann made me an offer,’ she continued. ‘I wanted to discuss it with you before I decided, but after last week…’ She lit a new Juno from the old one. ‘Today I accepted.’ She stubbed out the smoked cigarette. ‘I’m accompanying him to Paris for six months. An international research project. Territorial jurisdictions of criminal law.’

Only now did she sip her mineral water.

Rath waited for more, but nothing came. That was her news. Charly wanted to go abroad with her professor for six months. Nothing more and nothing less, and harmless in comparison with what he had been expecting.

‘Paris is nice,’ he said simply. What a stupid comment, but it didn’t matter anymore. He felt a weight lifted from his shoulders, simply falling away from him.

‘Is that all you have to say?’

He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘When?’ he asked, but he might just as well have asked ‘how’ or ‘why’ or ‘how many?’ It was pure chance that his response made sense. He could barely think.

‘Next semester. I’d have to leave in September.’

Suddenly, even the wine tasted better. He had been expecting the worst and, against that, half a year didn’t seem nearly so bad. He’d get through it.

Instinctively, he felt for the little package in his inside pocket. As good as her news was, now wasn’t the right time for the rings. Could he really propose now, when she was about to disappear for half a year? How would that look? Celebrate their engagement, then pack his fiancée off to foreign parts? With another man! He could imagine the gossip, the well-meaning advice. His parents alone would…

‘Say something!’

She was expecting an answer.

‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘That means Weber and the Lichtenberg District Court can go get knotted, right?’

Charly laughed uncertainly, and he realised that a weight had been lifted from her too. ‘I’m not sure I’d put it quite like that, but you’re right. A joint project with Heymann means I can kiss goodbye to preparatory service in Lichtenberg.’

‘Then it’s the best thing you can do.’ Rath waved the waiter over and ordered a bottle of fizz. ‘We have to make a toast,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

‘I… I didn’t know what you would say. I didn’t know what I wanted myself.’

‘But now you do.’ For once Rath felt comfortable in the role of sponsor.

Charly nodded.

‘What about your old dream of joining CID? Are you giving that up in favour of an academic career?’

She grinned broadly. ‘I could start in a year’s time as a police cadet, without the preparatory service. I have Gennat’s word.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘When I was with Nebe and Lange last week, in the Castle.’

‘You didn’t tell me about that either?’ She shrugged. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘Buddha doesn’t make that sort of promise to just anyone.’

‘Thank you.’ She stubbed out her cigarette, and, at last, didn’t light a new one. The air was thick with smoke.

‘Good news all round,’ Rath said. ‘That means in a year from now, you’ll be back in the Castle.’ He smiled, and he didn’t even have to strain. ‘I wonder who’ll be showing you the ropes. I’m getting my first taste with a cadet right now. Maybe at some point Gennat will entrust me with the more problematic cases.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘You’d have to show a little more respect for authority…’

‘You show me the ropes?’ She feigned indignation. ‘You should be so lucky! Besides, I wouldn’t be a cadet in Homicide, but G Division. Might I remind you that I’m a woman.’

‘So I’ll apply for a transfer.’

Charly laughed in that unbridled way he adored. She was so loud other people looked across at them. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I was just picturing it.’ G Division was the women’s CID.

‘What will we do while you’re away,’ he asked. ‘Will we see each other for the occasional weekend?’

‘Paris is a long way away. I won’t get back to Berlin very often.’

‘What about Cologne? That’s half way.’

He said it without thinking. His home city didn’t evoke good memories in Charly. Or, for that matter, in him. They were silent for a moment. Fortunately the waiter came with the bottle of champagne and took their order at the same time. Charly, who had been sipping like a canary on a diet, had brought her appetite. They clinked glasses.

‘To us,’ Rath said, hoping he hadn’t taken things too far. He was pretty good at misreading situations, above all situations that involved Charly, but she raised her glass and gave him a blissful smile.

‘To us,’ she said.

At that moment the first drops of rain fell on the awning. The balmy summer’s night on the terrace had come to nothing. They would have to move inside, not that it mattered now.

67

The address of the 127th police precinct was Bayreuther Strasse 13, but the station building itself was on Wittenbergplatz, close to the U-Bahn, bus and tram stations which thousands of Berliners used on their journeys to and from work. Thus the big letters painted in reddish brown across its front were seen by a great number of people that morning. Huge letters, smeared crudely across the wall.

In Communist areas, slogans scrawled overnight were usually political and might be normal, but here in the west they were anything but. The dirty-red graffiti, wet and running down the wall, had a deeply unsettling effect. Whether or not it was political was open to debate, but it certainly provided ample conversation material on an otherwise drab morning.

Not least for the three men in the Berlin Police Commissioner’s office currently discussing what it could mean.

Commissioner Albert Grzesinski, back on duty only yesterday, skimmed through the black and white photographs on his desk, which were still damp from the lab, and shook his head. He wished he could change the words, but they stubbornly remained the same.

A MURDERER WORKS IN THIS PIG PRECINCT! REVENGE FOR BENNY S.

‘The 127th precinct?’ Grzesinski asked, in his characteristically sober way.

Ernst Gennat nodded, his ample form spread across the visitor’s chair.

‘Why did the ward sergeant call in Homicide? I hope he isn’t taking this nonsense seriously?’

‘He didn’t,’ Gennat said. ‘Homicide is here of its own accord. One of my officers changes at Wittenbergplatz on his way to work. He notified me and I sent Herr Lange to photograph the whole mess.’ Andreas Lange sat in the second visitor’s chair. ‘I spoke to the ward sergeant over the telephone,’ Gennat continued. ‘He’s putting it down to Communists, which is unusual enough in this area. But I…’ he pointed towards Lange, ‘ … that is, we don’t agree.’

‘Go on.’ Grzesinski waved his hand impatiently.

Gennat explained that Homicide currently suspected one of the precinct’s officers of murder, outlining the fatal incident at KaDeWe. When he mentioned the name of the dead boy, Benjamin Singer, Grzesinski shook his head. When Gennat finished, he shook it again. ‘A uniformed officer, who causes a boy to fall to his death,’ he said, more or less stunned. ‘Are you certain?’

‘Everything points that way. Above all the pathology report. Of course, that’s not enough for the courts, which is why we’ve been handling the matter as discreetly as possible.’

‘So discreetly that not even I knew about it.’

‘Well, now you do,’ Gennat shrugged.

Lange raised his hand as if he were in school.

‘Not so formal, man,’ Grzesinski said. ‘You can speak freely here.’

Lange’s face turned red. ‘We’re assuming that the graffiti comes from the dead boy’s female accomplice, who almost certainly witnessed his fall. We received an anonymous telephone call.’

‘And you think this witness will be able to help you. A juvenile department store thief – not exactly ideal.’

‘She’s the only witness we have,’ Lange said.

‘Then see to it that you bring her in as soon as possible.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

He looked at Gennat. ‘Who else knows about this?

‘So far, only Officer Lange, who came to me with his suspicions right away, Dr Schwartz, and myself. I’ve deliberately involved as few people as possible.’

‘Good, but with this…’ Grzesinski pointed towards the photos on his desk, ‘…it could grow out of all proportion. We need to send someone to keep the press quiet.’

‘With respect, Sir, I think that would be a mistake,’ Gennat said. ‘Best let sleeping dogs lie.’

‘So, what should we do, in your opinion?’

‘Nothing. The best thing would be to do nothing. If the press believe the story about Communist graffiti we won’t have any trouble. As soon as we issue a denial, the problems will start.’

Unlike his predecessor, Karl Zörgiebel, Albert Grzesinski was capable of conceding mistakes in front of colleagues. ‘You’re right. So what do we do with this sergeant? If we stick him in custody, the press will have a field day. Even if we didn’t leak anything about our suspicions, journalists would have plenty of reasons to start digging.’

‘That’s my view too,’ said Gennat. ‘We would only create unease among our fellow officers, and such evidence as we have might not be enough for the magistrate.’

‘Nevertheless, you’ll agree that I cannot simply allow an officer accused of such a heinous crime to carry on as if nothing has occurred.’

‘Absolutely, Sir.’

‘Then I’ll suspend him from duty with immediate effect.’

‘It’s probably for the best,’ Gennat said. ‘But you’ll need plausible grounds.’

‘We have them already,’ Grzesinski said. ‘In the wake of the intense pressure he has faced since the tragic events at KaDeWe, Sergeant Major Kuschke has been temporarily excused from duty. The measure is taken to avoid placing further strain on his work, as well as that of his colleagues.’

‘There is something else,’ Lange said, taking a brown envelope from his jacket and placing it on Grzesinski’s desk. ‘We should deal with this too, before the press get wind of it and start joining the dots.’

The commissioner opened the envelope. ‘What is it?’

‘After taking the photographs at Wittenbergplatz, I went out to Kuschke’s home. It’s nearby, in Schöneberg.’

Grzesinski held the envelope upside down and half a dozen photos came tumbling out.

‘Kuschke hasn’t reported this, which I find very surprising. It reinforces our suspicion that the man has something to hide.’

Grzesinski listened attentively, looking at the photos spread across his desk. They showed a Schöneberg tenement, on the front of which four words were hastily scrawled.

REVENGE FOR BENNY S.

68

Charly hadn’t been up this early in a long time, especially not after such a late night, but business at Wertheim began with the lark. She wrenched herself out of bed, showered and took the U-Bahn to Kaiserhof. Alighting there she retraced her steps to Vossstrasse, past the Department of Justice and country embassies that filled one side of the street, with its relics of Berlin’s Royal Prussian history. On the other side was an enormous building complex several hundred metres long, which, despite its ornamentations, appeared strangely industrial.

Wertheim’s front looked onto Leipziger Strasse, leaving Vossstrasse a view of its rear. The once quiet street had become the department store’s lifeline, feeding the hungry Moloch with an endless supply of goods to keep its thousands of daily customers happy. It was in Vossstrasse that the delivery vans arrived with fresh produce, in Vossstrasse the rubbish trucks picked up whatever wasn’t sold, and in Vossstrasse the majority of Wertheim employees reported for duty. To gain access they passed through a huge wrought-iron gate, more like the entrance to a castle or villa than the delivery area of a department store.

Charly yawned. She hadn’t had much sleep. The evening with Gereon had turned out differently than expected, and she hadn’t drunk the champagne alone after all. They shared the crab meat salad too; enjoyed a little picnic in bed. After. And before.

That was yesterday, but this morning things were no clearer. Six months abroad with Heymann, a decision made over Gereon’s head, and he had accepted it. Then, somehow, she had yielded to his charm again, his stupid jokes. When had the turning point come? Certainly by the time she switched from mineral water to champagne, and then later to white wine, leaving all her best-laid plans in the dust. They had wound up back at Spenerstrasse, in bed – the place where they had always understood each other best.

The alarm clock this morning had sounded brutally early. She let Gereon sleep on and got up, sitting at the kitchen table with a coffee after her shower. She wanted to smoke but her Junos were finished, and so she reached inside Gereon’s jacket for his Overstolz. Whereupon she discovered the rings.

She had a guilty conscience even now thinking about it. Two identical rings that looked damn expensive, and one of them fit her ring finger perfectly. The other was a little bigger.

Damn it! So many opposing thoughts ran through her mind that she had to sit down. In the process she even forgot about the cigarettes.

Engagement rings! He had engagement rings in his pocket!

Was he really planning to propose yesterday evening, on the same night she had summoned him to talk? With Gereon, anything was possible. She couldn’t help thinking back to Cologne, to that awful evening in the restaurant, to the roses he had used to strike Guido. He could have been carrying these rings around for days, weeks, months, waiting for the right moment. It seemed hard to imagine that Gereon Rath, who could be pretty bold when dealing with superiors and criminals, was too cowardly, or too meek, or whatever, to ask for her hand in marriage. But, then again, was it really? Perhaps it wasn’t.

She didn’t know whether it was joy or despair, this feeling that was coursing through her veins, gnawing away at her insides and, even more than her jumbled thoughts, had her slumped on the nearest chair.

She always thought she knew what she wanted. But with Gereon she wasn’t sure. He had disappointed her more than anyone in her life, but she had never given up on him and, if that was a mistake, it was one she savoured with every fibre of her being.

The six months they would have to spend apart suddenly seemed like a godsend. If after these six months she still didn’t know what she wanted, whether she wanted to share her life with him or not, then perhaps she really was beyond help. Until then – well, why shouldn’t she just enjoy being with him, and cast all reservations aside.

At the Wertheim gate a lorry halted directly beside her, smelling of blood and diesel. On the driver’s door was the logo of the Central Stockyard and Slaughterhouse. The driver got out and showed the uniformed guard his papers, climbed back and drove into the courtyard. It proved trickier for Charly to enter. No papers, no right of access. Not even her feminine wiles, so effective on Herr Eick, could help. The man at the gate was unmoved.

‘No entry for unauthorised persons!’ seemed to be the only sentence he knew.

‘I’m looking for an Erich Rambow.’

She might as well have been talking to the no parking sign. After two or three more attempts, the gatekeeper froze to a statue and simply ceased to react, not so much as flinching until the next truck appeared, likewise bearing the Central Stockyard and Slaughterhouse logo. The meat they handled at Wertheim must come from Friedrichshain.

For the first time in her life she found herself thinking a little queasily about the mountains of flesh Berlin must consume each day, and felt a sudden desire for a simple green salad. The smell of blood soon overwhelmed everything else, leaving no room for vegetarian thoughts. A cigarette helped.

She stood smoking in Vossstrasse, waiting for she didn’t know who. Alex’s erstwhile suitor must be in his early or mid-twenties, she thought, keeping an eye out for men who fitted this description. Someone approached now who looked like a butcher’s apprentice. She intercepted him a few metres outside the gate.

‘Are you Erich Rambow?’

The boy was twenty at most and looked her up and down unashamedly. ‘What do I get if I am?’ he asked.

Charly was speechless, but only for a moment, then she found an appropriate response. ‘How about a boot between your legs?’ She hadn’t grown up in Moabit for nothing.

‘Alright, alright!’ The boy raised his hands in self-defence. ‘I wouldn’t like to be in Erich’s shoes.’ He shook his head, swung his bag over his shoulder and carried on to the gate, where he showed the gatekeeper his time card and went inside. Charly gazed after him. This could get interesting. Three more attempts, she told herself, and no more. She had better things to do than listen to little boys cracking wise.

The next candidate approached riding a bicycle. He braked furiously in front of the entrance. Charly went over and tried her luck again, this time armed with a proper comeback.

‘Erich Rambow?’

‘Who’s asking?’

It sounded more suspicious than hostile. He looked a little spare for a butcher, but his flushed cheeks denoted the slightly raised blood pressure common among meat-eaters.

‘I’m a friend of Alexandra Reinhold,’ she said.

Rambow dismounted and pushed the old boneshaker in the direction of the gate. ‘OK,’ he said, still suspicious. He had a thick Berlin accent. ‘What is it you want from me?’

‘I’m looking for Alex. You’re friends with her, aren’t you?’

‘I haven’t seen her in ages. You’re asking the wrong man. She ran away, didn’t she? Now let me past. I’m running late already.’

Erich Rambow ditched her, waved his time card at the gatekeeper and entered. Countless bicycles gleamed in the sun next to the steps by the loading platform. He parked his alongside and bounded up. Standing at the door for a moment and gripping its metal handle, his eyes searched for Charly through the bars of the fence. He looked her up and down shamelessly, which she observed, back turned, from the safety of her make-up mirror, before disappearing inside the enormous building.

She waited for a moment before approaching the gatekeeper again.

‘No entry for unauthorised persons,’ he began, before she could speak.

‘I don’t want to go in,’ she said, pleased at the look of bafflement on the man’s face. ‘When do staff in the butcher’s usually finish for the evening?’

This time, the gatekeeper was more forthcoming. He was probably just glad to be rid of a nuisance like her.

69

Margot Kohn was flabbergasted. Her nephew Abraham was in Berlin, her brother’s son? She didn’t know anything about it. And that Nathan’s boy was a gangster, a killer to boot, well, she just couldn’t believe it.

‘My brother founded a textile dealership in America, which Abraham’s been running for years.’ She looked outraged. ‘A gangster, you say? He’s a respectable textile trader!’

‘Has your brother retired?’ Rath asked, pouring oil on troubled waters.

‘My brother is dead.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.’

This was anything but a model interrogation. Rath glanced at Tornow, who seemed unmoved. At that moment a girl broke the embarrassed silence with a tray of tea and biscuits.

They sat in an elegant drawing room, a little old-fashioned perhaps, but impeccably furnished. Margot Kohn, née Goldstein, lived with her family in the shadow of the Siegessäule, barely a stone’s throw away from the Reichstag and only a few doors from the Interior Ministry. From its beginnings as a pleasure quarter, over the decades In den Zelten had become a more exclusive address, especially where it bordered on the Alsenviertel, an area full of diplomats and politicians.

Rath looked out of the window at the stony bulk of the Kroll Opera House silhouetted by the grey-blue sky behind the trees. The girl handed out the tea things and, after a nod from her mistress, disappeared, leaving Margot Kohn to serve her unbidden visitors herself. Rath added a little sugar and glanced briefly at Tornow, who understood. Time for a change-up.

‘When did you last see your father?’ Tornow asked, and Rath was astonished by the sympathy in his voice.

Margot Kohn immediately opened up. ‘Yesterday afternoon,’ she said, skilfully balancing her teacup as she sat. ‘We visited him as a family. We’ve been there almost every day these past few weeks.’

‘And he was fighting fit yesterday afternoon?’

‘We all knew he didn’t have long, my father more than anyone, but he wasn’t afraid of death. He never has been. He is… or was, very devout. The only thing that troubled him was the pain.’

‘Didn’t he mention anything about Abraham; he must have visited a few days ago?’

She shook her head indignantly. ‘Even if he did, he didn’t kill his own grandfather! You don’t really think that, do you?’

Rath was about to respond when the door flew open and a man entered. There was no need for an introduction; this had to be Dr Hermann Kohn. The lawyer was surprised by their presence. ‘Might I ask what you are doing here?’

‘Just routine questioning,’ Rath replied. ‘Your wife is related to a fugitive murder suspect, and…’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Abraham Goldstein,’ Rath said, before Margot Kohn interrupted.

‘Nathan’s son,’ she said. ‘From America. Apparently he’s in Berlin.’ She showed her husband Saturday’s edition of Der Tag, which Rath had brought, containing, as it did, the essential information. Hermann Kohn skimmed the article, the details of which were clearly as unfamiliar to him as to his wife. Journalists at Der Tag weren’t averse to anti-Semitic sentiment.

‘This still doesn’t explain why you’re here. My brother-in-law emigrated to the United States many years ago. The last time Margot saw him she was fourteen…’

‘Fifteen!’ his wife sobbed. ‘Nathan is long since dead, and here you are telling me his son is a gangster and murderer, who might even have killed his own grandfather.’

‘We had your father’s body sent to Pathology precisely to rule out that possibility,’ Rath said, realising at the same moment how tactless he was being – and not just because Margot Kohn started heaving again.

‘Without informing his next of kin,’ the lawyer said.

‘With respect, we did, of course…’

‘You told Flegenheimer! Not me!’

‘Then you must have heard it from your brother-in-law.’

‘I heard it from the hospital. They said you had seized my father-in-law’s corpse.’

‘That’s not how I’d put it. We…’

‘How would you put it? We want to bury our father and, thanks to you, it isn’t possible. You are aware that Jewish tradition dictates that the funeral take place on the day of death?’

‘I wasn’t aware of that, no…’

‘Tell that to my brother-in-law. He’s a good deal less sympathetic than me.’

So… Rath thought. Dr Hermann Kohn regards himself as sympathetic.

‘As far as autopsies go, the Jewish faith is even clearer. They’re forbidden, since they take away the deceased’s dignity. Viewed from the perspective of an orthodox Jew, what you have done is so egregious that it led to my brother-in-law telephoning me for the first time in five years.’

‘Our forensic pathologist Dr Schwartz is Jewish himself and is sure to know…’

Again Kohn interrupted. ‘Magnus Schwartz is many things, but he is certainly not an orthodox Jew.’

‘You know Dr Schwartz?’

‘Magnus and I attended the same school.’ Kohn looked Rath straight in the eye, an expression that made the inspector hope he’d never encounter him in his professional capacity, before shaking his head, as if to satisfy a judge of the prosecution’s incompetence. ‘My father-in-law was terminally ill, and you suspect he was murdered. It’s utterly ridiculous.’

‘As I said, we’re having the corpse examined to eliminate the possibility that he was murdered.’ It was clear that arguing with Kohn was pointless.

‘Then off you go and get eliminating! So that the body can be released.’ Hermann Kohn gestured unequivocally towards the door. ‘And stop harassing me and my family. In case you hadn’t noticed, we are trying to mourn the death of my wife’s father.’

Their second visit was no more successful. Lea Flegenheimer lived with her family in a grand apartment in the Bayerische Viertel, where many other Jews resided, but where the Flegenheimers somehow didn’t fit. Her husband Ariel might have been a successful businessman but, in his black clothing, he was all too reminiscent of the Shtetl Jews who had settled in the Scheunenviertel around Grenadierstrasse. His Jewish neighbours didn’t approve, at least that was Rath’s impression when they entered the building and asked for the Flegenheimer family. The disdain and incomprehension that the liberal Jew Hermann Kohn felt towards his orthodox brother-in-law were much in evidence here too.

Nevertheless, as different as the families that the Goldstein sisters had married into were, they were united in their outrage that their American nephew should be sought in a Berlin murder investigation.

‘It must be a case of mistaken identity,’ Lea Flegenheimer said. ‘I said that to your colleagues at the morgue. My nephew isn’t in Berlin; if he was, he’d have been in touch.’ The woman must have shed a lot of tears in the last few hours. ‘Even so, they refused to release Father.’

Rath was surprised. ‘You’ve visited the morgue?’

‘Of course!’ Ariel Flegenheimer said. ‘Yesterday evening, just after Dr Friedländer informed us that you had had our dead father removed from the hospital.’

Though he looked as if he had just arrived from Grodno, Flegenheimer spoke perfect German, without a trace of Yiddish accent. If his speech was modified by any dialect it was Berlin’s. The beard, sidelocks and black caftan didn’t bespeak his origins, but his religious faith. The mezuzah on the doorpost told visitors they were entering a Jewish apartment where religion played a decisive role. Everywhere Rath looked, there was evidence of their faith. He was reminded of his childhood. Aunt Lisbeth’s house had a similar feel, though she was Catholic, of course, with crucifixes, sacred images and rosary beads everywhere. He had always hated visiting his aunt, and he felt as uncomfortable now. It didn’t help that Ariel Flegenheimer made no effort to put him at his ease.

‘The way you’re treating my father-in-law: violating the dignity of his body. We should have buried him yesterday evening!’

‘If you could just be patient for a little longer.’

‘This isn’t about my patience, but your lack of respect. The soul remains present until the body is buried. Only then does it leave this world.’ He seemed, genuinely, to believe this. ‘That’s why Joseph is holding Shmira with him.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘My son. He’s been keeping watch over his grandfather’s body overnight.’

‘In the morgue?’

‘It was you who had our father sent there. If it was up to us, we’d have buried him by now. Or at least kept watch over him here. I don’t understand why you did it in the first place.’

‘That’s exactly what we’re here to talk about.’ Rath no longer made any effort to conceal his impatience. ‘We’re hoping to rule out the possibility that Jakob Goldstein died an unnatural death. That’s why we’re having the corpse examined.’

Flegenheimer jumped to his feet. ‘That is simply outrageous!’

‘Take it easy. There will be no autopsy. I’ve spoken with Pathology to ensure that blood is taken only for the purposes of examination.’

‘What makes you think he could have died an unnatural death? My father-in-law was terminally ill.’

‘It’s just surprising that he should die at precisely the moment your nephew, Abraham Goldstein, was in his room.’

‘Stop talking nonsense! My nephew would have visited us long ago if he were in Berlin.’

Rath showed them the newspaper article. The Flegenheimers skimmed it and looked incensed.

Lea Flegenheimer shook her head. ‘It can’t be.’

‘I thought you had never met him.’

‘I know… knew my brother. I just…’ she pounded the newspaper with her fists. ‘I just can’t believe that’s his son.’

‘But it is, Frau Flegenheimer,’ Rath said. ‘And I have met your son. We’ll find out whether or not he’s responsible for the death of this SA officer, but it is beyond question that Abraham Goldstein is under police surveillance in the USA as a multiple homicide suspect.’

‘What does all this have to do with my father-in-law’s corpse?’

‘It’s purely a matter of routine,’ Rath said. ‘This is the procedure the public prosecutor is obliged to follow should there be anything unusual about the circumstances of death. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve already spoken with your brother-in-law about the legal background.’

With nothing to be gained, Rath prepared to beat an orderly retreat. This visit had been just as pointless as the first. The Goldstein sisters clearly had no idea where their nephew was; they didn’t even know who he was.

He stood up. Tornow, who until now hadn’t uttered a single word save for ‘Good morning’, did likewise. Rath handed Lea Flegenheimer his card. ‘If your nephew should get in touch, please let me know.’

The woman’s mind seemed to be elsewhere.

‘I hope you’ll see to it that my father-in-law can be buried soon,’ Ariel Flegenheimer said. ‘The Aninut mustn’t be extended any longer than is necessary.’

‘The what?’

‘The period of mourning between death and burial.’

‘Ultimately, it’s the public prosecutor who decides,’ Rath said, ‘but I promise to contact you as soon as I know more.’

He took his hat and, heading for the door, halted at the bookshelves and the books of the Torah. In front was a small metal tin with a coin slot, a kind of piggy bank.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘It’s our Tzedakah box,’ Flegenheimer explained. ‘If you like, you can put in a few coins. Give Tzedakah.’

‘Give what?’

‘A donation. Not for us. We’re collecting for a charitable cause. Every day we set aside a little of the change encumbering our purses.’

The idea appealed to Rath. He took out his wallet and dropped in a few coins. Tornow kept hold of his money, but Rath couldn’t blame him; a new lieutenant in CID was hardly going to be rolling in it.

‘Strange people,’ Tornow said after they left the flat. ‘They could try and adapt a little, having moved to Germany.’

‘There have been Flegenheimers here for generations. They’re Prussian through and through. It’s the Goldsteins who arrived from the East.’

‘So why does he act as if he just got in from Poland?’

‘Jeder Jeck ist anders,’ Rath said.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘It’s a saying in Cologne. It means something like: Let every man seek heaven in his own fashion.’

‘That’s Old Fritz, isn’t it?’

‘It was one of you Prussians, anyway.’

As a Prussian, Tornow didn’t find being lumped together with Ariel Flegenheimer amusing. He fell quiet, but kept a straight face, only breaking his silence in the Buick. ‘Where are we going?’ he asked. Rath drove north via Friedrich-Ebert-Strasse, rather than take the turning for Alex at Potsdamer Platz.

‘Hannoversche Strasse,’ Rath said. ‘We’ll have this done and dusted by lunchtime.’

Joseph Flegenheimer was recognisable from a long way off. Dressed like his father, he was especially conspicuous in Pathology where most workers wore white. The man wasn’t thirty but wore a Methuselah-like full beard. He had placed a prayer shawl over his black caftan, and bobbed back and forth as though he were in a synagogue rather than the lobby of the morgue. He seemed to take his religion even more seriously than his father.

Thinking of Abraham Goldstein, Rath could scarcely believe the two men were related. Cousins! But then he recalled his own cousin Martin, Aunt Lisbeth’s son, who had also spent the whole day praying, having built a little altar in his bedroom underneath a sombre crucifix. Martin had become a monk at eighteen, maybe even a priest. Rath could no longer say; he had avoided his aunt’s family ever since he was able to decide who to visit for himself. He remembered not being able to play with Martin, or talk to him much either.

Dr Schwartz, a man who wasn’t easily intimidated, seemed nervous when he greeted them, but perhaps he was just tired. Rath introduced his new colleague.

‘A cadet,’ said Schwartz, ‘and straight into Homicide. Congratulations! I hope you have a strong stomach.’

‘We’ll see,’ Tornow said, clearly unimpressed. He gestured towards the praying man. ‘I see you have company?’

Schwartz forced a smile. ‘We Jews can be a real nuisance, can’t we? No one better when it comes to pig-headedness.’ He led them into the autopsy room. ‘He was here when I arrived this morning. The porter said he couldn’t be dissuaded; wanted to be as close as possible to his grandfather. I tried to encourage him to visit the canteen at the Charité or one of the nice cafes nearby, but he insisted on staying here to pray.’

‘Have you examined the corpse?’ Rath asked. ‘I’d like to release the body as soon as possible.’

‘The examination is complete,’ Schwartz said, leading them to the gurney on which the covered corpse lay. ‘Here he is, but I’m afraid his release is up to the public prosecutor.’

‘Perhaps we overreacted – because he had a visitor just before he died. It might have been better not to send him at all.’

‘Don’t say that. If you ask me, people don’t arrange for autopsies as often as they should. Still, that would mean having more staff here, and that’s something no one’s willing to pay for. The reason most killers get away – and this is my avowed opinion – is that no one believes a murder has been committed in the first place.’

‘And in this case?’

‘Hard to say, but I wouldn’t call it murder.’ He paused thoughtfully. ‘Death was a relief for this old man. The final stages of pancreatic cancer. The poor fellow must have been in terrible pain.’

‘You didn’t open him up, did you?’ Rath asked, horrified. ‘I telephoned here specifically and left a message with the por…’

‘I know better than to open the corpse of an orthodox Jew. I’d need to have a very good reason for that. No, I had Dr Friedländer send his medical file.’

‘So, he did die a natural death after all.’

‘Like I said, it’s hard to say. I didn’t find any traces of external trauma on his body – apart from injection sites from various needles. But the blood examination revealed something interesting: a high concentration of morphine, over a thousand nanograms per millilitre.’ Dr Schwartz looked over the rim of his glasses, first at Rath then at Tornow. ‘Dr Friedländer assures me he only administered morphine in moderation, and I’ve no reason to disbelieve him.’

‘What are you trying to tell me?’ Rath asked.

Schwartz hunched his shoulders. ‘That’s for you to find out, but I wouldn’t discount the possibility that someone tried to spare the man further suffering.’ He nodded towards the frosted glass in the swing doors where the shadow of the praying Flegenheimer was still bobbing up and down.

‘It’s up to you whether you choose to pursue what is no more than a hunch. If it was a family member, then their conscience ought to be punishment enough. For an orthodox Jew, assisted suicide is forbidden under any circumstances, no matter how adverse.’ He gazed over his spectacles. ‘Don’t forget it was we Jews who invented Job.’

70

At least there was a cafe, so Charly didn’t have to loiter on the street.

What were they thinking? A surveillance job without a car? She stirred her coffee and looked across to the house front opposite: REVENGE FOR BENNY S.

Keeping Sergeant Major Jochen Kuschke under surveillance was a tedious chore, unlike the search for Alex, which dovetailed nicely with her own interests. She had only been shadowing Kuschke in the evenings as agreed, but the call from Lange at lunchtime had changed all that. He had surprising news. ‘Kuschke is going on temporary leave from today. This alters our plans.’

Above all, it altered Charly’s plans. She had intended to surprise Gereon and have lunch with him somewhere, since they hadn’t been able to eat breakfast together. Instead, Lange had given her Kuschke’s address in Winterfeldtstrasse, a solidly middle-class neighbourhood, and identified this cafe as an ideal observation post. She sat at a window seat behind a curtain, with an excellent view of the street outside. The view in the opposite direction was less good, however, owing to the reflection in the glass pane. As agreed, she had called Lange when she arrived.

‘I’m here,’ she had said quietly, so that the staff behind the counter couldn’t hear. ‘What happens if he isn’t there?’

‘He’s there, believe me. I think you’ll catch sight of him soon.’

Lange proved to be right. Charly had just added milk to her second cup of coffee, and lit her first cigarette, when he emerged. There was no mistaking the bandage across his face. In all likelihood, Kuschke had Alex to thank for that little keepsake. He carried a pail of water, a scrubbing brush and a wooden stepladder. After unfolding the ladder in front of the mural, he climbed up and began to scrub, starting with the word REVENGE.

Charly looked on calmly. She was starting to enjoy this. It was always nice watching other people work, but in this case it was particularly gratifying to know that the words most likely belonged to Alex, which reminded her of her plans for the afternoon. Another hour and she would have to go and collect her bicycle from Moabit.

From time to time people would speak to Kuschke, but he didn’t seem to like it and answered with a few terse words. Most times he didn’t even turn, just kept on scrubbing. The colour was coming off nicely; the word REVENGE was now scarcely legible. FOR would be next.

She glanced at her watch. Time was getting on if she didn’t want to miss Erich Rambow. She drank the last of her coffee, placed a one-mark coin beside the cup and set off. The search for Alex took priority: Lange said so himself.

Half an hour later she stood in the Wertheim delivery area for the second time that day. On this occasion, however, she stayed in the background. She had taken Greta’s Miele bicycle out of the cellar this morning after returning from Wertheim and pumped up the tyres. She hadn’t ridden one like it for a long time but, for today’s operation, it was essential.

He emerged punctually. Erich Rambow pushed his bicycle out with the first wave of Wertheim employees. To the carrier he attached a package dripping with blood, probably his supper or offcuts for the dog. He mounted on Vossstrasse and pedalled off. Charly swung herself onto Greta’s rickety two-wheeler and followed.

Erich Rambow cycled mighty quick; she pedalled hard to keep up, taking care not to get too close. She had taken the precaution of changing her clothes, wearing completely different colours from this morning, a subdued mixture of brown and grey.

Rambow cycled right across town, via Werderscher Markt and Königstrasse, out towards the east. Passing Alexanderplatz he skilfully weaved his way through the maze of diversions created by the construction site; Charly prayed that no one from the Castle would see her cycling after a scrawny butcher’s apprentice. Luckily no one did, and she was able to stay on him. She just hoped he didn’t live too far out east, as she was beginning to run out of puff. Rambow turned uphill onto Greifswalder Strasse, before, finally, riding into a rear courtyard in Lippehner Strasse. The smell of the nearby brewery hung in the air: malt and mash.

Charly dismounted and peered carefully through the entrance to the courtyard to see Rambow carrying his bike down a set of basement steps. She felt her heart pumping and her lungs gasping for air, but got her breath back before he returned with the blood-soaked package in his hand. He vanished inside the rear building. She waited a moment, then went over, leaning her bicycle against the wall and looking at the mailboxes until she found his name. Fam. Günter Rambow. So, he lived with his parents. Good to know. She mounted the bicycle again, cycling at full pelt through the entrance and back onto the road. She had to look like she was in a hurry, with a long journey still ahead. No one could suspect that she had no intention of leaving the neighbourhood.

71

They had found the stolen ambulance at last. Böhm left a message with Erika Voss while Rath was on his lunch break with Tornow and Gräf: Warrants had located the vehicle near the freight depot at Moabit. It was empty of course; of Goldstein, not a trace.

‘DCI Böhm said you should head out there with your team, Inspector,’ Erika Voss said.

‘Reinhold, take our cadet with you,’ Rath said. ‘I have a meeting I can’t afford to postpone.’

In the canteen Rath had the impression that the two young men got on well. Gräf was scarcely older than Tornow, but his career path had been very different, having never served in uniform. As far as Rath knew, Gräf had worked in Homicide almost from the start, which spoke volumes, as Buddha only took the best. There had been a few rotten eggs, such as Czerwinski or Brenner, but Czerwinski, at least, must have been good once upon a time. Over the years though, he had been passed over too often and subsequently lost all motivation and ambition. As for Brenner? The idiot had been put out to pasture. After last year’s disciplinary proceedings they had transferred him to East Prussia, to the furthest reaches of the country, where he couldn’t get up to any mischief. He was probably sitting in a stuffy office plotting his revenge on Gereon Rath. In reality, he had been responsible for his own downfall, but he wouldn’t see it like that.

Even at lunchtime, conversation had centred around Goldstein.

‘I don’t know why they didn’t just nab him at the border and send him straight back home,’ Gräf said. Tornow agreed.

‘It’s a disgrace that a proven criminal should be allowed to do simply as he pleases.’

The two men had worked themselves into a rage, and Rath had no choice but to play the considered older colleague. He could understand where they were coming from but, ultimately, there was no alternative to the legal system that said you were innocent until proven guilty. It wasn’t enough simply to be thought of as a criminal.

‘Do you need the car for your meeting?’ Gräf asked.

‘You take it,’ Rath said. It wouldn’t hurt to make Gräf’s task at the freight depot a little more appealing. Better to drive to Moabit in a Buick than a green Opel from the motor pool. He tossed him the keys.

‘What kind of meeting is it then?’ Gräf asked. He had always stood out for his healthy curiosity.

‘An informant.’ Rath took his coat and hat from the stand and grabbed Kirie’s lead. ‘Besides, the dog could use some exercise.’

He could see from their eyes that they wanted more, but he left it at that, tipping his hat as he went. Erika Voss would be the most put out by his secrecy.

Stefan Fink, the journalist, was waiting for him at Aschinger in Leipziger Strasse. He had suggested the meeting point himself, though probably not without ulterior motive. This was where he and Rath had met for the first time. Fink, back then a reporter for B.Z., had tried to recruit the inspector as a press informant. Rath politely declined and was hung out to dry.

Fink had a huge plate of Holsteiner Schnitzel in front of him.

‘Bon appétit,’ Rath said.

‘Late lunch,’ Fink replied, wiping his hands with a serviette. ‘Inspector! I’m delighted that you’ve decided to work with me at last. You’ll see that it’s worth it.’

‘I’m not so sure about that.’ Rath tied Kirie’s lead to the table leg, ordered a few Bouletten for the dog and a small beer for himself. He sat and waited for Fink to devour his schnitzel.

‘Right,’ he said finally, dabbing his mouth. ‘I needed that. Five cups of coffee for breakfast.’ He laughed and lit a cigarette.

Rath grinned. The man was a muckraker, which would make this easier. ‘Good of you to find the time,’ he said. ‘You seem to be very busy.’

‘Always. So, what is it you have for me? You made it sound very exciting on the telephone.’

‘It’s pretty explosive. A man with serious gambling debts could be in a lot of trouble.’

Fink hesitated as a light went on in his head. ‘What am I supposed to do with that, and since when are you interested in illegal gambling?’

‘I’m interested in anything worth pursuing.’

‘Can’t you just tell me what this is about? You’re talking in riddles.’

Rath got out the by now very crumpled edition of Der Tag and unfolded it on the table. ‘Here, this is what it’s about.’

Fink forced a weary smile. ‘That’s yesterday’s. You want to see the latest?’ He placed his copy of Der Tag on top. It was hot off the press, the headline underlined in red.

Jewish Gangster Left To Terrorise Berlin.

‘Why are you stirring things up?’ Rath asked.

‘Because it’s what people want to read.’

‘Why is the man’s religion so important that it has to be included in the headline? It almost reads like Der Angriff.’

‘Has Isidor Weiss sent you?’ Fink laughed. ‘What do you want, Herr Rath? I thought you had information. This is old hat.’

‘I do have information.’

‘You mean about the gambling debts? Who cares about that?’

Fink still had a big mouth, but Rath heard uncertainty behind the steady voice.

‘No dice? Then how about something else?’ He lit a cigarette. ‘I can reveal, for example, that you personally will fare much better in the coming days and weeks if you tell me how you got hold of the police sketch and internal information which you used to cobble together your wretched article.’

Fink stubbed out his cigarette and sighed, as if Rath was worthy of his deepest sympathy. ‘Inspector, I can’t see what you hope to gain from this. How many times do you think your colleague Böhm has tried to pump me for information in the last few days? My answer remains the same.’

‘Which is?’

‘Shield law. A serious journalist doesn’t name his sources. At any price.’

‘Is that so?’ Rath pulled an envelope from his pocket.

‘A German journalist cannot be bribed!’

‘All in all you have debts totalling fourteen thousand Reichsmark from illegal gambling.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Fink said, though it was plain he did. He just couldn’t work out how the inspector had got hold of the information.

‘I think you do, and, whether you believe it or not, I’m the man who can help you. If, that is, you are prepared to cooperate.’

Fink lit his next cigarette. The look he gave Rath contained a mixture of suspicion, fear and contempt.

‘I can’t release you from your debts, but I can ensure that your deadline is extended. Perhaps spare you a few broken fingers in the process.’

‘What kind of cop are you? You’re not only corrupt, you’re trying to threaten me.’

‘You play your dirty little games, and I’ll play mine.’

Fink inhaled as if he needed nicotine like he needed oxygen. ‘What makes you think I have gambling debts?’

‘Sorry,’ Rath said. ‘Shield law.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. ‘I have to take the dog for a walk. She’s getting restless.’

He leaned over and untied Kirie, who began wagging her tail as soon as she realised they were leaving. Rath was halfway to the door when he heard Fink’s voice.

‘Stop. Wait!’

Rath kept his back to Fink. That way he didn’t have to hide his smile.

72

No, it was hardly the Adlon here. The brick walls were damp, the floor hard, and it stank of slurry and muck and salt and blood. To say nothing of chemicals; Alex didn’t even want to know how poisonous they were. And the cries at night. True, she had heard them from the axle factory too, but here they were so loud that she was startled out of sleep on the first night, believing the doomed animals were crying next to her.

What a place! The old tannery, or whatever Erich Rambow had called it. A hellhole, at any rate. Was she supposed to be grateful? She was, of course, after a fashion.

It was just too bad he was full of false hope again. She hadn’t seen him since she had been let go by Wertheim, and was glad to have closed that chapter in her life. Nevertheless, when she had waylaid him the day before yesterday, ready to take to her heels if he reacted strangely, she realised that nothing had changed. He still idolised her. She was using him, it was true, but it was a chance for him to get sex, so it all balanced out. As soon as this business with the murdering cop was over, she’d move with Vicky to another city, Breslau perhaps, where Vicky’s family came from. So far away the Berlin Police couldn’t lay a finger on her.

First, they had to finish things with the cop. Kuschke, the bastard’s name was, Vicky had followed him to his flat. Last night had been a success. A bucket of pig’s blood and a brush was all they needed. Vicky stood watch as Alex painted. It took barely five minutes. In Winterfeldtstrasse, even less.

Outside his flat they had screamed: ‘We’ll get you Kuschke!’ before running off laughing, as if it were a game of ring and run.

All the same, this was serious. They wanted to give the dirtbag a fright, to land him in trouble, before Alex launched the decisive strike.

If that meant spending a few days in this hole, so be it. She glanced at her pocket watch. Vicky was late again. Hopefully she wouldn’t burst in when she was busy with Erich. Still, maybe it would be OK. Alex could think of better things than ‘making love’, as Erich insisted on calling it, in this stench. At least he didn’t talk much. She heard steps and pricked up her ears. It couldn’t be Vicky or Erich; there were too many of them. Probably workers moving from one hall to the next. Fortunately, no one strayed into her dilapidated little hovel, which had been out of use so long it was beginning to rot. It still smelled like a slaughterhouse, however, the whole site did, a nauseating mix. It was what she had always hated about Erich, that the smell had seeped into his clothing by the end of the working day, but here she didn’t notice it so much.

The steps drew closer. Something was different this time, and she needed a moment to work out what it was. There were steps but no voices.

While she was still thinking, the great metal door swung open up ahead. All manner of thoughts raced through her mind as she prepared to retreat. She could only head further back, into the rear rooms, where the stench was at its worst. Damn it, what a stupid hiding place, but what else could Erich have come up with at such short notice? He could hardly have smuggled her under the bed at his parents’ house – or under his own bed, for that matter, which was a mattress in the kitchen – but he remembered the stockyard and slaughterhouse where he’d done his training, and the abandoned building there.

Alex stood with her back against the wall in the furthermost room, like a mouse caught in a trap. Hopefully the intruders would stay up at the front somewhere, otherwise her hideout would be blown, and she wasn’t sure she could find a new one at short notice. She had to stay out of sight of the cops. Vicky wasn’t much use at this sort of thing, having only ever stayed at the old axle factory. Unlike Benny and Alex, she, Fanny and Kotze hadn’t assigned each of their flats a different letter of the alphabet.

Alex peered through the crack, saw them but couldn’t make out their faces. It didn’t seem to be people from the slaughter yard: no blood-spattered white clothing. Instead they wore normal outdoor clothes, nothing special, patched in places and full of holes. A few harmless bums looking for a roof over their heads, just like her.

Or so she thought, until she heard them, and knew they were anything but harmless.

‘Where is she then, the whore? You’re certain she’s here?’

‘Of course. This is where Vicky came out of.’

Alex froze. She had hoped never to hear their voices again. The first belonged to Ralf Krahl, the biggest scumbag in the factory; the second to one of his crew, Felix Pirsig, nicknamed Peaches, a suitably incongruous moniker given his acne-ridden features. Only, right now, it was no laughing matter.

Damn it!

Peaches must have followed Vicky, even though Alex had warned her to be on her guard! Kralle and his crew had had it in for her since she rescued the court woman. A rat like Kralle had a long memory. He had never forgiven Alex for jamming a knife in his arse when he had groped her a while back, rubbing his hard dick up against her as he tried to stick his tongue down her throat. While he was busying himself, she pulled the knife and stabbed him through his trousers right in the middle of his fat arse. Since then he had left her in peace, even if she knew he was only biding his time.

Things were looking better for Kralle than for her. She didn’t even have her knife since the cops had taken it off her. Her best chance was if they assumed she was gone and gave up.

They didn’t oblige. Through the crack she watched them draw closer. There wasn’t much here to defend herself with. She’d have had more choice in the axle factory. Fucking hell! She had deliberately avoided going back there, but these arseholes just had to come to the one place where she thought she was safe.

A wooden handle lay under a mountain of junk.

She pulled until realising what it was: a fleshing knife, an old, rusty fleshing knife which would have been used to scrape the hide from left-over meat. The warped blade was rusty and blunt and had wooden handles on both sides. She grabbed it and searched for a hiding place as the steps drew closer.

No luck, God damnit! There was only one possibility left…

The door opened and suddenly Kralle was so close she was afraid he might hear her pounding heart. ‘Shit, Peaches. What kind of dump is this? Do you see that lezzer anywhere? Or are we supposed to fuck the rats?’

Alex was starting to believe in miracles, holding her breath behind the door, when she heard someone step past Kralle into the room. Felix Pirsig turned slowly around but, before he caught sight of her, she drew back and slammed the fleshing knife against his head. She only struck him with the handle, but it sounded like he had lost a few teeth as he tumbled to the floor. The momentum carried her along and out, so that she stood over Peaches as he bled, staring into the empty eyes of his friends.

73

Erika Voss was bursting with curiosity when Rath returned to the office, but his lips were sealed. Gräf and Tornow weren’t back from Moabit, so he withdrew to his desk and closed the door, which told her that he didn’t want to be disturbed. Kirie settled under the table, devouring a Boulette as a reward for covering so many kilometres. Rath took out a large brown envelope from between the newspapers he carried under his arm. He had good reason to conceal it from her curious gaze. He couldn’t reveal to anyone at the Castle how he had got hold of it. No doubt Böhm would have given anything for its contents, which made keeping it from him all the more appealing. Knowledge is power, his father used to say, and Engelbert Rath had made it to Police Director.

He opened the envelope. The police sketch of Abraham Goldstein tumbled out, complete with a few composition notes, alongside six typewritten sides which packed a serious punch. There was a profile of Abraham Goldstein, at least as informative as the one the Bureau of Investigation had sent by teleprinter two weeks ago, only this time in German, and supplemented by the information that the same Abraham Goldstein, whose weapon of choice was known to be a Remington 51, had come to blows with a troop of SA men in Humboldthain on Tuesday night. Then came summaries of two ballistics reports, one dated from Friday concerning the bullet that had been recovered from Humboldthain; the second, dated yesterday, dealing with two bullets of the same calibre which had been discovered in an unidentified corpse, found at the dump at Schöneiche a few days ago. This was confidential police information, ready made for the press and augmented by certain theories, for instance that the unidentified corpse could have been the victim of a gangland shooting, and that the bullets most likely stemmed from a single weapon, an American Remington 51.

Rath skimmed yesterday’s article. There was no mention of a Remington; Goldstein’s weapon of choice wasn’t mentioned until today’s edition. Jewish Gangster Left To Terrorise Berlin. Fink had taken up the suggestions of his informant and posited the theory that Abraham Goldstein was operating on behalf of a Communist-infiltrated Berlin Ringverein; and that the dead SA man and landfill site corpse were simply the first of many expected victims in an orchestrated campaign of retaliation.

Rath couldn’t help thinking of Hugo Lenz and Rudi Höller. Was it possible that this wasn’t a struggle between Berolina and the Nordpiraten at all? Was a third underworld organisation involved? Or had he simply been taken in by the freewheeling imagination of Stefan Fink, who had let the discovery of confidential police information go to his head?

He put the paper aside.

Realising that Rath had him over a barrel, Fink had passed on everything he knew, which, unfortunately, wasn’t quite as much as hoped for. He still didn’t know where the leak at Alex was. Fink had found the envelope with the sketch, Goldstein’s profile and the first ballistics report, on Sunday in his pigeonhole at work. The second report he had discovered in the same place yesterday afternoon. There was no reason to doubt him. Following their meeting at Aschinger, Rath had accompanied him into the nearby editorial office and made off with the envelope.

He returned the papers and sketch to the envelope and placed it in the lower drawer of his desk, stowing a few files on top and weighing it all down with the Funkturm miniature that stood on his desk, a souvenir commemorating his status as the broadcasting tower’s millionth visitor, and a prime example of the category Gifts that no one needs.

After that, he asked Erika Voss to keep an eye on Kirie, who was still lying under the desk, and stepped into the corridor.

Rath thanked God he had never had to work with Gregor Lanke. The head of Vice’s nephew had been taken on as a replacement for Rath when he was transferred to Homicide. Lanke junior hadn’t developed any ambition in the intervening years, and still hadn’t made it past the rank of detective despite his family connections. That said, he had now managed two years in Vice without rebuke, which, by his standards, was quite an achievement.

Rath stood outside the door and considered for a moment, before deciding on a surprise attack. He threw the door open and entered without knocking. He was in luck: Gregor Lanke was alone in his office. Rath’s successor hastily cleared a stack of photos into the top drawer of his desk.

‘What do you want?’ he asked, horrified, only to recognise Rath. ‘Inspector?’ he said. ‘Well, this is a surprise! Pining for your old workplace?’

Rath came straight to the point. ‘Good afternoon. I need to contact one of your informants. A Marion Bosetzky.’

Lanke stared at Rath. ‘Why? You’re a Homicide detective, aren’t you?’

The surprise tactic had worked. Lanke didn’t deny that he had an informant named Marion Bosetzky.

‘It concerns a homicide investigation.’

‘There are proper channels for this sort of thing,’ Lanke said. It seemed he had spoken with his uncle. ‘A request for inter-departmental cooperation, for example.’

‘Come on, now,’ Rath said. ‘Our offices are on the same floor, two minutes apart at most.’

‘Then why don’t you head back to your desk and fill out that official request?’

‘Why are you so keen to get rid of me? Is it so you can get back to looking at your smutty pictures?’ Rath gestured towards Lanke’s desk, which had once been his own.

‘I think you should leave. Otherwise I’ll be forced to ask Superintendent Gennat whether he isn’t giving his men enough to do.’ Lanke reached for the telephone.

Rath had got what he came for. ‘No offence meant,’ he said and smiled, knowing that was what would annoy Lanke most.

74

Erich Rambow parked his bicycle by a tree on Forckenbeckplatz. Charly dismounted in good time before she reached the square, and stood outside a medical supplies store. Reflected in the display window, she watched Rambow carefully lock his bicycle, shoulder his leather bag and set off at a determined march. She rested Greta’s two-wheeler against a lamppost and followed him at a safe distance, using the square’s many trees for cover.

She had had to wait around quarter of an hour by the shops in Lippehner Strasse before he emerged from the courtyard leading to his parents’ house, a leather bag strapped to his bicycle carrier. Rambow had then cycled directly to Friedrichshain, and this time Charly found it easier to keep pace.

Even as a pedestrian he moved at a decent lick. Nevertheless, he didn’t head for the main entrance to the stockyard and slaughterhouse as Charly expected, but ignored the gatehouse and sped down Eldenaer Strasse, keeping to the endless brick wall. She kept her distance on the other side of the street until he came to a halt, so abruptly that she only just managed to jump into an entranceway. When she peered out, he had vanished. She checked that he wasn’t still there before leaving her hideout to cross the street.

Examining the masonry discreetly she located a brick that had been dislodged. Only when she was certain that no one was looking did she pull herself up and swing her legs over the wall, lowering herself onto the other side immediately. She stood in the lane between two brick buildings. The smell here wasn’t sweet, a mixture of blood and slurry, and other things that didn’t bear thinking about.

There was no sign of Rambow. She moved to the end of the lane and looked around the corner. Nothing, not a living soul. The butcher and his leather bag had vanished.

75

If Peaches had been alone, she’d have been OK, perhaps even if it had just been him and Kralle, but there were five of them. Kralle, the coward, had sent his crew in first. Alex caught another of them with the knife handle, albeit not as cleanly as Peaches, but Theo, the strongest, landed a punch. She tumbled to the floor, clasping the fleshing knife tightly, but Theo and the others were on top of her straightaway. Theo kneeled on her upper arms, while the other two prised the blade out of her hand, before pressing her flailing, thrashing legs to the floor. She felt paralysed, utterly defenceless.

The only thing she could do now was spit but, when she did, Theo smacked her again, so hard she felt her lips swell and start to bleed.

Damn it, Vicky, Alex thought, as she tasted blood. You should have made sure no one was following you. What have you gone and done, girl?

Kralle’s grinning face appeared over her.

‘Let me go, you cowards!’ She struggled in vain.

‘Looks like we’ve got ourselves a wild horse,’ Kralle said, ‘that needs breaking in.’

Alex gave up trying to resist. ‘What do you want from me, damn it?’

Kralle pulled a knife. ‘I think you can guess that. This is the slaughterhouse, after all.’

He flicked open the knife and the boys gave a muffled, spiteful laugh. Alex thought she had earned Kralle’s respect after her exploits with the knife, and perhaps she had. Perhaps that was why he had brought four of his crew along. He might be out for revenge, but she didn’t think he’d kill her. He wanted to give her a fright – and was making a pretty good fist of it too. There were a whole lot of nasty things he could do with a knife without killing her. Alex tried to counter her fear with her fury at the crew who had made her life and Benny’s hell from the moment they first set foot in the axle factory.

‘Before we make for the block,’ Kralle said, putting his knife away, ‘it’s time to break this one in.’ Again the boys laughed, with the exception of Peaches, who had just announced his return to the living with a groan. ‘First I’m going to fuck you,’ Kralle continued, fumbling with his fly. ‘Then it’ll be their turn. How often, is up to us.’ He laughed. ‘Oh, one more thing, and this’ll be a novelty for you. This time there’ll be no exchange of cash.’

Alex reared up in her futility. The three boys held her down with an iron grip. Theo, the one she had thought was the most intelligent, dealt her another blow before climbing off her arms, which were now devoid of feeling.

‘So,’ Kralle said, taking his dick out of his trousers. ‘I think it’s time this little whore got her just desserts.’

He had an erection. The sadistic little arsehole was turned on by the fact that she was defenceless and bleeding from her mouth.

Alex couldn’t keep her trap shut, which had always been her undoing. ‘What the hell is that? Is your dick still hard from your boys sucking on it?’

One of them gave another knuckleheaded laugh, breaking off as Kralle’s grin froze to a grimace of rage and he kicked her in the guts. Pain went through her like a fist burrowing and tearing through her insides, and she almost blacked out.

They heaved her onto the rickety table that stood at the back of the room against the windowless rear wall. Although she felt she might throw up at any moment, she defended herself as best she could, but the two boys gripped her legs tight, using their entire body weight to prise them apart. Behind her, Theo held her arms at such an angle that every movement was painful, and Alex feared he might dislocate them. They laid her out ready for Kralle, their lord and master, who now approached with trousers pulled down.

It was useless. It was fucking useless.

She could only fight him with words now. He’d hit her again, but that was preferable to what he had in mind.

‘If you arse-fuckers touch me, you’ll regret it, I swear!’

‘Ho ho,’ Kralle grinned. ‘Where did you learn that word? More! I like it, and the boys too, am I right?’

The boys laughed idiotically.

‘Don’t laugh. I’ll stick you all!’

Kralle flicked his knife open again.

‘If I were you I’d keep quiet, or I’ll carve you a few extra holes to rent out.’

Theo twisted her arms painfully and forced her head back. She felt Kralle lifting her skirt with his stubby fingers, running the tip of his knife along the edge of her inner thigh.

‘All quiet now?’

She heard him panting and gritted her teeth. If she got out of here alive, she’d see they paid for this!

She started as he suddenly jerked the knife, but felt no pain. He had merely cut her underwear. His crew roared. Even Peaches, on the mend after spitting out a few teeth, gave a tentative laugh.

‘Keep her still,’ Kralle said, ‘so I can break her in.’

Alex closed her eyes. You’ll regret this Kralle, damn it!

She felt his sweaty hands on her thighs and sensed her whole body cramping; her nausea was returning. Would he lose interest if she vomited over him? She felt a sharp pain as Kralle penetrated her brutally, accompanied by the howls of his crew.

Alex tried to imagine herself away: away from her body, away from this stinking room, away from this moment, into a future where she’d take revenge on this arsehole and his crew, where every one of them would regret what they were doing to her. She tried to escape her body, but couldn’t; she felt his thrusts, heard his panting, felt her rage growing and growing, alongside a feeling of helplessness. Her despair almost brought her to tears, but she wouldn’t let it, no, these idiots would not see her cry! Dear God, please let this be over soon, she prayed, if you really exist, then let me out of here alive, damn it, so that I can avenge these bastards.

As if He had heard her prayers, Kralle stopped. At the same time, Alex felt the boys’ grip slacken, as though distracted by something.

‘What are you doing here, friend? Take a wrong turn, did you?’ said Kralle, as he pulled out of her.

‘It’d be better if you lot disappeared,’ said a familiar voice.

Kralle and his boys laughed.

‘I don’t believe it,’ Kralle said. ‘Feeling powerful, are you? After your night in the nuclear plant? Or do the pigs have us surrounded?’

‘Who can say,’ the voice said, and Alex suddenly realised who it belonged to. He was here much earlier than agreed, but she wasn’t about to hold that against him. She opened her eyes and lifted her head. Erich Rambow stood in the door, leather bag over his shoulder and a steadfast expression on his face, as if it were no problem dealing with these five boys, one of whom had just pulled a knife from his pocket, the rest looking like they were no strangers to violence. Erich shot her a brief glance, which said something like: Don’t worry. I have this under control.

‘Now listen to me,’ Kralle said, flicking his knife open. ‘I’m not sure you quite understand what this is, but I think it’s best if you make yourself scarce and leave us in peace.’

‘I’ll leave you in peace, when you leave the girl in peace.’

‘Why would we do that?’

‘Scram, and nothing happens to you.’

That brought another round of laughter. ‘And if we stay?’ Kralle asked. ‘What are you going to do? You’re not even armed.’

‘Who says?’ Erich opened his bag and pulled out a butcher’s cleaver.

‘What is this?’ Kralle took a step towards him. ‘It doesn’t even look sharp.’

‘It doesn’t have to be,’ Erich said. ‘The key is how hard you strike. And how fast.’

While he was still speaking, he calmly slashed the cleaver across Kralle’s stomach, double-quick so that he didn’t have time to react. Kralle gazed at the weapon, whose blade was gleaming red, then at his stomach slick with blood and finally at his dick, from which the blood had now drained once and for all. Then he dropped the knife, because he needed both hands to prevent his insides from spilling out of his abdominal wall.

Erich Rambow stood impassively with his bloody cleaver.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Who’s next?’

76

Charly had no idea where Erich Rambow had got to: the dilapidated brick building up ahead? Perhaps he had disappeared to another part of the grounds. The site was almost a city in itself, built for the sole purpose of ushering animals to their deaths so that Berlin wouldn’t go hungry.

She debated how long she should wait. Or whether it wouldn’t be better to call Andreas Lange and have the grounds combed by a squadron of officers. That would be the easiest thing to do, but she’d feel like a traitor to Alex. Even if she hadn’t made the girl any promises.

The rusty iron gate of the building flew open and four boys dashed out, pale-faced and eyes full of panic. One held a bloodied cheek. They ran past almost without noticing her, as if someone else were in pursuit.

For a moment she gazed after them, then turned towards the door, which was still squeaking quietly on its hinges, and went inside.

The building smelled even worse inside, the animal stench compounded by something more chemical. Charly listened, thinking she heard voices, but all was quiet again. She groped her way forwards, ears pricked, trying to make as little noise as possible. Now she checked her weapon, the little pocket pistol Lange had given her, an old Belgian Pieper Bayard. Strictly speaking it was there for Kuschke, if she ran into difficulties shadowing him. She released the safety catch and slowly worked her way forwards, moving from room to room. The stench increased, the voices grew louder. She thought she heard a whimper, someone blubbing behind the door that stood open a crack at the far end. What was going on?

She kicked the door open with her foot, pistol aimed into the half-dark ready to fire.

‘This ends now!’ she shouted into the room, without knowing what ‘this’ was, since only now could she see what was actually happening. She couldn’t believe her eyes. Alexandra Reinhold sat on a table by the end wall of the room, her head resting on Erich Rambow’s shoulders; from her left leg dangled the remains of shredded underwear. Rambow’s left arm was draped comfortingly around her, while in his right hand he held a cleaver that glistened bloody red. A few metres from them on the floor crouched a boy holding his stomach, his trousers pulled down. It was that arsehole from the old factory, the burly youth who had intimidated her: Kralle, or whatever his nickname was. At any rate he sat blubbing and groaning in pain, a picture of misery.

All three stared at Charly wide-eyed, as her pistol flitted to and fro. Instinctively, Alex and Rambow raised their hands, but the boy on the floor only held his stomach. Blood gleamed between his fingers.

‘I’m dying,’ he whimpered over and over again. ‘I’m dying.’

Charly dropped her pistol. ‘What in God’s name happened here?’ she asked.

77

Kronberg knew straightaway which corpse Rath was referring to.

‘The one from the dump? Nasty business, that,’ he said down the line. ‘Completely gnawed by rats. Dr Schwartz says the poor man’s been dead a week, maximum, but there were only two fingers we could use for prints.’

‘And now you’re ploughing your way through the files…’

‘Luckily, not me personally.’

‘The ballistics report states he was killed by a Remington?’

‘First I’ve heard of it.’ For a moment there was silence. Kronberg seemed to be thinking. ‘Interesting theory,’ he said. ‘Pretty exotic weapon, but it could fit.’

‘It’s in today’s paper,’ Rath said. ‘Apparently it’s the same weapon as the one used in Humboldthain.’

‘I don’t set much store by these press types but, in this case, they might be right.’

Rath was surprised. Fink’s informant even seemed to be ahead of ED. ‘Have you compared the prints with those of Hugo Lenz or Rudi Höller?’ he asked. ‘They’re on file somewhere, I assume?’

‘Rudi the Rat and Red Hugo? Of course they are, but my guy’s only on F, as far as I know.’

‘You’re doing this alphabetically?’

‘You have to have some kind of system.’ Kronberg sounded a little offended. ‘What makes you think of Lenz and Höller out of everyone?’

‘A tip-off,’ Rath lied. ‘They’re both missing.’

Kronberg burst out laughing. ‘Wouldn’t that be something. Rudi the Rat eaten by his own kind.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I’ll look into it. Thanks for the tip.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

Rath hung up. He was the last in the office and it was time to leave. Looking forward to the evening, he grabbed Kirie’s lead.

Charly’s scent that morning on the pillow had stayed with him all day, and now he wanted more. What a change from the weekend when he had just been getting used to life on his own again.

First he drove to Luisenufer, where he showered and put on a clean suit, before going on his way. This time he gave the flowers a miss, picking up a bottle of champagne instead. True, they still weren’t engaged, but there was reason enough to celebrate… He hadn’t thought they’d make up so quickly, had even doubted for a moment they’d make up at all. Even Kirie seemed happy when she realised they were heading back to Spenerstrasse; no sooner had Rath opened the car door than she leapt onto the street and started wagging her tail.

‘That’s right, my friend,’ Rath said. ‘You’ll be seeing mistress again soon.’

He checked himself and Kirie in the display window of the general store. They were looking good! He straightened his tie, made a minor adjustment to his hat, and went inside, whistling as he climbed the steps.

It took a long time for anyone to open, and a strange feeling came over him once more. But then: no grinning man, no nasty surprise. Charly opened it herself.

‘Gereon!’

She looked a little flummoxed. More than he’d been expecting, anyway. He’d tried to reach her a few times at home, without success. No wonder, he thought, if he was on leave, he wouldn’t spend the day at home either. But then he would have been looking forward to seeing her even more.

‘Surprise,’ he said, superfluously. Kirie waggled her tail.

‘What are you two doing here?’ Charly bent down and ran her fingers through Kirie’s black fur. ‘This really is a surprise.’

‘Don’t you say hello to people?’

She looked around, and, seeing no one, gave him a kiss, but remained in the door as if guarding a temple.

‘Aren’t you going to invite us in? That way you wouldn’t have to worry about old Brettschneider having a heart attack seeing us out here.’

Charly appeared contrite. ‘I’d love to but right now, I can’t.’

‘Why not?’ Rath realised that, once again, his surprise tactic hadn’t worked.

‘I have a visitor.’

He must have pulled a pretty idiotic face. She laughed. ‘Don’t worry! It isn’t Guido! It isn’t a man at all.’

‘So why all the secrecy?’

‘It’s – I’ll explain some other time.’

‘I wanted to surprise you. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.’

‘I had a lot on my plate. Listen, I’ll tell you everything tomorrow, OK? I really can’t now.’ She looked at him almost ruefully. ‘I’m sorry, Gereon. We’ll talk on the telephone, OK?’

The bathroom door opened and a girl emerged wrapped in Charly’s red dressing gown, hair still wet. She turned around briefly and gazed at him through suspicious eyes before disappearing inside the kitchen. Rath put her at eighteen or nineteen, maximum. Her upper lip was swollen on the right-hand side.

He didn’t need to ask who it was.

‘Well, then,’ he said, lifting the bottle. ‘I suppose Kirie and I will just have to drink this alone.’

‘Oh, Gereon,’ she said, full of regret now. ‘Don’t be annoyed.’

He forced a smile and hoped it didn’t look too contrived. ‘I couldn’t have stayed long anyway. I have to sleep at Luisenufer tonight. Tomorrow I’ll need my black suit.’

‘Do you have to go to a funeral?’ She sounded horrified. There hadn’t been much talk yesterday…

Rath nodded. ‘Maybe even two.’

78

Alex was sitting in the kitchen, wrapped in a warm dressing gown and blowing on a cup of tea. ‘Who was that?’ she asked.

‘Just a friend.’ Charly sat down. ‘Feeling better after your shower?’

‘I don’t know if I’ll ever feel clean again.’ The cup jangled as she returned it to the saucer. ‘Kralle, the stupid arsehole! I hope he croaks.’

‘Then your friend would have a human life on his conscience.’

Alex pulled the dressing gown tighter. She looked as if she wanted to crawl inside it. ‘The man you were speaking to on the telephone just now,’ she asked. ‘Was he a cop?’ She sounded tentative, uncertain, wondering whether she could really trust Charly.

‘Yes, it was a cop, but a nice one.’

Alex gave a wry grin. ‘I didn’t know there was such a thing.’

Charly smiled back. She didn’t want to say that the man at the door was also a cop. She didn’t want to destroy Alex’s already fragile trust. ‘Don’t worry. I promised you no police.’

She couldn’t help remembering how anxious Alex had been when she mentioned the word police at the old tannery. ‘No cops,’ she had said, turning white as a sheet, ‘please, no cops.’

‘But… do you want that bastard to get away with this? He raped you.’

‘Please, no cops…’

Ultimately, Charly contented herself with sending for an ambulance so that Ralf Krahl, nicknamed Kralle, could receive medical attention. Perhaps the injury would be a lesson to him, more than a court appearance on charges of rape and grievous bodily harm.

The fact that Charly had kept the police out of it, as well as letting Erich Rambow go, had helped. The only reason Alex had come back to the flat, along with her friend Vicky, whom they had met on Eldenaer Strasse, was that the two girls had nowhere else to go. Erich Rambow, who had recovered his bike from Forckenbeckplatz, was in no position to offer them a place to stay, so Vicky now lay in Greta’s bed, asleep. Alex had dark circles under her eyes, but was holding out better than her friend.

‘Why are you doing all this?’ she had asked in the taxi.

‘What do you mean, all this?’

‘Helping us. Keeping the cops out of things. Why are you so stubborn? Is it because I got away from you?’

‘I just wanted to find you.’

‘Why?’

‘Perhaps I can help you. I think you have problems with the police.’

‘That’s hardly news.’

Charly placed a finger to her lips and glanced over at the taxi driver, but he kept his eyes on the traffic ahead.

‘That’s not what I mean. You saw Benny plunge to his death. You saw a police officer push him.’

Alex looked at her wide-eyed. Disbelieving, yet relieved at the same time.

By the time they arrived in Moabit, Charly knew the whole story. They had to shake Vicky awake and bundle her upstairs into the flat, but Alex told her everything. She and Lange had figured most of it out long ago, but the information about Benny’s fall was new.

‘There was a man there,’ Alex said.

‘What man?’

‘The one who called the ambulance. He saw everything.’

Alex hadn’t been able to give a perfect description, only that he wore metal-rimmed spectacles, and looked a little like that American with the boater who was always in the cinema, just that he wore a bowler, not a boater.

‘Harold Lloyd,’ Andreas Lange said when Charly called, before requesting that Alex provide the police sketch artist with a description.

Charly looked at Alex and how she held her cup of tea. As if it were her only comfort. ‘The policeman I just spoke to wants to send this Sergeant Kuschke to jail.’

‘He belongs on the scaffold, not in the clink.’

Charly was constantly amazed by how many petty criminals advocated the death penalty.

‘First, he belongs in a court that will convict him.’

‘They’ll acquit him! Birds of a feather flock together.’

‘If we have sufficient evidence and witness statements, he’ll be convicted, I promise. Our judicial system will see to it. Besides, a judge isn’t a police officer; there’s a big difference between the judiciary and the executive. They’re completely different beasts.’

‘Between what?’

‘It’s called the separation of powers. What I really mean, is that we need you to get to Kuschke. You saw everything, you can testify to it.’

‘Who’s we?’

‘Myself and Assistant Detective Lange.’

‘I thought the police and courts were separate. Isn’t that what you just told me?’

The girl was hard work. ‘They are, but I want to see this Kuschke convicted just as much as Herr Lange. I think that’s where our interests align. Am I right?’

‘I don’t want to see him convicted. I want to see him whining and whimpering and begging for his life. That’s what I want.’

‘You’re talking about vigilante justice.’

‘I don’t care what you call it. I call it revenge, and I’ll get it. I owe it to Benny.’

‘Please don’t do anything rash.’

‘Rash? You wouldn’t believe how much thought I’ve given it.’

‘It was you and Vicky who painted his house, the police station too, wasn’t it?’

‘What if it was?’

‘If anything happened to Kuschke, suspicion would fall on you two pretty quickly, if not Vicky then you at least. So please, for your own sake.’

Alex fell silent, thinking.

‘You’ve already slashed his face. Isn’t that enough? Let the police take care of the rest. And the courts.’

‘I’m not going to the cops. They’ll only lock me away. As for my witness statement, do you really think any judge is going to take what I say in court seriously? It doesn’t matter whether I’m the witness or the accused, they aren’t going to believe me.’

Charly fell silent. Alex had touched a nerve. The girl wasn’t the most trustworthy witness, even if they dressed her in new clothes for the court. A suspected (and, by that stage, possibly even convicted) thief would hardly be the best weapon in the murder trial of a police officer.

‘You could be right,’ she said finally, ‘but they might take your man with the metal-rimmed specs more seriously.’

‘If he had anything to say, he’d have done it ages ago, wouldn’t he?’

Charly shrugged. ‘Maybe he has his reasons, who knows? If we issue an appeal and throw in a description, perhaps he’ll come out of his hiding place.’

‘Then why don’t you? You don’t need me for that.’

‘Actually we do. You need to describe the man to a sketch artist. You don’t have to come to the station. There’s a cafe on the next street.’ Charly looked at her watch. ‘We’re meeting there in exactly twelve minutes.’

Alex froze.

‘Don’t worry. He’s not a police officer, just a sketch artist.’

79

Rath didn’t crack the champagne, but placed it in the cupboard and reached for the cognac instead. Kirie lay asleep at his feet, the sun having long since disappeared below the clouds. He could see his reflection in the windowpane, sitting freshly showered and dressed in his Sunday best, a glass of cognac before him alongside an ashtray. Just smoking and drinking and listening to music; thinking. Rarely had he looked so good in the process.

He guessed Charly hadn’t let him in to spare him a moral dilemma. She was housing a fugitive sought by the police, and the way things looked, she wasn’t about to give her up. He couldn’t help but smile: Charly of all people, who had always criticised him for failing to do things by the book. In some ways he was glad, but at the same time it hurt that she didn’t trust him. As if he’d have squealed! He wouldn’t even have tried to talk her out of it. He’d have let her go right ahead, only to make damn sure he reminded her of it next time she questioned the legality of his investigative techniques. Always a stickler for the rules, it seemed that Charly had finally realised the law wasn’t the decisive factor.

The decisive factor was the result.

He felt pleasantly drunk, and, thinking about such things, reached a decision. He left Kirie where she was, the dog squinting briefly as he rose from his chair, and grabbed his hat, coat and car keys.

Quarter of an hour later, he stepped out of his car onto Dircksenstrasse. It was stormy outside. He hadn’t parked in the atrium since he wanted to draw as little attention to himself as possible, something that the Buick, understandably, didn’t allow. It was also why he used one of the southern stairwells, where the greatest risk would be encountering someone from the motor pool, or perhaps a guard from the detention wing.

The wind was cold enough to sober him in the few metres between the car and the southwest entrance. He checked his shoe soles in the stairwell, to make sure they were dry, before entering the long corridor of E Division. It was deserted. That was good. If anyone was doing overtime, or in Vice for any other reason, he’d have some explaining to do, especially now, as he crept into the dark office and closed the door behind him. This was definitely breaking and entering, even if he hadn’t needed to force any doors. In the confusion surrounding his transfer to Homicide two years ago, no one had thought to ask for his key back, and even he had forgotten he still owned one, until it occurred to him again that evening.

It was eerily quiet, with only the rain drumming on the windowpane for company. Rath switched on Lanke’s desk lamp, which cast its dim, green-yellow light into the room, and searched for the key to his old desk. Even that still worked.

The light was sufficient. He rummaged in the drawers, searching for something that looked like an address book or index file. Nothing doing. Greaseproof paper rustled between his fingers. He found pencils, empty cigarette cartons, a half-eaten apple, everything under the sun except what he was looking for. No sign of Marion Bosetzky. Not even an idiot like Gregor Lanke was daft enough to keep a file on an unofficial informant.

The lowest drawer contained nothing but pornographic photos. Lanke junior, like his uncle, worked for Vice squad, where this sort of thing was used as evidence, but there seemed to be an enormous amount of evidence gathered here. Some of it was worn, covered in fingerprints. Rath skimmed through the images. The collection was unbelievable!

It looked as if Lanke had picked out his favourites from each arrest and kept them for himself. Rath even came across the odd photo he had confiscated himself: a Hindenburg double engaged in close combat with Mata Hari. Nevertheless, it wasn’t these images that grabbed his attention, but a different set entirely. A series of private snaps, taken by an amateur, showed the same naked woman in action, photographed from the perspective of a man whose erect penis was the only part of him visible, and even then not entirely, since it was mostly inside some bodily orifice or other. Though lacking intimate knowledge of Lanke junior’s anatomy, Rath was certain that the detective had taken the pictures himself. This confirmed his hunches on two counts: one, that Gregor Lanke was the dirtbag he’d always taken him for, and, two, that Marion Bosetzky wasn’t simply engaged as his informant, but also in an entirely different capacity – even if it looked like one she didn’t always enjoy.

Rath leafed through the images, grinning when he found one of particular interest. He held it against the light and stowed it in his pocket. It wasn’t as good a picture of Marion as the others, but in the background was a large wardrobe – with mirrored doors.

80

They were in Tietz again; it had proved to be a good meeting point. This time Lange had invited her for breakfast. Cutting an unhappy figure, he seemed to have slept badly. A copy of the Berliner Tageblatt lay before him on the table next to a cup of coffee.

‘In case you haven’t had breakfast, it’s on me,’ he said, and waved the waiter over. They had the restaurant almost to themselves.

‘Thank you, that’s not necessary.’ Charly ordered tea with lemon and pointed towards the paper. ‘Heard anything from our witness?’

Lange shook his head. ‘Still no response to our appeal. Six papers carried the story this morning, with his picture.’

‘It’s a pretty generic face.’

‘You’re telling me.’ Lange looked sceptical. ‘Yesterday I tried to trace the person who took the emergency call. So far, no luck.’

‘You think our witness called the ambulance?’

Lange nodded. ‘Perhaps he gave his name. If he isn’t just a ghost, that is.’

‘That would mean Alex invented him. I don’t believe that.’

‘If she doesn’t want to turn herself in, the obvious solution is to invent a witness.’

‘She might be a criminal, but I think she’s telling the truth.’

‘Which leads us to our next topic,’ Lange sighed. ‘Alexandra Reinhold is a criminal. If it gets out that we’re using her for information, only to turn her loose, it’ll be curtains. For both of us. Your career will be over before it’s even begun.’

Charly took a cigarette from the carton. ‘May I?’ she asked.

‘Please do. A few weeks ago watches and jewellery worth several thousand Reichsmark were stolen from right here, from Tietz.’ Lange gestured towards the floor. ‘The thieves locked themselves in the department store overnight. The same as ten days later in Karstadt. Who do you think the principal suspect is?’

‘I see you’ve got a hotline to Arthur Nebe.’

‘If Nebe knew we were shielding his main suspect!’ Lange spoke louder than he intended. He gazed around him, horrified.

‘How’s he going to find out? No one’s allowed to know anything about our agreement.’

‘So long as you realise you’re covering for a felon. That we’re covering for a felon.’

‘Listen,’ Charly said. ‘I know what Alex has done, and that she’s no angel, but she’s given us important information.’ She drew on her cigarette, almost defiantly. ‘If I give her up now, she’ll most likely be convicted and then her life really will be ruined.’

‘It makes me uneasy,’ Lange said. ‘As a police officer, I always thought I’d automatically be on the right side, but with this case I just don’t know.’

‘Sergeant Major Kuschke is a police officer with a man on his conscience, a boy in fact; a murderer who tried to kill the girl who recognised him. He shot at Alex. Is that the right side?’

‘Of course not.’ Indignation hung in Lange’s voice. ‘If I thought that, I’d have filed this case away long ago. Do you think this is making me any friends in the Castle? As for when it all goes public…’

‘I’m sorry,’ Charly said. ‘I know where you stand, but you can’t lose sight of our goal of building a watertight case against Kuschke.’

‘And turn a criminal loose in the process?’

‘Look at Alex as an informant who’s pointed you towards an important murder witness. Tip-offs like that come at a price.’

‘Informants don’t have free rein. All these department store break-ins – they’re hardly petty crimes.’

‘Forget about Alex. Use me as your informant. Pitch me as someone with links to the criminal underworld. That way it’ll be me drawing the short straw.’

‘What about Berlin’s highest-grossing department store thief?’

‘Alex is an intelligent girl who’s been through a rough time. She just needs a little help getting back on the right track. I think she can make it, but not if we take her into custody. Besides, do you really want her sitting in a cell with someone like Kuschke still at large?’

‘OK, OK, I know,’ Lange said. ‘First we need to get Kuschke so that she’s no longer in danger. If this mysterious witness doesn’t come through and we need Alex after all – will she turn herself in then?’

Charly shrugged. ‘Not as long as Kuschke remains at large.’

‘The whole thing’s a vicious circle. We need Alex to get at Kuschke, but so long as he’s still roaming free, we’ve no chance of getting Alex.’

‘That’s a knot for you to untie.’ Charly stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I’m not giving Alex up. I’ve given her my word.’

She’d never have thought herself capable of talking like this, she who had been raised to be conscientious and loyal to the state. Was Gereon’s Rhine-Catholic nonchalance rubbing off on her?

Lange still cut an unhappy figure. ‘It’ll be curtains for both of us,’ he said again, shaking his head.

‘So what if it is,’ Charly said. ‘We’ll open our own office.’ She drew an imaginary sign with her hands. ‘Private Detectives Lange and Ritter, enquiries of all kinds. Now, doesn’t that fill you with confidence?’

Her attempt to lighten the mood misfired. Lange turned red.

‘Right,’ Charly said, packing her cigarettes back in her handbag. ‘I’ve fulfilled my side of the agreement. I’ve found Alex.’ She made a move to get up.

‘Wait a minute,’ Lange said, with surprising sharpness, and Charly sat back down. ‘Don’t forget there’s a second part. Sergeant Major Kuschke will have read the papers this morning. You still need to keep an eye on him.’

‘How long do I have to keep the man under surveillance?’ Charly sighed.

Lange smiled and tapped the paper. ‘Until this witness turns up and we can take him into custody. Or until Alex changes her mind and turns herself in. In the meantime, I’ll speak to Gennat about what concessions we can make, and see if we can’t get her sentence commuted.’

Charly stood up. Lange might go red easily but he was tough. She had understood: so long as she couldn’t persuade Alex to turn herself in, she’d have to continue her surveillance of Kuschke. A nice little incentive to see her on her way.

81

Rain drummed non-stop against the windowpane. The perfect weather for a funeral. Rath hadn’t slept much and had a hangover, even though he hadn’t touched a drop after his late-night visit to the Castle. Otherwise, he was in the best of spirits, despite the lousy weather and the fact that he hadn’t got anywhere with Charly. She had fobbed him off, but then, if she hadn’t, he wouldn’t have drained half a bottle of cognac, nor, most likely, would he have hit on the crackpot idea of raiding Lanke’s office.

He parted his hair with a wet comb and gazed at his reflection in the bedroom mirror, liking what he saw, dressed in black with an elegant top hat set on his head at a slight angle. It lent him a touch of gravity that he didn’t otherwise possess. Just a shame he could only dress like this on unhappy occasions.

Rath hated funerals, and police funerals above all. The last time he’d decked himself out like this was for his colleague Stephan Jänicke. He didn’t know the policeman being laid to rest this morning, but Weiss had requested that senior CID officers attend to show that the death of a uniform cop mattered.

The caretaker was cleaning out a blocked drain, but paused when he saw his tenant approach dressed all in black, with a black dog and black umbrella, and tipped his cap by way of greeting. Rath responded by briefly raising his umbrella before entering the front building to ring the ground floor flat. Annemarie Lennartz looked surprised as she surveyed him from head to toe.

‘I’m here to drop the dog off,’ Rath said. ‘I hope that’s OK.’

The caretaker’s wife gazed at Kirie’s fur, which was still halfway dry. ‘Of course,’ she said, taking the lead. Kirie understood, and pitter-pattered into the flat as if it were her second home.

‘Can I ask who died?’

‘A colleague,’ Rath replied.

‘My condolences.’

‘Not necessary. I didn’t know the man.’

Rath said goodbye to Kirie, who had forgotten about him already, and went on his way.

Erika Voss gave him a nod of acknowledgement as he entered. ‘Well, I never,’ she said. ‘If it wasn’t such a sad occasion, I’d say you looked like a new man.’

‘Thank you.’ Rath almost hung the top hat on the stand out of habit, but then remembered that he was here to take Tornow to the funeral. The cadet was the only one heading out to Schönholz Cemetery with him; Gräf, Henning and Czerwinski were on duty.

‘Where’s our trainee got to?’ he asked.

Erika Voss nodded towards the connecting door. ‘He’s in there. Herr Tornow had to take care of a telephone call.’

To Rath’s great surprise on entering, he was confronted by a uniform cop: Tornow himself, reading a newspaper at Gräf’s desk.

‘What’s going on?’ Rath asked. ‘I thought you’d left Uniform?’

Tornow folded the newspaper and stood up. There wasn’t a single crease in his trousers; his buttons gleamed. The man was impeccable.

‘When our colleague was murdered, I was still a cop,’ he said, very solemnly. ‘I think it’s appropriate that I pay my final respects in uniform.’

Rath nodded and, all of a sudden he, too, was in funeral mode.

‘Let’s go, shall we,’ he said, to break the embarrassed silence.

This time he had parked the Buick in the atrium. The rain hammered down on the enormous glass roof.

‘Hopefully it’ll pass,’ Tornow said, and gestured skywards. The men got in.

‘What lousy weather,’ Rath said, switching on the windscreen wipers. ‘Can I drive you back too?’ The cemetery was out of town, in Pankow.

‘Thank you, no,’ Tornow said. ‘That won’t be necessary. I think I’d like to spend a little time with my ex-colleagues. If you don’t mind…’

‘Of course not. As long as Gräf can live with the fact that he’ll have to write up your joint operation on his own. I don’t need you today.’

‘I’ve already spoken to Gräf.’

‘Then that’s settled. How did yesterday go?’

‘Depends on how you look at it. A lot of work for not much result. Most likely Goldstein parked the ambulance where we found it and continued with the S-Bahn or tram. He could be anywhere.’

‘Did no one see anything? Nothing from neighbours, workers at the freight depot?’

‘Just one. A worker who says he was surprised that the ambulance driver wasn’t wearing white, but didn’t know which way Goldstein made his escape, or how.’

‘He’s brazen enough to have taken a taxi.’

‘Gräf was going to check that today with the Taxi Drivers’ Guild.’

‘It’s not much to go on. Even if he finds the taxi driver, it’s unlikely he was dropped off outside the hotel door.’

‘You think he’s hiding out in some hotel?’

‘There are enough flophouses in Berlin if you need to disappear.’

Tornow shrugged. ‘Our witness did mention one other thing. Apparently Goldstein has a rip in his coat. A corner’s missing.’

Rath nodded.

It took a long time for them to reach Pankow. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still grey. A few hundred metres from the main entrance, Rath applied the brakes. Outside the cemetery was chaos. Half of Berlin seemed to have arrived on foot – or bicycles – to pay their final respects, and it wasn’t just police officers, but any number of private citizens. Perhaps there was hope after all. There were days when Rath thought this entire city was conspiring against the police, but today showed there were other people out there too.

He parked and the two men walked to the cemetery entrance. Tornow took his leave before they reached the gate. ‘Thank you for the lift,’ he said. ‘But I have to be with my people now. One last time…’

Rath gazed after him as he mingled with the uniformed officers, greeting colleagues with a handshake. An unhappy occasion to don the uniform for the final time, he thought, and looked around. Cops were everywhere. Only when the hearse rolled into view did the crowd settle. Rows of blue uniforms led the cortège, marching behind Deputy Police Commissioner Weiss and Uniform Commander Heimannsberg. Weiss was dressed entirely in black, Heimannsberg in uniform like his men. A police orchestra played funeral music.

Rath joined the procession when the plainclothes officers began to pass, recognising his colleagues from A Division, among them Gennat and Böhm. A few metres ahead of the homicide investigators was the delegation from Vice, including the division chief himself, as well as several of his inspectors and chief inspectors. Werner Lanke shot Rath an angry glance over his shoulder; evidently Lanke junior had squealed about his recent visit.

It wasn’t just police officers paying their final respects but a huge number of ordinary Berlin citizens; members of the Reichsbanner, the SPD’s paramilitary wing, kept the flag of democracy flying, while the press had also sent its representatives. Emil Kuhfeld had been a Social Democrat and, increasingly, evidence indicated that a Nazi, rather than a Communist, had fired the fatal shot. This revelation made few headlines.

When the throng was gathered by the grave, Magnus Heimannsberg took the floor. The uniform commander wasn’t much of an orator. Next up was Bernhard Weiss, who didn’t need a megaphone to gain the crowd’s attention. His light Berlin brogue could be heard everywhere, and he had no difficulty striking the right note. The pens of press representatives, which had been stationary during Heimannsberg’s speech, suddenly began to take notes.

Weiss briefly mentioned events in Frankfurter Allee, before turning to the dead man. ‘Emil Kuhfeld is not the only man to sacrifice his life in the performance of his duties,’ he said. ‘He is not the first. Nor, I fear, will he be the last. As we stand by his grave, we call upon our fellow countrymen to present a reasonable, decorous, and humanitarian front that regards uniformed police officers as human beings, as opposed to fair game.’

Weiss had used similar words at Alex, in front of CID colleagues, but here, at the grave of the dead officer, they were a hundred times more powerful. All were moved, including those civilians present, and among mourners there was an unspoken feeling of togetherness. It didn’t matter whether uniform cop, CID or ordinary citizen, all felt they were taking a stand against the violence and terror on the streets. Berlin was fed up with Communists and Nazis, and anyone else who confused politics with Wild West shoot-outs. The mood offered hope that Emil Kuhfeld might be the last police officer to be killed for political reasons for some time.

Perhaps, Rath thought, this city wasn’t quite the hopeless case he had taken it for, since arriving in the spring of 1929.

82

The municipal hospital in Friedrichshain was almost like a small city, made up of impressive brick buildings on the edge of the Volkspark. Andreas Lange opened the door to Male Surgery where, a year and a half ago, SA-Führer Horst Wessel succumbed to gunshot wounds, and subsequently became a Nazi martyr.

With the aid of a porter, he found his room. A uniformed officer waited outside the door with a man in a white coat. Lange didn’t have to show his identification, as the doctor and the police officer recognised him.

‘Five minutes,’ the doctor said, before opening the door. ‘No excitement. The wound needs peace and quiet to heal.’

‘Is the injury that bad?’ Lange asked.

‘The boy was astonishingly lucky not to damage his intestines.’

Lange went inside to find a burly young lad with a pale face lying on the bed. His pained expression didn’t suit him. Lange pulled out his notebook and sat down.

‘You wanted to make a statement, Herr Krahl?’ he asked. The boy turned around.

‘That’s right, Officer.’ The voice sounded strangely weak.

‘Assistant detective. Assistant Detective Lange.’

‘I hope you find that whore soon.’

‘Let’s start from the beginning. What is it you want to tell me?’

Lange pulled himself together. He was sitting at the bedside of a known petty criminal, who had been admitted to hospital with a serious slash wound. When someone like that was ready to make a statement, it was best to proceed with caution. The most pressing question was why someone who’d usually be loath to tell a police officer the time, should suddenly be so eager to talk.

‘I’m here,’ he began, ‘because I have been informed by colleagues that your statement is linked to the KaDeWe break-in. I hope that is correct. I can be pretty nasty when people waste my time.’

‘Alexandra Reinhold,’ the boy said quickly. ‘She’s the one you’re looking for. It was her in KaDeWe.’

‘We know that already.’

‘Do you know how dangerous she is, the little tramp?’

Krahl pulled back the covers and pointed to a heavy bandage they had wrapped him in like a mummy. There hadn’t been quite enough material to go round.

‘She cut me open, the bitch. I had to have stitches.’

Lange pricked up his ears. ‘That was Alexandra Reinhold?’

Krahl nodded. ‘She’s dangerous. You need to be careful, you and your men.’

Lange wasn’t inclined to believe someone so eager to get the police involved, but, when he remembered the wound on Jochen Kuschke’s face, the boy’s statement didn’t seem quite so absurd. This Alex was a dangerous customer, and there was Charlotte Ritter making as if she had just gone off the rails. Was she even aware of the danger Alex posed?

‘Where did you sustain these injuries?’

‘I found her hideout. Some shitty little hovel on the grounds of the slaughterhouse. She cut me open. Without warning, just like that.’

‘Because you found her hiding place? Nothing else happened?’

‘What else could have happened, chief?’

‘That’s what I’m asking you.’

‘Nothing.’ Krahl looked innocent as a fawn. ‘Left me lying in my own blood and scarpered.’

‘Do you know where?’

The boy shrugged. ‘She used to stay in the abandoned axle factory, in Roederstrasse, but not for a long time.’ He made a face as if thinking – a mode of expression that was clearly unfamiliar to him. ‘But,’ he said, ‘there was someone from Welfare or the courts helping her. You should sound her out. The Welfare Office shouldn’t be shielding criminals, should it?’

Lange nodded. He could well imagine what this supposed welfare officer looked like, and he did, indeed, intend to sound her out.

83

Here she was again. Out of sheer boredom she had ordered a second breakfast, a bread roll with cheese, although she could have had it cheaper at Tietz, where Lange would have paid. She’d been here over an hour now, her third cup of tea and fourth newspaper in front of her, staring at the rain-soaked house front. The writing was still visible on the wall though Kuschke had made every effort to wipe it off, the rain also having played its part. It was still just about legible. REVENGE FOR BENNY S. Pig’s blood, Alex had said. How fitting. It would probably need a new coat of paint, or three weeks’ constant rain.

Let’s be sensible here, Charly thought. The rain has only just stopped. What a dreadful summer! The weather had been better during the Kaiser’s reign, or was she simply imagining it? When he abdicated she had just turned eleven; when, perhaps, all you remembered were the sunny days.

Right now, at any rate, it was pretty bleak outside, and Kuschke still hadn’t put in an appearance. Why should he come out in this weather if he didn’t have to? He was probably taking advantage of his leave to catch up on some sleep. Perhaps he hadn’t even seen the papers?

If he had, would the latest development throw him into a panic? A police report saying a witness was being sought? Lange was gambling on Kuschke trying to find out who this witness was, so that police could collect a little more evidence. That was the theory. In practice all it had achieved was a great, fat nothing.

The CID appeal was carefully formulated. There was nothing to suggest a police officer was suspected of murder; it merely mentioned an important witness who might have observed the fatal incident at Kaufhaus des Westens, and whose description had been provided by another witness. Alongside was the sketch that nearly all papers had printed. Sadly, it really was a generic face. Were Lange’s suspicions justified? Was it possible that this witness didn’t actually exist, that Alex was leading them all on?

Charly didn’t know what to make of the girl. On the one hand she trusted her; on the other, she sensed the deep mistrust Alex felt in return, in contrast to Vicky, who seemed to view Charly as a kind of maternal friend.

Yesterday evening, before she went to bed, Charly had been cautious enough to disarm the Bayard, removing the magazine as well as the rounds still in the chamber, and placing the cold pistol under her pillow. It was an excessive measure, as it turned out. The rounds hadn’t been touched, and the two girls even made breakfast for her when she got up. ‘A little thank you,’ Vicky had said, with a shy smile. ‘For everything.’

Alex said nothing at first, simply poured coffee, a strong brew that Gereon might have liked, but which Charly could barely drink. She complimented them on the jet-black sludge all the same. Finally, Alex spoke.

‘We won’t impose on you any longer. We’ll find somewhere new.’

‘You’re not imposing. Stay a little longer if you like.’

Alex nodded, but didn’t seem to take Charly’s offer seriously. Whether it was the tail end of her mistrust or simply a desire to be independent again, Charly couldn’t say. She’d have to wait and see. Either the girls would still be there tonight – or they wouldn’t. She hoped they didn’t get any silly ideas in their heads. The truth was, it was probably no bad thing for her to keep an eye on Kuschke, in case they had cooked up some plan.

Something was happening in the house opposite! The front door opened and Jochen Kuschke emerged. A little better dressed than yesterday, and he was clean shaven too. He had replaced the bandage on his face with a few, discreet, little plasters. The wound seemed to be healing well. In addition to a light-grey suit, he wore a broad-brimmed hat and carried an umbrella.

Excitedly, Charly folded the paper, almost spilling the pathetic little puddle of cold tea still in her cup, and stood up. She left money on the table again, before retrieving her umbrella and leaving the cafe.

‘You should think about a tab,’ the waitress called after her. ‘Seeing as you’re always in such a hurry.’

Charly didn’t have time to react, because Kuschke was in a hurry too. He moved towards Winterfeldtplatz, using his umbrella as a walking stick. She followed him discreetly from the other side of the road, looking at the displays in the shop fronts whenever his pace slowed, but always keeping him in view. She was becoming a surveillance expert. Perhaps she should start her own agency.

Kuschke kept glancing at his wristwatch. Well now, Charly thought, perhaps we have jolted him into action. Who knows? Instinctively she checked for her pistol. Kuschke proceeded to the tram stop where a few people were waiting, or else Charly wouldn’t have felt safe. She didn’t think he’d seen her, but knew he had a fifteen-year-old boy on his conscience, and had opened fire on a girl in broad daylight. She studied the timetable while watching him out of the corner of her eye.

The tram rumbled into view, the 3, both cars full to bursting. Kuschke climbed into the first and Charly sprang onto the rear platform.

The tram rattled along, north past Nollendorfplatz and Herkulesbrücke and on through Tiergarten. The rain had stopped; perhaps Kuschke was out for a stroll? But he didn’t get out until Hansaplatz, when they had already left the green of the Tiergarten behind. What was he doing in an upmarket neighbourhood like this? Did their mysterious, bespectacled witness live here somewhere, and Kuschke had discovered his address?

Charly stepped from the platform and pretended to cast her eye over the timetable at the tram stop, playing the country girl while keeping Kuschke in view. Moving down Lessingstrasse, he was heading for the church, the same Kaiser-Friedrich-Gedächtniskirche on the corner of the Tiergarten that she remembered from Sunday outings with her parents and brothers. On the way back they had always stopped at Buchwald on Moabiter Bridge, for Kaffee und Kuchen, cocoa for the children, before returning home. She had loved those family Sundays, at least for a time.

She followed Kuschke at a distance. There wasn’t much going on around them, so she had to take care that he didn’t spot her. She fell back a little. Before the church he turned right onto Händelstrasse. She accelerated again. Lessingstrasse appeared infinitely long, and she hoped that Kuschke wouldn’t vanish before she turned the corner. The houses on Händelstrasse were beautiful, offering an uninterrupted view of the park. Accordingly, they were much in demand: her father had always dreamed of owning one, but had never made it out of Moabit.

She had almost reached the end of Lessingstrasse when a uniform policeman came around the corner and, for a moment, she felt as if she had been caught out, even though she wasn’t doing anything illegal. The cop folded a handkerchief and stowed it in his pocket. By now she had reached Händelstrasse.

She peered around the corner and almost jumped back, so great was the shock. Kuschke hadn’t vanished into one of the houses, or the Charlottenhof, the outdoor restaurant at the edge of the park, whose outside tables were currently rainsoaked and uninviting. No, he stood not ten metres away, leaning against a streetlamp as if needing to take a quick breather.

Luckily he had his back turned and hadn’t seen her. It didn’t look like there was anyone else around. She positioned herself behind the advertising pillar on the corner. As she squinted to the side to keep Kuschke in view, she stole a glance at the posters. The Marriage of Figaro at the Kroll Opera House – hadn’t it been closed in the meantime? She realised she was nervous, waiting for Kuschke to continue walking. He stood, not moving, one hand on the streetlamp and the other holding his stomach. What was wrong? Did he have a sore tummy?

Next to the opera poster was a police appeal from the Castle. Wanted. Abraham Goldstein. Gereon’s fugitive gangster.

She grew more nervous. What was wrong with Kuschke? Should she overtake him, but then what? Use the trick with the make-up mirror? What if it was a trap? What if he was just waiting for her to do that – because he’d already recognised her?

Only now did she realise what it was that so puzzled her: the umbrella. It lay by his feet, and he was making no effort to pick it up.

She decided to abandon her cover and approach him when his bulky figure lurched so suddenly it was as if a puppet’s strings had been cut. He slid down the streetlight and sank to his knees as if in prayer.

She moved as quickly as she could, heard Benjamin Singer’s alleged killer panting, his breathing heavy and frantic, but it was only when she reached him, when she saw his horrified eyes framed between the brim of his hat and the fresh plasters, and his blood-soaked shirt, that she realised what had happened.

She couldn’t understand it, but neither could Kuschke who stared at his blood-smeared hand in disbelief, at the butt of the knife jutting out of his breast, then at her, at Charly. She knew he was a killer, possibly even a sadist, but his dying man’s gaze cut her to the quick. His breathing grew faster so that it seemed as if the air were being pumped out rather than into his lungs. He tried to say something but couldn’t, and then, before she could catch him, he collapsed to the side, striking his head against the pavement.

84

Back at the Castle things were no more than ticking along. Half the officers were either still at the cemetery or out eating lunch. Rath was glad to have disappeared after Kuhfeld’s coffin was lowered into the ground, having slipped away as the police orchestra was still playing, before Böhm could get his hands on him. He had returned to Alex in the Buick.

Vice was almost as deserted as last night. The clattering of a typewriter came from a single room, a lone secretary at work. All was quiet behind the door leading to DCI Krüger’s office, where Lanke had his desk. If Rath was unlucky he would still be in the canteen; if not, he could give the porn lover a good, old-fashioned fright. He reached carefully for the handle, took a deep breath and threw the door open with a jolt, using his full force.

‘Well, hello!’ he yelled into the room, as brazen as Werner Lanke himself. He was in luck.

Gregor Lanke gave a start. This time he didn’t have a chance to clear the photos off his desk but gazed back red-faced, as if his heart had skipped a beat. Another organ was beating in its place, visible in the bulge of his trousers.

‘Have you gone mad, startling people like that?’ Lanke junior groaned. His erection shrunk in record time.

‘What have you got there?’ Rath leaned over the desk to get a better view. The picture on top showed Old Fritz engaged in oral sex. Rath confiscated it before Lanke could react. ‘They’re over two years old, those ones. I didn’t know you were still working on the case?’

‘I… we,’ Lanke stammered.

‘I don’t mean to boast, but we were a bit quicker in my time.’

‘What the hell are you up to, damn it?’ Lanke counterattacked.

‘You’re a CID officer, man. Have you no self-respect?’

‘That’s none of your fucking business. What do you want from me?’

Rath threw one of the photos he had taken from Lanke’s desk last night onto the table: a strapping young lady, naked and on all fours, behind her a man toiling single-mindedly away with one hand on her arse cheek and in the other a modern 35mm camera, perhaps a present from Uncle Werner. In the mirrored wardrobe doors, it was possible to make out not just the bored face of Marion Bosetzky, but also that of the photographer.

Gregor Lanke gazed at his own likeness.

‘I take it these aren’t your new passport photos,’ Rath said.

For the second time that day, it took the detective a moment to rediscover his voice. ‘Where did you get that,’ he gasped. ‘Have you been…?’

‘This isn’t about me,’ Rath interrupted. ‘It’s about you. You’ve been having sex with a prostitute who’s also on the E Division payroll. Illicit sexual relations with dependants, you could call it. Not that it matters if it constitutes a criminal offence, nor, indeed, what it’s called. It’s enough, I think, for the press to be aware of the sense of duty you evince in your dealings with prostitutes. This sort of field study would certainly have been unusual during my time with the department.’ Rath paused, enjoying Gregor Lanke’s face. ‘Knowing your uncle as I do, I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes if this gets out.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I think you already know. I’d like to hear a little more about the young lady you are evidently so fond of. I take it you have your own lab at home, or someone who develops these dirty little snaps for you?’

Lanke said nothing.

‘Where’s Marion Bosetzky?’ Rath asked, his tone so sharp that Lanke started.

‘I don’t know where she is. It’s as if she’s vanished from the face of the earth since the weekend.’

‘How did she end up working in that hotel?’

‘How do you think? She applied for the job, simple as that, or are you one of those who thinks: once a whore, always a whore.’

‘I see. You’re helping a fallen woman reintegrate into society. Who’s going to believe that?’

Lanke squinted at the door, as if hoping his colleagues would soon return from the funeral, or, even better, his uncle Werner, to bring this highly embarrassing line of questioning to an end. No one came.

Rath held the photo under Lanke’s nose. ‘Now, answer me, so that I don’t have to use my contacts in the press. Why did you smuggle Marion Bosetzky into the Excelsior? Did you allow for the fact that she would help Goldstein escape, or was that an occupational hazard?’

Lanke was sweating. He seemed to find it hard to come out with the truth. ‘Occupational hazard,’ he said, finally. ‘We wanted to keep an eye on Goldstein. So that we…’

‘Who is we?’

‘Myself and a few colleagues,’ Lanke said at last. ‘We heard about the Yank – one of us knows the lady from the teleprinter’s office that received the news. We wanted to catch him doing something red-handed and take the credit.’ He looked up at Rath like a wounded deer. ‘Do you think it’s easy to get promoted when you’re the division chief’s nephew? Not with this commissioner, anyway.’

‘Don’t make me cry. The officers you arranged this with, are they similar poor souls who have been hit by the moratorium?’

‘Make as much fun as you like. It’s how it is.’

‘Give me names.’

‘I can’t do that.’

Rath waved the photograph.

Lanke shook his head. ‘I can’t! It’s all gone south anyway. What do you want the names of the others for? I won’t grass on my fellow officers. I’ll take the fall for this.’ He adopted the expression of a man of honour or, at least, his interpretation thereof.

Rath left it there for the time being. Young Lanke had deviated from the straight and narrow, launching investigations of his own so that he could climb a few steps on the career ladder… It was familiar enough to Rath, but he’d never have thought the apathetic Lanke capable of such ambition. Perhaps he had been talked into it by one of his more zealous colleagues who knew about Goldstein and needed Lanke’s informant to keep an eye on him. It hadn’t worked, and if anyone was to be brought to account for Goldstein’s disappearance, Rath swore it would be Lanke junior’s head on the block. For now though, he would watch how things developed. As long as he feared exposure, Lanke could still prove useful.

Which was why Rath issued a little threat by way of goodbye.

‘If I should discover that you do know where Marion is, I promise the big city press will do such a job on you that your uncle will have to return to the beat with you.’

‘Believe me,’ Lanke said. ‘I really don’t know.’

Rath left the office after giving a sinister final look, but in the corridor had to suppress a smile. He left Vice in the best of spirits and started towards Homicide. His expression didn’t match his mourning suit, but it didn’t matter. The funeral was over.

The door to Homicide opened and Assistant Detective Lange emerged. Rath gave a polite greeting, and the man from Hannover said ‘hello’ in return. He was another Rath would have liked in his team in exchange for Czerwinski. Behind Lange, another face appeared in the door. Rath’s smile froze.

‘Cha… Fräulein Ritter!’ He gave a slight cough. ‘What are you doing here? After such a long time.’

Charly looked even more startled than him, although she must have guessed this might happen. It was his workplace after all. Perhaps it was the mourning suit and unfamiliar top hat that made her look at him the way she did.

‘Good day, Inspector,’ she said, smiling. ‘Nice to see you again.’

She was quickly back under control. Her strength of nerve really was a thing of wonder. Rath felt a tingling sensation, triggered by her last sentence. Perhaps it was because he’d have liked nothing more than to touch her, but couldn’t, not here at the Castle in the presence of colleagues. He gazed at her face and knew that the sentence wasn’t intended to sound erotic. When he looked closer, he saw that she was actually upset. Something must have happened.

Hopefully it wasn’t Alex. Money gone. Jewellery gone. Alex gone. Something like that. Perhaps it was a good thing she still didn’t have her ring.

He realised that Lange was looking at him expectantly, while Charly gazed at him in confusion. They were waiting for him to say something. Rath gestured towards his top hat and black suit. ‘Just back from a funeral, didn’t have any time to change,’ he said, and continued on his way. When he reached the door to his office he turned around again. Charly had disappeared with Lange into one of the interview rooms.

What on earth was going on?

85

The man gazed up at Charly, just as indifferently from under his shako as all the others. ‘No, it’s not him either.’ The man disappeared, and another took his place.

She shook her head.

Lange leafed patiently through the photographs and placed the next image before her. Another unidentified shako-wearer.

‘How many police lieutenants are there in Berlin?’ she asked, having shaken her head for the umpteenth time.

‘We’ll be finished in a moment.’ Lange attempted a smile. ‘At least with Tiergarten and Moabit.’

She had been sitting in this interview room for an hour, poring over images. Not the police mugshots that witnesses were shown, but the personal files of uniform cops.

‘Are you certain it’s a cop you saw?’ Lange asked.

‘I didn’t imagine him. He was there, and he emerged from the street where Kuschke was killed. He must have seen something. If not the murder itself, then the murderer.’

‘But you didn’t realise straightaway. That Kuschke had a knife in his stomach, I mean. He didn’t cry out or behave suspiciously in any way. Why shouldn’t it be the same for this officer?’

‘I only saw Kuschke from behind, and was so busy making sure I wouldn’t be spotted that I noticed everything else far too late.’

‘You’re implying that this officer must have seen everything you missed…’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, and let her shoulders droop. ‘It’s just that… sometimes I get the impression you don’t believe me, and I can’t stand it. At least, not right now.’

‘Well, you’re just going to have to,’ Lange said, his voice sounding strangely cold. ‘Right now I don’t know that I can believe you.’

‘Pardon me?’

Lange stood and leaned with both hands on the desk. ‘Does this police officer actually exist, or did you invent him to distract from your protégé, and keep me occupied?’

Charly’s blood ran hot through her veins. The kind, harmless-seeming Andreas Lange had grown unexpectedly aggressive, and she pitied the men he grilled in these rooms. The stupid thing was, she was the one now being grilled.

‘I haven’t invented anything. I thought we were working together.’

‘That’s what I thought too. Why didn’t you tell me what happened at the slaughterhouse?’

‘I didn’t think it was relevant to our case.’

‘A person was seriously injured, evidently by Alexandra Reinhold, and you conceal it from me! How much further are you prepared to go to protect her?’

‘She didn’t injure anyone!’ Charly shouted back. ‘I wanted to gain her trust, that’s why I didn’t call the police. I made sure that the injured party received medical attention.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me anything?’

‘Because it would have been a breach of trust!’

‘What about my trust? Superintendent Gennat’s trust?’

‘She was raped, for God’s sake! Do you have any idea how hard it is for a girl to talk about that? In front of a police officer into the bargain?’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’ Lange lowered his voice again.

‘That bastard, who is, clearly, now trying to do the dirty on her, raped her; him and his whole crew. Someone else slashed his stomach. Defending her.’

‘Did you see it?’

‘No.’

‘What’s his name then, this knight in shining armour?’

‘I’m not going to tell you.’ She was furious. ‘Sometimes I wonder who it is we’re protecting in this country. Criminals, or those who show civic courage.’

‘You call cutting someone’s stomach civic courage?’

‘The way you’re behaving confirms that I was right not to tell you anything.’

‘You made a mistake and don’t want to admit it. You should have let us arrest the little brat.’

‘So Alex would be at the mercy of Kuschke and his accomplices?’

‘Right now it looks like Kuschke was the one at the mercy of Alex and her accomplices!’

‘You don’t really believe that?’

‘I know she injured him pretty badly, perhaps even slashed a boy’s abdominal wall.’

‘She didn’t do that.’

‘You didn’t see anything, remember.’ Lange gazed at her with a look she couldn’t bear. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘perhaps Alex enjoyed cutting the boy up so much that she wanted to do the same to Kuschke, only her knife slipped.’

‘That’s speculation.’

‘There’s a lot more evidence for it than for your mysterious police lieutenant, of whom there isn’t a trace in the files.’

‘Have you considered that it might not even have been a police officer, but Kuschke’s killer? Someone dressed in uniform to get closer to Kuschke without drawing suspicion. To make it easier to flee the crime scene. Now that I remember, the man stowed a handkerchief in his pocket, with red spots on it. If he’d been a civilian I might have thought it was strange, but not a uniform cop.’

Lange waved her away. ‘I don’t want to hear any more of your theories. Bring this Alex in now, whether it suits you or not. The girl’s a murder suspect. It’s time you thought about that.’

Charly already had, which was why, after she notified Lange and he finally appeared at the scene, she had returned on foot to her flat, which was no more than fifteen minutes away. In theory it was to change her blood-smeared blouse, but it also allowed her to see whether Alex and Vicky were still there.

They weren’t.

She had been expecting as much, and didn’t know whether it spoke in the girls’ favour or not. More than anything, she’d have liked to ask them directly whether they had anything to do with Kuschke’s death, but that was no longer possible.

After changing her blouse she headed to Lange’s office at the Castle where, inevitably, she ran into Gereon. She still didn’t know how much she could tell him. He had seen Alex at her flat and most likely drawn his own conclusions. Hopefully he had kept his mouth shut. She had so much on her mind… but couldn’t tell him a thing.

‘I think we’re done,’ Lange said, packing away the personal files. ‘Have you anything to add?’

Charly shrugged. ‘Such as?’

‘Such as where we might find Alexandra Reinhold.’

‘I wouldn’t be sitting here if I knew. You can count on that.’

86

They were coming out again, casket-bearers at the front. Jakob Goldstein lay in a simple, unadorned coffin carefully shouldered by the men. Next came the family, and Abe instinctively withdrew a little when he saw his black-bearded cousin, lowering his head and turning slightly away. He hadn’t gone into the chapel, which in any case was full. His grandfather must have been a popular figure in the community.

They stood on a large burial ground, next to the chapel. Waiting among the crowd for the formalities to end, Abe looked at a simple, stone monument, and read the inscription carved into the white stone. To our fallen sons. The Jewish Community of Berlin. The war had left its mark everywhere. He remembered how badly his parents had been treated, above all by the Irish and the Yankees, before the United States entered the conflict. All because they spoke Yiddish and the Paddys couldn’t differentiate between the two languages, so had lumped them together with the Germans.

The trees at the Weissensee Cemetery stood close together, but Abe had resisted the impulse to seek refuge there. Lurking behind tree stems or bushes, sooner or later he’d have been spotted by someone; the crowd was a better hiding place, even now as the cortège resumed its procession. He remained at a distance, far away from the family, among men of his own age. There weren’t many long-bearded caftan wearers here. Aunt Lea’s family were in the minority.

Again and again, the procession came to a halt. Abe didn’t like this Jewish custom, which was supposed to symbolise the mourners’ reluctance to approach the grave. A specialist in quick goodbyes, he hated anything that dragged out the mourning process.

After what felt like an age the procession reached the grave dug for Jakob Goldstein. His grandfather would have approved, Abe thought. The plot was a little off the beaten track, away from the main road and in the shade of a wall. The eulogy was brief, which would have pleased his grandfather too. The cantor began a psalm as the coffin was lowered into the ground.

The family was the first by the graveside, each member throwing three handfuls of earth over the coffin. Abe recognised his aunts and their families from the hospital, all with a tear in their collar as a symbol of mourning. Abe hated this custom too. He had refused to wear one at his mother’s funeral, likewise his father’s, which he had disrupted more than attended. Around a dozen men approached the open grave, among them his black-hat cousin. Abe knew what was coming and prepared himself. While the men were still grouping around the grave, he stepped to one side, behind one of the big family plots in the shade of the trees. He didn’t want any onlookers to see him. He positioned himself so that he kept the men standing by his grandfather’s grave directly in view, and when they began their age old prayer, passed down the centuries, he prayed quietly along too.

The Hebrew and Aramaic words came so easily to his lips it was as if he had learned them yesterday, rather than twenty years before. Abe mouthed the words quietly so as not to attract attention, but loud enough for God, if he existed, to hear. His grandfather too, should his soul be journeying from one world to the next.

He had fulfilled both of the old man’s dying wishes.

While the family accepted condolences, Abe noticed two men who didn’t seem to belong. The mourners, perhaps recognising them as Goyim, gazed curiously in their direction, but Abe knew they were cops. They hadn’t sent Detective Rath, probably so that Abe didn’t notice them straightaway, but it had backfired. It was the cops who hadn’t spotted him. His black mourning suit meant he was indistinguishable from the group and, since the majority of those present kept their heads bowed, they hadn’t seen his face under the brim of his hat either. Thus far, the pair hadn’t attracted too much attention, but as the funeral drew to a close they sprung awake, and set off in front of the mourners. Abe knew not to underestimate them.

As the procession started back he kept himself as far as possible from the family. The funeral complex had an additional chapel and further outbuildings. The detectives took up position in the portico leading out of the cemetery, closely monitoring everyone who exited the grounds.

Abe dropped into the throng to gain a little time. He couldn’t leave, not now. Even if the pair hadn’t seen him, they would recognise him as he passed, thanks to that blasted sketch.

He took up position in front of the basins where mourners washed their hands before leaving the cemetery. While he awaited his turn, squinting at the portico out of the corner of his eye, he had a sudden flash of inspiration.

He wasn’t the only guest to make for the toilets, but he found a free cubicle all the same. He bolted the door, sat on the seat and waited. He would have to be patient, but that was OK. Initially, there was still a great hullabaloo, but gradually the noise died, until the only sound was the echo of water dripping on the tiles.

Abe remained where he was for a moment, to ensure the detectives had taken their leave. And what if they hadn’t? He felt for the Remington in his jacket. He shouldn’t have brought it here, but knew his grandfather, if he were watching, would understand.

When he had listened to the water dripping for at least fifteen minutes – it felt like hours – he stood up. He hoped he wouldn’t have to shoot his way out, but wouldn’t hesitate if the situation demanded. His legs had gone to sleep. He waited until he felt them return to life, opened the door and stepped out.

Everything went smoothly until he entered the washroom and almost jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t heard him come in; he must have been stealthy as a ghost.

The man with the black beard and black hat gazed at him in surprise, more curious than hostile, just like a few days ago on the street outside the hospital. He didn’t say anything, but Abe could see from his eyes that Joseph Flegenheimer knew exactly who stood before him.

87

‘Please excuse the late interruption…’ The caretaker stood outside Charly’s door wasn’t being sincere. He would have called again later, if necessary. ‘Many apologies,’ he said, ‘but I’ve tried a few times this week and no one’s been home.’

‘That’s fine, Herr Maltritz,’ she smiled. ‘It’s not your fault I’m out so often.’

‘My apologies.’

‘You’re only doing your job. Someone has to collect the rent.’

‘If you would be so kind, then. Twelve fifty, please. Your receipt is ready as always.’

‘Just a moment.’

She disappeared inside the flat, not having so much as thought about the rent, which was due on Mondays. Normally she had the money counted out beforehand, to keep the weekly process as brief as possible, but, what with this week’s chaos, she hadn’t thought of such trivial details as the rent. On Monday she had accepted Lange and Gennat’s special assignment, said yes to Heymann and met with Gereon. Life hadn’t been any less busy since.

In the kitchen she opened the crockery cupboard, freezing as she looked inside the earthenware pot. It was empty.

For a moment she considered frantically what she could have done with the money, but soon realised what had happened, and who had stolen it. To think, she had trusted the girls, and all because they hadn’t pilfered her gun. Alex must have taken the money while she was making coffee at breakfast, as Charly naively praised the undrinkable sludge. One hundred and twenty marks! Rent and housekeeping – everything she had set aside for the coming weeks. She had been planning to go shopping tomorrow, buy a guidebook for Paris, as well as a dictionary to brush up on her rusty French.

Alex, you rat!

She went back to the door. ‘This is very embarrassing, Herr Maltritz,’ she said, ‘but I completely forgot I wasn’t at the court today. I won’t get my paycheck until Monday now. If you could possibly wait until then.’

Hans Maltritz didn’t look pleased – he was already a little dubious about two women sharing a flat – but he put a brave face on it. ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘I’ll turn a blind eye this time. Because it’s you. But I need the money on Monday, otherwise I’ll have to charge interest. Backdated!’

‘Of course.’ Charly gave a winning smile. It helped. Maltritz tipped his hat and bid her good night. On the steps he turned around again. ‘Monday,’ he said, and Charly nodded, smiling at him all the way down the stairs.

Damn it, she thought, as she closed the door. Damn it!

One thing was for sure: Alexandra Reinhold was a cunning little minx. Charly had been deceived. What a fine judge of character you are, Fräulein Ritter. Gereon had been absolutely right; Andreas Lange too.

88

It was a grey morning, even though the sun had risen much earlier, and a thick layer of cloud hovered over the city, threatening rain. The Mühlendamm was humming with activity, with five ships waiting at the locks. The lockmaster chewed on a second breakfast of bread and dripping as he opened the sluice gates for a barge loaded with scrap metal. Since he needed both hands for the job, he held his breakfast sandwich between his teeth. Gradually the vessel moved inside the lock chamber. Four men stood on board and kept the lock wall at a distance with long wooden poles, ensuring the vessel didn’t scrape against the algae. Two of them manned the ropes, mooring the barge in the lock chamber while the lockmaster cranked the wheel to shut the gate.

The lockmaster finished his sandwich, and the iron sluice gates closed more quickly than they had opened until, all of a sudden, they stopped moving altogether. Something was snagged against the gate. Hopefully it wasn’t a piece of scrap metal from the barge. Whatever it was, it resisted.

‘Damn it,’ the lockmaster cursed, cranking the wheel back. Opening the gate just a little usually helped. The things that floated down this way! They had found all sorts: oil drums, a rusty bedstead, a traffic light, the frame of a pram, even a half-decomposed cow. Everything got caught here, at the Mühlendamm, and with some items it was impossible to say how they wound up in the Spree at all. He had no idea what it was this time, only that the river needed cleaning again soon.

Cranking the wheel back seemed to help. Whatever was caught underwater detached itself, and the sluice gate moved with a gurgling squeak.

‘There’s something in there,’ shouted one of the men on the barge, leaning on his staff. The gate was by now almost closed again. The lockmaster gazed into the water, and saw something glimmer just beneath the surface. The optical refraction made it look as though it had been steamrolled. If the lockmaster had known what it was, he probably wouldn’t have looked so closely, but he didn’t realise until he saw the eyes staring back at him out of a face so pale and swollen it no longer looked human. But human it was, the skin waxy and green with algae, hair swaying like seaweed. There was a deep, but bloodless – and therefore all the more hideous – wound on the man’s face, which exposed half his teeth and made it look as though he were snarling. He was staring at a corpse.

His knees grew weak, and he felt his stomach turn. He sank to the floor, retched once, and threw up both first and second breakfasts in the dirty black water of the lock chamber. It was six forty-five on Thursday morning.

89

The atmosphere was eerily reminiscent of the week before. Again Bernhard Weiss stood on the podium, and again the deputy commissioner made a serious face. Another uniform cop had been killed, in the Hansaviertel this time but not, this time, in the line of duty. He had been stabbed to death while on leave of absence.

‘The circumstances remain a mystery,’ Weiss said. ‘It seems unlikely to have been politically motivated, although we cannot rule that out. It appears that, on this occasion, it wasn’t the police uniform that was targeted, but the man himself. Jochen Kuschke.’

Tornow swallowed. ‘Damn it, that’s one of my colleagues from Wittenbergplatz.’

This was confirmed moments later when Ernst Gennat replaced Weiss on the podium. Buddha explained that underworld involvement couldn’t be ruled out, since Sergeant Major Kuschke had taken part in the KaDeWe operation two weeks before – the same operation which had famously resulted in the death of one of the young intruders.

‘It is possible,’ he continued, ‘that it was an accomplice of the dead intruder, or indeed the mastermind behind the robbery, taking bloody revenge.’

Damn it, Rath thought. Was Charly’s Alex a murderer too, on top of everything else? He hadn’t breathed a word about her yesterday evening, and Charly hadn’t mentioned anything either, but keeping quiet was no longer an option. What the hell was going on? Was she so up to her neck that she was covering for a murderer?

‘We are pursuing all lines of enquiry,’ Gennat said. ‘Since this case is now our priority, we will be reassigning certain members of the homicide team.’

It was unusual for Buddha to lead an investigation himself. Looking around, Rath could see that even the department’s old hands were nervous. They wanted to be in the team. Rath, too, felt restless. You could always learn something from Gennat and, apart from anything else, it was good for your standing. He would even be willing to partner Wilhelm Böhm, the first name called. Next up were Grabowski and Mertens, followed by several assistant detectives he didn’t know. Rath came away empty-handed, and Gräf didn’t make the cut either. Plisch and Plum weren’t even in the room. No sooner had Buddha assembled his team than they learned why.

‘A corpse was fished out of the water at the Mühlendamm early this morning,’ Gennat said. ‘I’ve given it to Henning and Czerwinski.’

Gennat had now reassigned most of the officers working on the Kubicki case, leaving just Rath, Gräf and Tornow. Most likely he felt that Rath and Gräf still had to make good on their error at the hotel, as Abraham Goldstein remained the prime suspect for the SA man’s death. At least with Tornow they’d have an additional colleague – unless, of course, he was being returned to Warrants? But no, Gennat had explicitly requested that Rath, Gräf and Tornow attend a subsequent briefing.

Once there, Böhm handed them the Kubicki documents, which already filled two heavy lever arch files. ‘I almost filled one myself,’ Gräf said, with a sour smile. ‘Pages of useless statements, made by so-called witnesses.’

‘At least we know what we don’t have to read,’ Rath said, wondering whether the old Jew had returned to repeat his statement. It didn’t sound like it. He gave the first file to Gräf, the second to Tornow, and was just about to leave when Böhm waved a third in his face.

‘This is for you too,’ he said. Rath gazed at it curiously. ‘Looks like there’s a second corpse linked to this case. Rudi the Rat mean anything to you?’

‘From the Nordpiraten?’

‘Correct. They found a corpse a few days ago at the dump, out at Schöneiche. Kronberg has identified him. Bullets to the head and chest. Same weapon as Kubicki, apparently.’

‘Damn it,’ Gräf said. ‘Do the Nordpiraten know?’

‘Not yet.’ Böhm looked suspiciously at Rath. ‘My advice would be to find Goldstein before the Nordpiraten get to him first.’

Rath glared at the file. It looked almost as if Böhm’s men were trying to get rid of anything that had to do with the case.

‘I have what might be a lead,’ said Grabowski. ‘I’ve discovered where Goldstein bought his cigarettes. The tobacconist recognised him from the sketch. He says a man fitting Goldstein’s description bought a large quantity of American cigarettes from him at Stettiner Bahnhof on Sunday morning: Camel.’

Rath looked inside the file at a long list of addresses. It looked like a hotel directory of Greater Berlin. ‘What’s this?’

‘All hotels within a kilometre radius,’ Grabowski said. ‘They’re sorted according to distance rather than price category. He might be lying low somewhere. There are a lot of flophouses in that part of town.’

That part of town was the Poetenviertel, near Stettiner Bahnhof, but the only thing poetic about it were the street names, named after Germany’s great Romantics. Otherwise, the area was devoid of both poetry and romance. It was a railway district: dilapidated house fronts, dim rear courtyards, dive hotels, prostitution, drugs, the whole shebang. It was also Nordpiraten turf.

Barely an hour later, Rath was forced to park outside the newly completed yellow-brick commuter line station that looked like a miniature version of Stettiner Bahnhof, but was treated like its inferior cousin. There was a great to-do by the main station as tanned holiday makers encountered pale city dwellers desperate to escape the rainy summer. He had requested an Opel from the motor pool, as the Buick was too small for three people and he didn’t want to consign Gräf to desk duty.

Before they got out of the car, he distributed the lists, having asked Erika Voss to sort the addresses according to location. Most of the hotels were to the south of Stettiner Bahnhof. Rath took those in the southwest, while Gräf handled those in the southeast. Tornow took everything north of Invalidenstrasse. Thanks to Grabowski they had more than enough to get on with.

‘Right, men,’ Rath said. ‘We’ll meet at the station restaurant at one. If either of you find Goldstein, place him under arrest and notify the nearest precinct. Even if it’s before lunchtime.’

The men fanned out and Rath gazed with envy at the tanned Baltic Sea holidaymakers streaming out of the station. Was the weather on Rügen so much better than in Berlin? It certainly looked that way. What it would be to go on holiday with Charly now, and reprise their miserable summer. Perhaps he’d visit her in Paris in the autumn, when there was less going on in the Castle and they could take time in lieu. He wondered where she was now and hoped her fugitive girl hadn’t had anything to do with this latest police murder.

Tornow had been quiet all morning; you could see from his face that the cop’s death affected him. Perhaps he had been a friend. Rath hadn’t wanted to ask, but sensed that Tornow would rather be part of Gennat’s investigation than searching for some Jewish gangster.

Which was probably exactly why Gennat hadn’t picked him.

Rath hoped the work would help take his mind off things. Anything was better than sitting crouched in their office. He glanced at the list. The first hotel was in Eichendorffstrasse.

90

The flat was furnished and looked as though it been cleaned the day before. It was tidy enough, but lacked anything that made a place homely. Clearly, a bachelor lived here. There were no pictures or plants, and it appeared that the only woman the flat had ever seen was the landlady. Right now she was making no move to leave, regarding Lange with suspicion as he opened the wardrobe containing Jochen Kuschke’s uniform. The shako lay on top of the wardrobe.

She stood directly behind Lange, and Charly could see that she was making him nervous. Finally he lost patience.

‘Frau Stock,’ he said, planting himself in front of her.

‘It’s Fräulein. I’m not married.’

‘Fräulein Stock, you must have washing to take care of, or carpets to beat? We don’t want to keep you.’

Fräulein Stock only needed a moment to understand. She didn’t like to go, but went all the same.

A few minutes later she could be heard beating carpets in the courtyard. Either it was pure coincidence, or the landlady’s Royal-Prussian spirit was so dominant that she interpreted Lange’s suggestion as a command. Charly opened the top drawer of the desk and looked across at Lange, who returned her gaze with a grin.

She had accompanied him at her own request. It was agreed that, afterwards, she should stay away from the Castle. ‘If there’s anything you can do for us, Charly,’ Gennat had said, ‘we’ll be in touch.’ Buddha had tried to make her feel as though she were needed, but Charly sensed that they had pushed things too far, and he was keeping her at a distance. If she appeared too often in Homicide, people might ask questions.

One person above all, Charly thought.

She still hadn’t told Gereon anything. Although he had seen Alex in Spenerstrasse, and most likely drawn his own conclusions, he had said nothing, leaving it to her to come clean. She hadn’t, and the secrecy Gennat and Lange had sworn her to was beginning to cause problems. On the one hand, she was happy Gereon hadn’t probed, and thus spared them an awkward situation. On the other, her silence had begun to feel sordid. He didn’t approve of her taking the girl in, but if only he knew the full story…

How much longer would she be able to remain silent? She was doing exactly what she always reproached him for, being cagey about work while serving her own ends. Admittedly, it was with Superintendent Gennat’s backing, but did that really make a difference?

She leafed through the papers she found in the drawers. Nothing. She couldn’t help thinking someone had already been through them. The mess here wasn’t natural, an existing order had been destroyed.

A few books were turned upside down. If you looked closely there were signs that a search had been conducted. The flat’s spotless appearance couldn’t change that. Lange seemed to think likewise. He opened the window, called the landlady’s name and, two minutes later, she was back in her tenant’s flat with a look that said: You see! I knew you couldn’t manage!

‘Please excuse me for interrupting your work, Frau… Fräulein Stock.’ Elfriede Stock’s expression softened. ‘We have another question for you: was anyone in the flat after Herr Kuschke left on Wednesday afternoon?’

‘I was. To clean, this morning.’

‘I mean anyone else.’

‘Your colleague, but I’m sure you already know about him…’

‘What colleague?’

‘It was one of Herr Kuschke’s colleagues, to be exact. A man in uniform.’

Charly could see that Lange was excited, but managing to keep himself under control. ‘When was this?’ he asked.

‘Yesterday, late afternoon.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Just to pick up a few things. Herr Kuschke was about to go away, he said, and had asked him to collect his suitcase.’

‘Did he really just collect his suitcase? He didn’t take a look around the flat?’

‘I don’t know. I was making coffee next door.’

‘You were making coffee?’

‘The officer was so kind. I thought maybe he’d like a cup, but he didn’t have time.’

‘You just let him into the flat like that?’

‘He was a police officer, not just anyone. I don’t let in all comers, you know!’ She sounded indignant.

‘Of course not.’ Lange remained amicable. ‘The fact remains that you don’t know exactly what this officer did in the flat.’

‘He collected Kuschke’s suitcase, at any rate. I saw it. He had it under his arm when he knocked on the kitchen door to say goodbye. Said thank you too.’

‘Do you know what was inside the case?’

‘Whatever you take on a trip, I suppose. A few shirts, trousers, underwear, socks, toothbrush and so on.’

‘How can you be sure?’

‘I didn’t say I was sure. It’s just what I imagine.’

‘You said you cleaned here, didn’t you?’

She nodded. ‘And changed the sheets. Since I thought he was on holiday.’ She seemed to remember that the man was dead and fell silent.

‘Did you notice anything suspicious? What about Kuschke’s toothbrush?’

The landlady hesitated. ‘It’s still in the glass.’

‘Could it be that this police officer wasn’t here to collect a suitcase, but to look for something?’

‘Like what?’

‘Perhaps Herr Kuschke mentioned something.’

Elfriede Stock pressed her lips together. She was holding something back.

‘Fräulein Stock,’ Charly said. ‘Is there anywhere he might have hidden something?’

The landlady shook her head vigorously. ‘No, no. He didn’t hide anything here.’ She smiled mischievously and gazed across at Lange. ‘He did ask me to look after something though. Shortly after he moved in.’ Lange and Charly looked at each other. ‘I really don’t know if I can give it to you,’ she continued. ‘He expressly said that I shouldn’t give it to anyone, above all the police.’

‘Taking a promise like that seriously does you credit,’ Lange said, ‘but I think the change in circumstances frees you from your obligation. Sergeant Major Kuschke is dead, and we’re investigating a murder. He’d have wanted us to have anything that helped find his killer.’

Charly was astonished by how patiently Lange spoke with the old lady.

‘It’s a box,’ she said. ‘He would ask for it every few weeks, then give it back. “It’s safe with you, Fräulein Stock,” he always said.’ The short, dry sob that followed was no doubt an expression of her grief. She pulled out a pristine white handkerchief and began dabbing her face.

‘What’s in this box?’

‘Should I go and get it?’ she replied, and Charly could tell from her curiosity that she didn’t know.

‘If you would be so kind,’ Lange said, with a note of mild irritation. Elfriede Stock disappeared. Lange said nothing, but Charly could guess what he was thinking. The landlady returned, a little out of breath, with a wooden casket that looked almost like a treasure chest, and placed it on the dining table.

‘Here it is,’ she said.

The box was locked.

‘You don’t happen to know where the key is?’

‘Herr Kuschke always kept it on him, I think.’

‘This item is hereby seized. I’ll happily provide you with a receipt before we take it away.’

‘Don’t you want to open it here?’ she asked, her disappointment plain.

‘I’d have to force it open,’ Lange said, in a tone of deep regret. ‘Surely you can’t expect that of a Prussian officer.’

91

The porter shook his head, more bored than trenchant. ‘Never seen him before.’ He turned back to his crossword.

Rath had heard the sentence at least half a dozen times, but this was the first time he didn’t believe it. It wasn’t because of any uncertainty in the porter’s voice; or that he spoke too quickly, usually the sign of a pat answer. Rather, standing behind his rickety table, or reception counter as it was supposed to be, the man wasn’t merely disagreeable but utterly loathsome. Rath had thought the lead would be a waste of time, but the man was visibly thrown by the picture of Abraham Goldstein, much as he tried to hide it.

‘Underworld river in ancient Greece. Four letters, ending in “x”?’ he asked.

‘Styx,’ Rath said.

‘How d’you spell it?’

Rath tore the paper from the man’s hand and put it gently, delicately almost, on the table. He placed Goldstein’s picture over the crossword.

‘Take a closer look,’ he suggested in a friendly tone, which evidently confused the porter.

‘Like I say, I don’t know this man.’ The porter reached for the paper again.

There were electric lines showing through the wallpaper; it didn’t look like the work of experts. It wasn’t the cleanest hotel Rath had seen either. As for the accounts, well who could say?

‘Listen here,’ he said, still friendly, ‘what do you think it would take to get this fleapit closed down? A call to the public order office? Or the board of public health? I’m pretty sure the financial office would do the job. A little tax audit. Yes, best to be sure.’

The porter put the paper down again. ‘Let’s talk. What do you want to know?’

Rath pushed the Goldstein sketch under his nose. ‘Is he staying here?’

‘No,’ he said. Rath was just about to make for the telephone booth on Oranienburger Tor, when he added: ‘He checked out a few days ago.’

‘When?’ The porter shrugged his shoulders. ‘I hope you’re not expecting a bribe. Either you talk, or I make the call.’

‘Yesterday afternoon.’

‘Where did he go?’

‘I don’t know. He just didn’t come back. I’ve no idea where he’s staying now.’

‘What about his luggage? Is that still here?’

‘No, otherwise he wouldn’t be checked out. Someone came to pick it up.’

‘Male or female?’ A blank look. ‘His companion. Did she pick up his luggage?’

‘It certainly wasn’t a woman! He had a beard this long.’ The porter made a gesture with his hands. ‘All in black. A strange type. With a caftan, you know.’

‘What do I know?’

‘You know. He was a Jew. Anyway, it was him who came to pick the stuff up. Just the one suitcase, settled the bill too. So, all’s well that ends well.’

Rath nodded. He wasn’t listening anymore.

Forensics didn’t find anything. The cupboards were empty, and Goldstein had left nothing behind. The only item was a bible in the drawer of the bedside table. The room was much larger than Rath expected, probably the best a flophouse like this had to offer, but, compared with the Excelsior, it was a hole. The room hadn’t been cleaned following Goldstein’s hasty departure, and so, at the very least, the ED men were able to lift a number of fingerprints, enough to prove the Yank had been here, even if, by now, Rath needed no confirmation.

The most pressing question was no longer where Goldstein had spent the last few days, but where he was now.

Around four o’clock all three men were back at the Castle. In the absence of a third desk, Rath fetched a table into the office from next door and placed a visitor’s chair in front of it. He couldn’t offer Tornow his own extension, but had been only too glad to place his typewriter at his disposal. What was a cadet good for, if not the paperwork his boss despised?

While Tornow typed his report, to be checked by Rath before Erika Voss made a fair copy, he and Gräf went through Gräf’s interrogation records hoping that, among the waffle, they would find a few serious statements. Which, of course, they didn’t. They highlighted the odd account pointing to sightings around the Poetenviertel or the area by Stettiner Bahnhof. It might help to pay these witnesses another visit but it was probably just coincidence. Someone claimed to have seen Abraham Goldstein in pretty much every neighbourhood in Greater Berlin.

Later, when Rath was sitting in the outer office going through Tornow’s report, the telephone rang. He ignored it, having no desire to be yelled at by Böhm, the only one who ever dialled him directly. Everyone else went via Erika Voss.

Gräf and Tornow exchanged glances. Gräf likewise made no move to answer, so Tornow got to his feet, went over to Rath’s desk and picked up.

‘Tornow, Inspector Rath’s office.’ He listened for a while before handing Rath the receiver. ‘For you. A Herr Liang.’

With everyone listening… Rath took the call.

‘Yes,’ he said innocently.

‘I take it this isn’t a good time,’ he heard Marlow’s Chinaman say.

‘That’s right.’

‘Come to Borchardt’s tonight at eight. Französischer Strasse. The Doctor would like to speak to you.’

‘About what?’

‘No doubt you already knew, and were just about to notify the Doctor.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘You didn’t? Your colleagues have found Hugo Lenz. He’s dead.’

‘I understand.’

This time Rath wasn’t sure he’d managed to sound casual and non-committal, but neither Gräf nor Tornow had noticed anything. He hung up.

‘Who was that?’ Tornow asked. ‘Someone Chinese?’

‘My hairdresser. I had to cancel our appointment.’

‘Then find a German hairdresser,’ Tornow said and grinned. ‘You could use a chop.’

92

If Rath had known what awaited in the Flegenheimer home, he might have postponed for another few days. The door to the flat stood open when he arrived but, for a moment, he lingered in the fabulously ornate stairwell. When he heard voices and no one responded to his tentative ‘Hello’, he entered.

Lea Flegenheimer and her husband were in the living room, just as before, but this time they were crouched on the floor, on small uncomfortable-looking stools. Four visitors, evidently friends of the family, were speaking with the Flegenheimers, in reverent, hushed tones. Rath entered with Kirie on her lead, and was met by six horrified faces.

Ariel Flegenheimer said nothing, he didn’t even stand up. An elderly guest, like his host clad entirely in black, approached in his stead.

‘What you are doing here?’ he whispered, pulling Rath into the hallway. ‘This is a house of mourning.’

‘CID,’ Rath said. ‘The Flegenheimers know me. I have a few more questions.’

‘When someone is sitting Shiva you visit to offer your condolences, not to ask questions!’

‘Offering condolences isn’t in my job description.’

‘What questions do you have then? Perhaps I can relay them to Ariel.’

Rath shook his head. ‘I’d like to speak to him myself, and his wife. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.’

A hallway door opened and Joseph Flegenheimer emerged, starting back when he saw Rath. He closed the door behind him and entered the living room in silence.

‘You can see what’s happening here,’ the elderly man said. ‘Can’t you come back in a few days?’

‘I’m sorry, but the matter is urgent. I’m afraid police work often is.’

The man gave up. ‘Fine, then,’ he sighed. ‘But leave the dog outside.’

Rath pressed the lead into the man’s hand. ‘Thank you,’ he said, and went back into the living room.

The looks that Ariel and Lea Flegenheimer gave him were no more friendly than before. Rath waited until a guest had finished speaking before crouching alongside the two mourners on the floor. ‘Please excuse the interruption,’ he said. ‘Might I start by expressing my sympathies once again.’

‘But that isn’t why you’re here,’ Ariel Flegenheimer said.

‘Just a quick question and I’ll be on my way.’

‘Then ask away. You’ve disrupted our mourning enough.’

‘I wanted to ask about your nephew again. Has Abraham Goldstein been in touch with you in the last few days after all? Has he made contact with you or any other members of your family?’

‘Neither with me, nor my wife. Was that all?’

Rath turned towards Joseph Flegenheimer, who stood next to his parents. ‘What about you?’ He could still scarcely believe he was speaking with Abraham Goldstein’s first cousin. ‘Has he been in touch?’

Joseph Flegenheimer shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. Rath sensed that young Flegenheimer knew more than he was willing to reveal.

‘You didn’t see him anywhere?’

‘Where would I have seen him?’

‘Or do him a good turn?’

The face behind the black beard was motionless. Joseph Flegenheimer held himself in check.

‘Be that as it may,’ Rath said. ‘Call me if he gets in touch.’ He handed Flegenheimer his card. ‘I won’t keep you any longer.’

With that he left the mourners, reclaiming Kirie in the hall and descending the steps onto Berchtesgadener Strasse. In the Buick he lit a cigarette and waited.

About quarter of an hour later, Joseph Flegenheimer stepped out onto the street. Rath waited until he had reached Wartburgstrasse and was no longer in view, before starting the engine.

It wasn’t hard to keep the black figure in sight. Halting at the Wartburgstrasse junction, he waited until Flegenheimer reached Martin-Luther-Strasse. There was a tram line here, but Flegenheimer continued down the street towards the Schöneberger town hall. Rath watched while he crossed Rudolf-Wilde-Platz and continued down Mühlenstrasse. Following as slowly as possible, he caught up outside a large Catholic church which fitted seamlessly between the house fronts, like so many churches in this city. He was looking for a parking spot when Flegenheimer did something unexpected.

Dressed entirely in the garb of his forefathers, he opened one of the church doors and went inside.

Rath pulled over. What could this mean? He didn’t want to follow him into the building, as Flegenheimer might grow suspicious. Even so, he’d have liked to know what business an orthodox Jew had in a church.

He had been hoping that Flegenheimer would lead him to whatever flophouse Abraham Goldstein was staying in, but apparently it wouldn’t be that simple. All the same, he was certain it was Flegenheimer who had collected his cousin’s things from the hotel in Tieckstrasse and settled the bill.

He remained in the car to smoke an Overstolz, but Flegenheimer didn’t reappear. At length he threw the cigarette out of the window and restarted the engine. It was already late. He had to keep moving if he didn’t want to miss his appointment with Marlow. He wrote down the name of the church: Saint Norbert’s.

93

The room had no windows and was seldom properly aired, hence the musty smell. A uniform officer led them past a long line of shelves. It looked like an arms dealer’s warehouse, an arms dealer with a sideline in bric a brac: pistols and weapons of every design, knives, sabres, knuckledusters, carpets, candlesticks, oil paintings, record players and even a welded safety deposit box.

Charly held her hand over her nose and watched Lange as he examined a light-grey suit covered in congealed blood. Against their original plan, she had returned to the station out of sheer curiosity. Lange had not, in fact, forced the wooden casket open, neither in the flat nor in the car. He really was a model of Prussian rectitude. Perhaps her father had been right when he claimed that Hanoverians were more Prussian than the Prussians themselves.

They hadn’t spoken much on the return journey, but both were now certain that Alexandra Reinhold was no longer their prime suspect. Lange appeared just as relieved as Charly, not that it made the case any simpler. The cop in Kuschke’s flat must have been the same one Charly had seen in the Hansaviertel, and he must have something to do with the murder. What a nightmare: a murdering policeman, killed, himself, by a police officer. So far the dead man in the Hansaviertel hadn’t been accorded many column inches. The Castle had kept things under wraps, above all the man’s identity, deciding to release the information in stages, ideally in conjunction with reports on the state of the investigation.

The problem was that their findings had shed an increasingly disturbing light on matters.

After Charly failed to crack the box’s lock with a paperclip, they went to the evidence room. Lange fished a key out of Kuschke’s wallet and raised it triumphantly into the air.

Charly handed him the box: a fit.

At first she couldn’t make head or tail of the sheet of paper Lange took out of the box: a passport photo showing Jochen Kuschke in uniform, albeit not the uniform of a sergeant major; rather one that, for police, was strictly forbidden. Even before she read what was printed next to the photograph and saw the stamped symbol, she knew this wasn’t something they could give to the press.

Lange whistled through his teeth.

It was a membership card, confirming that Jochen Kuschke had been a member of the Berlin-Brandenburg SA-Gau since 12th December 1930, and held the rank of Oberscharführer. It was signed by Walther Stennes, the former Berlin SA Chief who had since been expelled by Hitler.

Grzesinski and Weiss would do everything in their power to ensure the press didn’t get wind of this. Who knew what would happen if word got out that, despite the strict ban issued by both the Interior Ministry and police commissioner, a Berlin police officer had not only become a member of the SA but allowed himself to be photographed in their uniform.

They didn’t know what to make of the other items, except that Kuschke clearly felt they were as worthy of protection as his SA membership: a black patch with a white hand stitched on, a similarly designed lapel badge and a few photos of Kuschke with other men, none of whom were in police or SA uniform, but plainclothes.

They packed everything up and were about to leave when Kronberg from ED peered around the corner. ‘There you are,’ he said to Lange. ‘Fräulein Steiner said I’d find you here.’

The ‘you’ referred to Lange alone. He didn’t so much as glance at Charly, but reached into an envelope and placed a photograph of a bloody knife next to the wooden casket.

‘The knife used to murder Kuschke,’ Charly said. ‘Have you found anything?’

‘It’s a dagger,’ Kronberg corrected, giving Charly a condescending glance. ‘A trench dagger, to be exact. Made for trench fighters in the war. Every veteran owns one.’

‘So?’ Lange said.

‘So, it can be difficult to identify the owner of such a weapon. But… in this case, I believe we have managed.’

‘Yes?’

‘The dead SA man in Humboldthain was stabbed to death with a weapon just like this, his own. Until now, the weapon’s been missing without trace, but if you ask me…’ Kronberg gestured towards the photograph. ‘This is it here.’

94

Johann Marlow held a bottle of chilled white wine. F.W. Borchardt was one of the most exclusive gourmet establishments in Berlin, where fine cuisine was fused with an impeccable wine cellar. Marlow had taken a table in a booth where they could talk undisturbed. Liang was there, and they had laid a place for Rath too. As much as he despised Johann Marlow’s attention, he was in no position to refuse. After all, what could he say? No thanks, I’ve already eaten? His stomach was making far too much noise for that. He hadn’t taken any food on board since wolfing down a meagre lunch at Stettiner Bahnhof with Gräf and Tornow; Kirie likewise. He was almost refused entry with the dog but Liang, waiting by the door, handed a note to the man at reception, and soon a boy emerged to take her. Kirie went willingly, instinct telling her there was food on offer.

‘Do sit down,’ Marlow said. ‘Wine?’

Rath nodded. Liang poured.

‘I’m sorry about Lenz,’ Rath said. ‘Perhaps it will comfort you to know that Rudi the Rat was found dead at a rubbish dump.’

Marlow slammed his fist against the table. ‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that Lenz was dead? Why do I have to hear from Teuber about your boys showing up in Amor-Diele, shouting about how Hugo’s mortal remains have been fished out of the Mühlendamm Lock?’

Rath lit a cigarette. If he had learned one thing it was not to be intimidated by this man. ‘It’s not my case; I only heard about it from Herr Liang here.’

‘Well, we picked the right man to have at the station.’

‘I’m not your man. I’m doing you a favour because I owe you a debt.’

‘I asked you to investigate the background to Hugo’s disappearance.’

‘I’ve already told you that I think he fell into a trap, at the Osthafen, and that he probably didn’t survive.’

‘Probably. So, who laid this trap?’

‘I’ve spoken to colleagues working on the case.’ Plisch and Plum had been only too happy to tell him what they knew, especially Czerwinski, who was proud to be leading an investigation that gave him the chance to order his friend Henning around. ‘Pathology has confirmed that Hugo Lenz didn’t drown,’ Rath continued. ‘He was shot. Bullets to the head and chest, just like Rudi Höller. They think Lenz’s corpse drifted around the Spree for a few days before surfacing at the lock. They’re assuming he was thrown into the water somewhere upstream. They don’t know where.’

‘But you do.’

‘Like I said a week ago, we know that Hugo Lenz went to the harbour area, but that no one saw him return. The next day his car was still parked where he left it. Then, there are the shots the night watchman claims to have heard near the cold-storage depot.’

‘You searched my warehouses and found nothing.’

‘I still believe that’s where it happened. Hugo Lenz was shot by whoever agreed to meet him at the harbour, and he would feel secure at a Berolina warehouse. It’s the same MO as Rudi the Rat, only he was disposed of in a rubbish dump.’

‘Both corpses were still found,’ Marlow said.

‘Perhaps they were meant to be. Mutilated and disfigured as a warning to you and the Nordpiraten.’

‘Who’s behind it?’

Rath shrugged. ‘Another Ringverein. Or someone you haven’t bargained on.’

Marlow made a pensive face. ‘And this someone hired an American contract killer?’

‘More likely it’s someone trying to lay the blame at his door. That’s what it seems like to me, as if the whole thing’s been staged.’

‘You surprise me, Inspector, protecting a gangster like this.’

‘It couldn’t have been Goldstein. I had him under surveillance at the time.’

‘I thought he gave you the slip.’

‘Not on the day Hugo Lenz disappeared.’

‘Whatever the case,’ Marlow said, ‘we have a problem. Now that Hugo Lenz has been confirmed dead, I have to act.’

‘You want revenge? When you don’t even know who’s behind it?’

‘Let’s not misunderstand each other,’ Marlow said. ‘I’m not mourning Lenz personally, but his death is an affront against my organisation and, since the whole world thinks the Pirates are behind it, it’ll be the Pirates who take the rap. They’ve been acting up for weeks, and who can say that Lapke wasn’t involved.’

‘He and Rudi the Rat were best friends.’

‘And rivals.’

‘Aren’t you being a little hasty?’

Marlow gave Rath a cold, hard stare. ‘I need to act, and if you can’t tell me who killed Hugo Lenz, it’ll be the Pirates who get it.’

‘Do you know what will happen in this city if you move against them now? It’ll be a bloodbath.’

‘You think I can stand for this? If I don’t strike back, Berolina will be on me before I can count to three.’

‘Lay down an example for all I care. Have a few Pirates beaten up, kidnap them, lock them in a damp cellar, but don’t risk open warfare until you’re one hundred percent certain who has your business partner on their conscience.’

‘Then it’s time you delivered.’

‘I’m working on it.’

‘I’ll give you three days,’ Marlow said. ‘Exactly seventy-two hours. On Sunday evening we’ll meet again and I want to know for certain. One hundred percent.’

‘You will.’ Rath stubbed out his cigarette and stood up.

‘Don’t you want to eat?’

‘We’re too close to the station.’

‘Don’t worry, your colleagues can’t afford this sort of place, and the commissioner’s too tight for Borchardt.’

‘No, thank you, but you could do me another favour?’

‘Yes?’

‘I need to speak to Christine again. You know, the dancer from Venuskeller.’

‘I think that can be arranged,’ Marlow grinned. Liang took a black notebook from his jacket and wrote down an address before tearing out the page and passing it to Rath. ‘You can reach her there, but not before midday. Or you can go to Venuskeller tonight.’

‘No thank you,’ Rath said. ‘I’ve got something better in mind.’

95

Charly hadn’t heard anything more from either Alex or Vicky. The girls were still missing. She closed the door to her flat and went inside. Gereon still wasn’t home. Luckily, she hadn’t run into him again at the Castle. She felt guilty, but also relieved that she hadn’t had to speak to him.

She found a half-open bottle of red in the cupboard, and sat at the table with her glass. The first sip felt good. She lit a cigarette. What was she involved in here? Police officers killing police officers? Underage girls seeking revenge. How she would have liked to talk things over with Gereon, if only she could. Her case seemed to hang together with his. The murder weapon: the SA man in Humboldthain had almost certainly been killed with the same knife as the police officer in the Hansaviertel. This same police officer was also a member of the SA. Was that a link? Was there someone going around town butchering SA men? More, was that someone Abraham Goldstein, Gereon’s gangster? He was Jewish. Perhaps that was why he had crossed the Atlantic? Because he had been contracted to take care of a few brownshirts on behalf of Jews who would no longer stand for the abuse. It was an absurd idea but, on the other hand, it was often the absurd ideas that led to the solution. Somehow, it fitted.

All this secrecy. Gereon might be used to it, but she wasn’t – and didn’t think she ever would be. With every hour that passed it grew worse. Should she try and get the green light to notify Inspector Rath? Then again… she knew only too well that Gennat had brought Böhm into their little team because he had been handling the Humboldthain case, and that Böhm just couldn’t deal with someone like Gereon, who rarely accepted another person’s authority. Charly didn’t blame him for ignoring Gereon half the time, even if Gereon hated him for it. She had always got on well with Wilhelm Böhm, so it could be done, so long as you didn’t take his surly charms to heart.

She heard footsteps in the stairwell. Could it be Gereon? She took another sip of wine and listened, almost anxiously, to the noise from outside.

96

Earlier that morning, Rath had sent Gräf and Tornow away to resume their investigation into Grabowski’s list of Camel outlets. They seemed to get along, so now he could do what he enjoyed best: working alone.

He parked the Buick on a side street in Treptow. Christine’s surname was the solidly middle-class, run-of-the-mill Möller, and she lived in far greater comfort than he had anticipated. Front building, first floor.

It took a while for someone to open, even though Rath had heeded Liang’s advice and waited until after lunch. The Venuskeller’s main attraction wore a midnight-blue, silk gown, as elegantly cut as the bathrobe she wore in her dressing room. She seemed to have recognised him, and looked at him like a lioness in her den, shy and belligerent in equal measure.

‘I knew we’d be seeing each other again,’ she said, opening the door. ‘Please come in. I’m having breakfast.’

The smell of coffee hung in the flat. She led him into a sun-filled room with the skylight tilted open and noise entering from the street. A percolator in a dark-red cosy stood on a small table with two chairs, alongside a cup of steaming black coffee. A stubbed-out cigarette lay in the ashtray. Christine Möller’s breakfast habits mirrored his own.

‘Coffee?’

‘Please.’

She poured.

‘Why don’t you take off your hat and coat.’

Rath heard the undertone in her voice and, despite everything, could do nothing to prevent his sudden erection. This time Frau Lennartz’s flabby upper arms wouldn’t save him. He took off his hat and coat and joined her at the table, took a sip of coffee and tried to avert his gaze from her bosom, which was plain to see under the midnight-blue silk.

‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Warm in here, don’t you think?’ Christine blew away a strand of blonde hair and leaned forward so that her robe opened to reveal a breast.

It was time to get down to brass tacks. He replaced the coffee cup on the saucer with a clatter. ‘You don’t just work for Johann Marlow,’ he said. ‘You work for my colleagues in Vice too.’

She remained astonishingly composed. ‘Don’t you work for Marlow and the police yourself?’

‘We’re talking about you here, not me.’

She shrugged. ‘If you pay well, I’ll work for you too.’

The subtext was clear enough. He kept looking at her as he tapped a cigarette out of the carton and lit it. ‘Not necessary, thank you.’

‘A shame.’ She snatched together the ends of her dressing gown. ‘Perhaps you should tell me who you’re representing here. Dr M. or Dr Weiss?’

‘I’m here for me.’

The more she avoided his questions, the more convinced he was that she had something to hide. The photos he had found in Lanke’s drawer were no coincidence.

‘But that doesn’t mean something useful won’t come out of this meeting for my employers,’ he continued. ‘It depends entirely whether you tell the truth or not.’

‘You’re here to threaten me.’

‘I’m here to warn you.’

‘Perhaps it’s me who should be warning you. What do you think Dr M.’s going to do when he hears you’ve been trying to blackmail me.’

‘What do you think he’s going to do when he hears it was you who lured Hugo Lenz into a fatal trap?’

‘What are you talking about?’

Her horror, even if she attempted to hide it with studied self-assurance, was genuine. Rath had only been expressing a hunch, but her reaction told him he was getting close to the truth.

‘You provided Hugo Lenz with his police contacts,’ he said. ‘Lenz envied Marlow, and hoped to settle Berolina’s issues with the Nordpiraten by double-crossing them with the police.’ Rath drew on his cigarette. ‘It was you who fanned the flames. Perhaps it was you who put the idea in his head.’

‘I really have no idea what you’re talking about.’

Rath felt confirmed in his hunch. Christine Möller had stopped trying to seduce him. She folded her arms to keep her dressing gown closed. He could no longer even see her neck.

‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. Herr Marlow, on the other hand, doesn’t, and I think it’s best if you keep it that way.’ Rath paused to let his words take effect, and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Of course, it’s entirely up to you. You tell me what happened and it stays between us, I give you my word. Dig your heels in, or if I find out you’ve been lying, and I’ll leave it to Marlow to extract the truth.’

‘You lousy bastard.’

‘It’s your choice. Tell me everything you know, here and now. Or tell Marlow, while you’re tied up in a damp cellar.’

He didn’t need to make himself any clearer. Christine Möller understood.

‘I didn’t know they would kill him. I thought they were just going to arrest him.’

Then she told him everything.

97

In person, Gerald Thiemann looked even more like Harold Lloyd than on the sketch. He seemed nervous.

‘Thank you for getting in touch,’ Gennat said.

Thiemann nodded. ‘A friend told me that my picture was in the papers.’

Seated on the upholstered green living-room suite in Gennat’s office, Buddha was at pains to make him feel at home. Trudchen Steiner entered with freshly brewed coffee to join the selection of cakes already on the table. Gennat served them out personally after she poured. First, the witness. Gerald Thiemann selected a small slice of nutcake, clearly impressed by the range on offer. Charly passed, a decision Gennat met with a look that was somewhere between pitying and sympathetic, while Lange took an enormous slice of Herrentorte that he stared at reverently. For himself, Buddha chose a slice of gooseberry tart. The tray was still more than half full.

Böhm was the only one absent. Gennat had sent him back out to the Hansaviertel, where two assistant detectives were canvassing houses for possible witnesses to the Kuschke murder. Charly knew it was better that Böhm wasn’t present for awkward interviews such as this. He could be intimidating, even when he didn’t mean to be, and this was no time to be intimidating witnesses. It was one of the reasons they weren’t sitting in an interview room, but over coffee and cake in Gennat’s living room office. Ignoring the fact that the upholstery was not only worn but like something out of Kaiser Wilhelm’s era, you could probably say that Gennat’s was the cosiest office in the whole of police headquarters. Rumour had it that even the police commissioner’s official residence on the first floor – with its panoramic view of Alexanderplatz – wasn’t as comfortably furnished.

All that could be heard was the clatter of cake forks and coffee cups, until Gennat posed his first question. ‘What did you see at KaDeWe on the night in question?’

Thiemann set his cup back on his saucer. ‘There was this boy,’ he said, ‘and this girl. At first I thought she was a boy too, until I heard her voice.’

‘Please, start from the beginning. You were walking down Passauer Strasse…’

‘That’s right.’

‘What direction were you coming from, and where were you heading?’ Lange asked hastily. Charly registered Gennat’s angry glance, which caused Lange to go red and fall silent.

‘I wanted… I… I was on my way to…’ Thiemann looked at Gennat uncertainly. ‘Does this really have to be on the record?’

Gennat shook his head. ‘For us, the only important thing is that you were there. Not why you were there. Even so, it would help if you could provide a detailed outline of what you saw.’

Thiemann looked relieved. ‘So, I was coming down Passauer in the direction of Tauentzienstrasse, on the other side from KaDeWe, when I was surprised to see lights on in the department store. Not just the neon lights. I mean inside, on every floor.’ He took another sip of coffee. ‘I was looking over at KaDeWe when I saw this boy.’ In danger of disappearing into his chair, he sat up and gripped the armrests. ‘I thought he was about to jump, the way he climbed over the railings, but then this policeman came, and I thought it’ll be OK, there’s someone looking after him.’

‘Did you see what happened next?’ Gennat asked.

‘Yes. I was rooted to the spot.’

‘Were there any other people on the street?’

‘Not where I was. It was just me and this girl. She stood on the other side of the road looking up. She had trousers on. That she had just come out of KaDeWe, that she was a thief just like her friend up there… well, I didn’t work that out until later.’

‘What happened next?’

‘I don’t know how long it all lasted, but the co… the police officer just stood there making no attempt whatsoever to save the boy. At first I thought, he doesn’t want to rush things, he’s trying to talk him down, that sort of thing. Then I saw him tread on the boy’s finger with his boot, almost as if he were treading out a cigarette with his heel.’

‘You had a good view of all this from down there?’

‘Define “good view”. The front was illuminated by the neon sign, and there was light coming through the windows. So, I saw what I saw. My eyesight’s pretty good, even if I do wear glasses.’ He took his glasses off with his right hand and pointed with his index and middle fingers at his pupils. ‘Long-sighted.’

Gennat nodded as Lange took notes, neglecting his Herrentorte as a result. They had made do without a stenographer to keep the number of people involved to a minimum. Charly could have taken on the role – indeed, she had been expecting to – but Buddha had pressed the notepad into Lange’s hand.

‘What happened after that, Herr Thiemann?’ she asked, as though Gerald Thiemann was a storyteller, and she were listening to him over coffee.

‘The boy cried out a few times,’ Thiemann continued, ‘until at some point he fell.’ He closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. ‘Terrible. As he fell, he didn’t make another sound, didn’t cry out, nothing.’

‘And the girl?’

Thiemann shrugged. ‘I wasn’t looking at her, but I think she stood stock still, like me. She ran to him straightaway, as did I. She shouted at me to call an ambulance.’

Charly thought of the Alex she had come to know. Yes, that was a fit. ‘That’s what you did?’

‘First, I had to look for a telephone booth. The closest one’s on Wittenbergplatz, so it took a while. And, well… when I came back, your colleagues were there, standing over the boy. I think he was already dead. The girl was gone.’

‘What about you. You weren’t questioned by our colleagues?’

‘No one paid any attention to me. I was just another rubbernecker. I waited for the ambulance to arrive and went on my way without speaking to anybody.’

‘You should have, Herr Thiemann.’ Gennat pushed his cake plate aside and looked at the witness through friendly eyes. ‘What you have to say is important. Why didn’t you mention anything at the scene?’

Thiemann sat helplessly, rake-thin and disappearing inside a chair that was far too big for a single person. ‘I didn’t want any trouble. I had spoken to the girl, a criminal, remember, and I didn’t stop her, I just let her go. Because I went looking for the nearest telephone booth to call an ambulance.’

‘No one could reproach you for that.’

‘Maybe. But… there was something else. That man…’ He pointed at Kuschke’s portrait. ‘I was afraid of how he looked at me.’ He swallowed, as though it were tricky to utter the next sentence. ‘And I was pretty muddled after everything that happened; I didn’t know where I stood any more. With you… with your colleagues, I mean.’

Gennat gave an understanding nod. ‘Why didn’t you contact us later? When you were no longer so muddled, I mean.’

‘Perhaps I still am,’ Thiemann said. ‘As a child,’ he continued after a time, ‘as a child, I always learned that the cops are the good guys, and the robbers are the bad guys… that was how we always played it anyway…’ He looked around suspiciously. ‘But maybe things have changed since the Kaiser’s reign…’

‘I don’t think so,’ Gennat said. ‘We’re still the good guys. The exception proves the rule.’

98

Rath parked at the same spot as before. The only thing distinguishing Saint Norbert’s from the adjacent buildings were the two church towers and gable front that rose above the five-storey apartment houses which otherwise dominated Mühlenstrasse. The left-hand tower was kinked slightly to follow the bend in the road, and bordered directly on the neighbouring Norbert Hospital. The lower levels, with the round-arched portals (one of which served as the entrance to the courtyard), were veneered with dressed stone, while on the upper floors the façade was broken by a row of windows which seemed to conceal a number of rooms, perhaps where the priest had his quarters.

He had taken an Opel from the motor pool and left the Buick at the station. His visit yesterday had startled young Flegenheimer, who later visited the church. Why? The only thing that seemed halfway plausible was a dead letter box. Somewhere in the church, Flegenheimer had left a message for his cousin.

He thought back to Christine Möller’s flat. The Venuskeller’s main attraction had indeed betrayed Red Hugo, though she had stressed, again and again, that she had no idea she was sending him to his death. He still didn’t know if he could trust her, but it seemed more likely that her instructions had come from the police than the Nordpiraten. She hadn’t been able to give a name, or even a description; everything had been done anonymously, and mostly over the telephone. The only face-to-face meeting she’d had was with Gregor Lanke, who arranged the initial contact with this ominous stranger – or, at least, his telephone voice. Lanke had pressured her, telling her if she didn’t do him this favour he’d have her sent down on drugs charges. Someone must have told him she took cocaine as he had shown up at her house one day and uncovered her supply. She had been paying for it ever since, less with information than with regular services. She didn’t have to go into any more detail.

After months of sex in return for silence, Lanke had tried to engage her as an informant. ‘He must have heard about me and Hugo,’ she said, ‘even though I’d only been with him a few weeks.’ The instructions she received over the telephone were precise, which was how she’d been able to set up a meeting without Hugo connecting it to her. Red Hugo must have met his killer twice; the third meeting had ended fatally. Christine had never seen the man, but she still remembered the number she had called. Rath looked in his notebook: STEPHAN 1701. He had tried it just now in the telephone booth. No one picked up, but at least he had something to go on.

The booth was on Schöneberg’s main drag, a few metres down from Mühlenstrasse. He looked at his watch and thought about trying again. Watching the church for over an hour, he’d seen no sign of Joseph Flegenheimer or Abraham Goldstein.

After checking to make sure he didn’t recognise anyone on the street, he got out of the car. Walking down Mühlenstrasse he gazed into an undertaker’s window that reflected the church façade. Saint Norbert’s was still visible from the telephone booth if he opened the door and stepped outside. He chose not to, however, even though the flex was long enough. It felt as if he were wasting his time here. He asked for STEPHAN 1701 and let it ring a long time. No luck: not a police station, then.

He lit a cigarette, gazing through the window at the coffins, and wondered whether it wouldn’t be better to give up smoking. The prospect of returning to a cramped, smoky Opel was less than appealing. If the mountain wouldn’t come to Muhammad…

Barely three minutes later, he stood in front of the Flegen-heimers’ front door, determined to interrupt their mourning for a second time. It took a moment before he heard footsteps and a woman he hadn’t seen before opened.

‘This is the Flegenheimer residence, isn’t it?’ he said, a little confused.

She looked him up and down. ‘Yes.’

‘I’d like to speak to Joseph Flegenh…’

‘He’s not here,’ she said, before he could finish his sentence.

‘Who is it, Rikwa,’ Rath heard a familiar voice. Lea Flegenheimer was home. Two seconds later she stood at the door surveying Rath like a troublesome insect. ‘Haven’t you pestered us enough already?’

‘I’d like to speak with your son, Frau Flegenheimer.’

‘I’m afraid you’ve chosen the wrong day.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Shabbos,’ Lea Flegenheimer said. ‘The men are at synagogue. I’m preparing our shabbat meal with Rikwa.’

‘I thought the Sabbath was on Saturday.’

‘You don’t have any Jewish friends, do you, Inspector?’ Lea Flegenheimer said, and while Rath was still thinking about whether he’d describe Manfred Oppenberg or Magnus Schwartz as friends, or, indeed, if he had any friends at all, whether Jewish, Catholic, Protestant or even Atheist, she provided the answer. ‘Clearly not, otherwise you’d know that Sabbath begins at sunset.’

‘Thanks for letting me know.’ The best way to annoy people like Lea Flegenheimer was to remain resolutely polite. ‘Would you be so kind as to tell me which synagogue I might find your son in?’

‘You’re not going to disrupt the liturgy?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll wait outside.’

Rath took less than five minutes to reach the synagogue on Münchener Strasse. Naturally, he didn’t go inside, and wouldn’t have done so even without Lea Flegenheimer’s warning. He stood in front of the portal and lit a cigarette. Dusk was falling; it wouldn’t be long now. He contemplated the enormous Jugendstil façade, above which a cupola stood in solitary splendour, capped by the star of David.

It took two cigarettes before the men started to emerge. Only men. No doubt the women were at home preparing the food.

He looked carefully, not just because night was closing in, but because most of the men were dressed in identical fashion. Nearly all wore black coats and black hats, and all wore prayer shawls. Beards and sidelocks made it trickier still. He caught sight of the Flegenheimers among a group of men proceeding down Münchener Strasse towards Grunewaldstrasse, and followed at a distance until Flegenheimer father and son separated from the group at the junction with Berchtesgadener Strasse.

For some reason he couldn’t bring himself to speak to Joseph Flegenheimer, or tell his father that his offspring had been seen entering a Catholic church. He didn’t know whether it was the prayer shawls, or that they were celebrating the most important day in their faith, but there was something in the air, an almost intimate feeling of religion, that he didn’t want to disturb. Perhaps somewhere deep inside he was simply too Catholic not to respect those who still believed in God, even though he was no longer capable of it himself – however much he might long to be.

He waited until the two had disappeared inside their house before walking down Berchtesgadener Strasse towards his car. It was time to go and collect the Buick from the Castle.

99

On Saturday there was schnitzel. Czerwinski had asked for an especially large plate, with extra potato salad. The workers in the canteen knew the detective’s appetite. Rath and Henning were more modest and contented themselves with smaller portions.

Plisch and Plum were in good spirits. Reaching the weekend without incident was all that mattered to Czerwinski, and he had managed again. The pair thought nothing of Rath quizzing them for information. They had worked together so often that it felt normal when he enquired about the state of an investigation, even now, after Böhm had split them up.

They still hadn’t formally identified the Osthafen as the scene of the crime, even though it stood on their shortlist along with several other remote areas by the shore. Nor could they say anything about the time of death. In other words, they had nothing. In the absence of any other leads, Plisch and Plum only had Hugo’s reputation to go on, and they concluded that it was a gangland revenge. Meanwhile, Rudi Höller’s murder fitted the picture perfectly, even if the pair couldn’t say who was avenging whom, given the uncertainty surrounding the times of death.

‘What’s strange,’ Henning said, ‘is that the pattern in both cases was the same. Exit wounds to the head and chest. Even stranger, according to Ballistics, both Höller and Lenz were killed by the same weapon. The one that did for the dead SA man’s foot.’

‘Goldstein’s Remington,’ Rath said.

‘It looks as if the newspapers were right,’ Czerwinski said. Despite his enormous portion, he was already eating dessert. ‘Our gangster’s been working overtime.’

‘I don’t know.’ Rath was sceptical. ‘Don’t you think everything points a little too obviously at Goldstein? I mean, how does the dead SA man fit in there?’

‘Don’t blame yourself, Gereon,’ Henning said. ‘None of us feels good about how he escaped, but we have to look the facts in the eye.’

Rath fell silent, stood up and took his leave. Earlier that morning he had been to Lanke’s office several times, where he was brusquely informed that Lanke was ‘out in the field’.

The man lived in Schöneberg, near the Queen-Luise-Gedächtniskirche. He stood wide-eyed when he opened the door to find Rath outside. He seemed to have been expecting someone else.

‘You?’ he said. ‘What do you want here?’

‘To talk to you. Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

‘I’m afraid this really isn’t a good time. I’m expecting a visitor…’

‘Your uncle?’

Lanke didn’t take the bait. ‘Please leave,’ he said.

Rath stepped inside the flat. He knew he had Lanke where he wanted him. Looking round he noted that Gregor Lanke seemed to exist on more than a detective’s salary. How else could he afford such a roomy front-facing apartment? The maid must have been here recently too; everything looked clean and tidy. ‘Aren’t you going to offer me anything?’ he asked.

‘You want me to make coffee now?’

‘Just a joke.’

‘My sides have split.’

‘What telephone number did you give Christine Möller?’ Rath asked.

‘Pardon?’

‘Christine Möller. Another girl from your impressive collection. You know it’s quite astonishing what you ask of your informants. Pretty much everything, it seems, except for information, of course.’

Lanke turned pale and leaned against the doorframe.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said, but it didn’t sound convincing. Lanke knew why Rath was here.

‘Hugo Lenz, also known as Red Hugo was your plaything’s lover. Is that the right way to describe it? Were you jealous? Was that why you arranged the meeting with your supposed colleague? I think it was you who shot Hugo Lenz, or did you hire someone from overseas?’

‘I’m sorry?’ This time he sounded genuine. Rath was surprised. ‘It wasn’t me. You have to believe me!’

‘Then tell me who it was.’

‘I can’t. Don’t you understand!’

‘No.’

‘I can’t betray the fellowsh… the men. It would mean certain death.’

Gregor Lanke looked like a man out of his depth.

‘The story about how you wanted to get Goldstein by smuggling your informant into the Excelsior was a lie,’ Rath said. ‘You were acting on behalf of your comrades there too, weren’t you?’

Lanke said nothing, but Rath realised he was on the right track. ‘What’s going on here, Lanke?’

Gregor Lanke gazed at his feet, saying nothing, but shaking slightly. Rath almost felt sympathy for him.

‘You should think hard about cooperating, otherwise I’ll make your dirty business public and that’ll be it for your police career.’

‘If that’s what you have to do. I’ve got nothing more to say. Now, please leave my flat.’

Rath wouldn’t get anything more out of him for the time being. The man seemed genuinely afraid. When the doorbell rang he looked at it like a deer in headlights. Rath opened and stared into a pretty face. He had never seen this young lady before, but felt certain she could be marvelled at in an illegal nightclub somewhere in Berlin. He tipped his hat and took his leave, wishing both parties ‘a nice weekend’, which, of course, neither of them would have. Gregor Lanke was soaked in sweat, no longer capable of anything.

Rath had no sympathy, now, for his successor. He’d never been able to stand the man. The question was, what was Lanke so afraid of that he’d rather see Rath destroy his police career than blab? When it came out that Lanke junior was consorting with prostitutes doubling as Vice informants, his career would be over. Not even Uncle Werner would be able to prevent that.

Rath stepped onto the road and moved towards his car when, at that moment, he saw a man with a shopping bag. ‘Hello,’ he cried across the street, ‘taking care of the weekend shop, are you?’ Sebastian Tornow looked at him wide-eyed.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘I was about to ask you the same thing.’

‘I always do my shopping here. I live just around the corner, on Leuthener Strasse.’

‘A coincidence then.’

‘And yourself?’

‘I was visiting an ex-colleague. Assistant Detective Lanke.’

‘Lanke! I didn’t know you were in Vice.’

‘You know Gregor Lanke?’

Tornow laughed. ‘Everybody knows everybody around here. You run into people all the time, even while you’re out shopping.’ He gestured towards the bottles clinking in his bag. ‘How about a quick beer at mine? We can usher in the weekend?’

Normally, Rath would turn him down without thinking, but this time it didn’t seem like such a bad idea. ‘Why not?’ he said.

Tornow didn’t live in the same comfort as Lanke. His apartment was furnished, with a live-in landlady. Rath was reminded of his first Berlin flat on Nürnberger Strasse. True, Tornow was slightly better off, with two rooms: one for sleeping, and another for eating and working, albeit both had a sloping ceiling. There was a small dining table with four chairs, an armchair and a small sofa. On the desk by the window stood a typewriter and telephone along with a few framed photographs. Rath’s gaze fell on the aquarium next to the sofa.

‘You have fish,’ he said, surprised. An aquarium didn’t fit his image of Sebastian Tornow.

‘A man needs a hobby,’ Tornow grinned. ‘Ladies are strictly forbidden at Frau Hollerbach’s.’

‘Sounds familiar, which is why I found another flat. True, it might be a little more expensive, and it’s in a rear building, but I’m my own master. Frau Lennartz comes to clean, otherwise I could have a hundred women over without anyone taking any notice.’

‘Apart from Vice perhaps,’ Tornow said.

He took two beers from the bag and placed them on the table, clearing the rest of his shopping into the cupboard. The men flipped the lids open and clinked bottles.

‘Thanks,’ Rath said. ‘This reminds me that I haven’t made good on my promise to buy you a beer.’

‘There’ll be plenty of opportunities. Perhaps I’ll get to know the legendary Nasse Dreieck that Reinhold’s been telling me about.’

‘He has, has he?’ The Dreieck by Wassertorplatz was Rath’s local, where he ended long working days with Gräf. ‘I wanted to wait until I bought you that beer,’ he said, ‘but since we’re here now…’ He stretched out a hand. ‘It’s time we called each other by our first names. I’m Gereon.’

Tornow shook. ‘Sebastian.’

They clinked bottles for a second time. Rath pointed out of the dormer window, at the imposing figure of the Schöneberg gasometer towering above the roofs of the Sedanviertel. ‘Nice view you’ve got here,’ he said.

‘Can I tell you something?’ Tornow said. ‘Every now and then I do something illegal. Pretty often, actually. Almost every week.’

‘You’re a serial killer?’

‘No,’ Tornow said ‘From up there, you get the best view the city has to offer.’

Rath put his bottle down. ‘You climb up there?’

‘It’s where I think best, when it all gets too much for me down here.’

Rath would sometimes climb to Liebig’s dovecote when he needed peace and quiet.

‘The gasometer’s like an animal,’ Tornow continued. ‘It breathes. Every night the bell falls, and every morning it rises again. There’s something comforting about that.’

Rath gestured with his beer bottle towards the enormous steel framework. The gas holder had risen almost to its full height. ‘How do you get up?’

‘There are steel steps. Do you see the rings up there in the framework? They’re for maintenance workers, but anyone can climb them and see the whole city from the top.’

‘And that’s illegal?’

‘No entry for unauthorised persons, it says on the signs.’

‘Police officers are never unauthorised. Remember that, Cadet.’ On the desk was a photograph of a pretty, young girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, with a knock-out smile. ‘Who’s that?’ he asked.

‘My sister.’

Rath looked at the cadet. ‘The reason you joined the force?’ Tornow nodded. ‘A pretty girl,’ Rath said. ‘Still so young.’

‘It’s an old photograph.’

‘You still haven’t told me the whole story. Why you became a police officer, I mean.’ Tornow took a sip of beer and fell silent, just like a few days ago when Rath broached the subject for the first time. This time he probed further. ‘Don’t you want to talk about it?’

‘I’m not sure you’ll want to hear.’

‘Of course, I will. Tell me.’

Tornow gave a forced smile. ‘Actually I’m not sure I want to tell it.’

‘It’s up to you.’

‘Alright, then.’ Tornow cleared his throat. ‘It was more than seven years ago and, damn it, Luise was the prettiest girl in the world.’

‘Was?’

‘She isn’t dead,’ Tornow said. There was a pain in his expression that Rath hadn’t seen before. He was usually so upbeat. ‘But perhaps it would be better if she was.’

Rath didn’t probe further. He let Tornow talk.

‘We lived with my parents in Teltow, a small town to the southwest of Berlin, and our own little suburban idyll, or so we thought. One day, in this suburban idyll, my sister – she was fifteen at the time – saw two men climb through a window into a warehouse. She called the police, but when they arrived all they found was the broken window. Shortly afterwards, two men fitting their description were arrested. Luise had got a pretty good view of them, and had no trouble identifying them when they brought her to the station.’

Tornow paused, as if needing to gather his strength.

‘The whole family was at the trial, even Father took the morning off. We were proud of Luise who had shown courage, and refused to be intimidated. She made her statement in court. The lawyer for the defence was from Berlin, an expensive type. Unaffordable, really, but the two intruders were members of a Ringverein. Anyway, this lawyer spoke very kindly to Luise, and asked her to read a letter, which he passed across. She couldn’t; she needed glasses to read. Glasses which she seldom wore – you know how girls are. By the end, the lawyer had made it seem as though she were half-blind. On top of that, he dredged up a few old stories that painted her as a busybody driven by a desire to be the centre of attention. Even being class president was used against her. The piece of shit. My parents, myself and my brother, had to sit and watch how this brave girl, who had only acted out of a sense of public duty, was suddenly turned into a short-sighted, busybody little brat willing to send two innocent men to jail. At the end, the lawyer presented the judge with a watertight alibi for both his clients, so that the pair, who had plenty of prior convictions, were acquitted.’

‘That sort of thing happens all too often,’ said Rath. ‘Justice becomes a question of money, and the person who can afford the best lawyer is usually the winner.’

‘We sat in disbelief,’ Tornow said. ‘My sister put on a brave face, but I could see she was close to tears. No wonder, given that this lawyer had publicly humiliated her, and not just in front of her family, but half the town. A number of Teltow residents had made the journey to the District Court, and they were all witnesses to her humiliation.’

‘I understand.’

‘No,’ Tornow said, so gruffly that Rath was taken aback. ‘You don’t. The story isn’t over yet.’ His voice was less sharp now. ‘Life went on after the trial, but things were never the same. We had lost faith in the state and its judiciary. And then… Luise came home one day and said that she’d seen one of the men on her way to school. No one believed her, either in town or in school because, by now, she was just some half-blind busybody. We were the only ones who took her seriously, but our insistence at school and with the police got us nowhere. Then…’ He had to swallow before continuing. ‘…then one afternoon just before the summer holiday – I still remember how hot it was – she didn’t come home. We looked for her everywhere, but eventually it was a walker who found her lying beaten half to death in the Hollandwiese, clothes ripped to shreds and blood all over her body. She hasn’t spoken a word since that day, but we know who’s responsible. The two men who ruined my sister’s life.’

‘How is she now?’

‘She hasn’t said a word for seven years, and no longer leaves the house. How do you think she is? She’s a walking corpse.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Rath said. ‘It’s a dreadful story.’

‘She’s the reason I became a police officer. My sister, Luise Tornow.’

Rath couldn’t help feeling guilty. He was one of those who didn’t shy away from working with criminals, with Marlow and his Ringverein. Only today he had given a colleague what for, more or less at Marlow’s behest. Had he ever thought about whether something like that could be squared with his original motivation for becoming a police officer? Yes, he had; he had thought about it a hell of a lot, only so far he hadn’t found any answers. He pushed the uncomfortable thought aside. ‘What happened to the two men?’

‘They died in a shoot-out before they could be sentenced. Some gangland dispute but, who knows, perhaps the courts would have acquitted them again. Maybe it was better that way. Maybe death was their punishment.’

There was more than a little satisfaction in his voice. In Tornow’s eyes, the men who had ruined his sister’s life had got their just reward. He was probably right, Rath thought.

They were silent. Rath hadn’t been expecting such a grim tale; it occupied his thoughts for a time. Tornow managed to find a smile again.

‘That was yesterday,’ he said. ‘What matters is the here and now.’ He raised his bottle.

Rath did likewise. ‘The here and now! Now that you’re with CID, you can make sure people like that get put away.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

‘How do you find the work in Homicide?’

‘If you forget about how boring it can be sometimes…’

Rath grinned, remembering what he had had Tornow and Gräf doing these past few days.

‘…then I think it’s the most worthwhile thing a police officer can do.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Rath didn’t know if it was the beer making him so garrulous, but here was a chance to sound Tornow out. ‘What would you think,’ he began, ‘if I were to put in a word with Gennat so that you can join A Division? Assuming, of course, you pass your examination.’

Tornow looked at him in surprise. ‘Assuming I pass,’ he said, ‘I’d like that very much.’

Rath placed his bottle on the table and glanced at his watch. ‘Time for me to go.’

‘I’d have thrown you out in five minutes anyway,’ Tornow laughed. ‘One beer’s quite enough. Seriously, I need to take an S-Bahn in ten minutes.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘The West End.’

‘That’ll take you a while on public transport, won’t it?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘My car’s outside. If you like I can take you part of the way. I need to pick up two passengers at Bahnhof Zoo: a dog and a woman.’

‘Bahnhof Zoo would be great. It’s only six or seven stops from there with the U-Bahn.’

Rath asked Tornow for a glass of water to mask the smell of beer, followed his host’s lead by washing his face and hands and combed his hair, and soon they were driving along Potsdamer Strasse.

As agreed Charly and Kirie sat on the terrace of the Berlin cafe on Hardenbergstrasse.

‘Is it OK if I let you out here?’ Rath asked.

‘I can manage the rest on foot,’ Tornow said. ‘No need to accompany me to the platform.’

Rath grinned and switched on the indicator to park.

Charly hadn’t seen him, but Kirie recognised the car. The dog could pick out the Buick from hundreds of engine noises. She started barking and, as he cut the engine, Charly spotted him too.

Perhaps he should introduce her to Tornow, he thought. After all, Tornow didn’t know her from before. Until now they had kept their relationship a secret from everyone in the Castle. Not even Gräf knew about it, although he was one of Rath’s few friends in Berlin. The problem was that he idolised Charly, and had done since the pair worked together.

By now it was too late to weigh up the pros and cons. Kirie dragged Charly towards the car, just as Tornow was opening the passenger door. Rath hurriedly got out, and went round to the other side to receive Kirie’s rapturous greeting. Charly smiled at him, she liked how he was with the dog. Tornow looked on.

‘Hello, you two,’ Rath said. ‘Now, that’s what I call a greeting. I’ve brought a colleague along. Allow me to introduce Sebastian Tornow. I’ve told you about him before.’ Tornow stretched out his hand and smiled his winsome smile. ‘And this,’ Rath continued, ‘is Charlotte Ritter, prospective lawyer.’

He broke off when he saw Charly’s frozen smile. It was as if it had appeared by accident in place of an altogether different expression, which Charly, somehow, was unable to find.

‘A pleasure,’ Tornow said, stopping short now himself. Charly didn’t say anything more. ‘I must push on,’ said Tornow, letting go of her hand.

With a tip of his hat, he took his leave, but not before looking back discreetly. Rath couldn’t blame him.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked.

She looked at him, apparently bewildered. ‘Who was that?’

‘I told you that already. My new colleague, perhaps even a new friend. A nice guy, anyway. Sebastian Tornow.’

‘I think I’ve seen him before.’

‘He’s only been at the Castle for a week.’

‘Not at the station.’ She gazed through him, the only person on earth who could look at him like that. ‘Gereon,’ she said. ‘There’s something I have to confess.’

They had hoped to take a drive out to the countryside while daylight still permitted, but contented themselves with a walk over Cornelius Bridge to the nearby Tiergarten. The dog needed exercise, and Rath wanted to hear Charly’s story. He could scarcely believe what she had to say. As they strolled northwards, she explained how she had spent the past week. Since Monday she had been working undercover for Gennat as part of an unofficial operation. She had been detailed to track down Alex and perform surveillance on a cop suspected of murder. This same cop had now been murdered himself. Rath knew Böhm was handling the case from Thursday’s briefing.

‘And you witnessed this murder?’ he asked.

‘Not directly. I followed him, and… it’s best I just show you. We’re almost there.’

Soon afterwards, they reached a church, behind which began one of the better residential areas in the city: nice houses, all with small front gardens, clean and well kept. In the Hansaviertel there was no sign of crumbling stucco on the house fronts.

Charly pointed towards an advertising pillar. ‘That’s where I hid. Coming down Lessingstrasse I naturally kept my distance. When I turned the corner, he was standing by a streetlamp, completely motionless.’ She gestured towards a gas lamp six or seven metres away. ‘I didn’t know what was happening, and just tried to make sure he didn’t see me.’ She swallowed. ‘It wasn’t until I went over to him, that I saw the knife in his chest. Or rather, a trench dagger from the war.’

‘What the hell was Buddha thinking getting you involved?’

‘I think he has a guilty conscience. He probably wasn’t expecting things to develop the way they have.’

‘You were forbidden from telling me?’

‘Gennat and Lange didn’t mention you explicitly,’ she said, smiling for the first time since Hardenbergstrasse. ‘They said I wasn’t to tell anybody.’

‘So, why now?’

Charly took his hand and pulled him and Kirie past the advertising pillar. At the fourth or fifth house she halted. ‘It was here,’ she said. ‘This is where I ran into a cop. Just before I found Kuschke mortally wounded. He was coming towards me, approaching from Händelstrasse, from around the corner.’

‘So?’

‘This cop ransacked Kuschke’s flat on the same day. His victim’s flat.’

‘A uniform cop killing one of his own? My God, what a horror-story.’

‘Until now we thought Kuschke’s killer only used the uniform as camouflage, and to gain access to his flat. You know how most landladies go rigid at the sight of a uniform.’

Rath nodded.

‘Gereon,’ she said. ‘The man I saw here three days ago was Sebastian Tornow.’

100

Now everything was quiet, Alex could venture out of her hiding place. She’d never have thought she’d shut herself in a department store again. The business in KaDeWe and Benny’s death were only two weeks ago. Now it was Wertheim, of all places, but she didn’t have any choice. She urgently needed funds to get out of this city. Cash, that she knew was lying dormant in this vast, confusing mass of buildings. It was spread across the whole store, on every floor, in every department. The tills would contain only change by the evening, as the day’s takings were stored in Wertheim’s private cellar vault. Cracking it was impossible. No safebreaker had ever tried, not even the Brothers Sass, though she reckoned the Wertheim vault contained more cash than most banks in Berlin.

Getting to the money in the registers was easier, however, especially if you knew where the keys were kept. The cashiers picked them up every morning before the start of their shift, and she knew exactly where.

Jewellery and watches were a no-go. Kalli was dead, and with any other fence she ran the risk of being handed over to the police. So, cash it was, and change above all. It would be a real grind, but it would be worth it. In every till was thirty marks’ worth of change, and there were many tills in Wertheim, often several to a department. Alex didn’t know how many exactly but it was at least a hundred. This was Europe’s largest department store, after all. A hundred times thirty. It would mean a lot of shrapnel, and a lot of weight, which was why she had brought Vicky along. They would have to negotiate their escape together, above all if they didn’t want to leave the spoils behind.

She had no reservations about stealing from her former employer. This would be her last hurrah before leaving Berlin for good.

They had borrowed a hundred and twenty marks, having found the cash in an earthenware pan that still smelled of herring. So far they had only spent around eighty, on a few new items of clothing for herself and Vicky, hair dye and, of course, the digs they were staying in. They had rented the room to continue their campaign of revenge. She had hatched a new plan when she saw the article. She wasn’t certain, since it was very vague, but Vicky’s call to the station at Wittenbergplatz had settled the matter. At first they had said that Kuschke was on leave, but when she dug a little deeper, saying it was a private matter she needed to discuss with him at his home, the cop on the telephone explained. He was very sorry, he said, to be the one to have to tell her, he didn’t know how close she was to Sergeant Major Kuschke, but unfortunately the man had died in tragic circumstances.

Someone had killed the sadistic arsehole!

At first, she wasn’t sure if she should be happy or not. It felt as if someone had stolen her chance of revenge. She wouldn’t have gone so far as to kill him, just to put the fear of death in him, but now the fucking pig was dead and she didn’t know if the punishment was fitting or not. It wouldn’t bring Benny back to life, but, then, her own revenge wouldn’t have done that either.

Standing in her dark outfit in the dim light of the store’s vast atrium, Vicky looked almost exactly like Benny two weeks before. The night watchmen had finished their rounds. It was time. They wouldn’t need more than an hour if they stuck to Alex’s route, beginning downstairs in haberdashery.

101

They were the last customers in the Nasse Dreieck but Schorsch, the taciturn landlord, didn’t complain. He simply placed beer after beer in front of them with the patience of a saint, every so often adding a short for good measure. A landlord who knew his patrons didn’t have to talk much, or take orders.

Rath had imagined his evening panning out rather differently. It was a week since he had last sat here with Gräf, putting the world to rights, and he couldn’t think of anything he’d rather be doing after his latest blazing row with Charly.

Why did they always quarrel at the start of the weekend? They would be better off squabbling on Monday or Tuesday, so that they could make up again by Friday, Saturday at the latest. That would be altogether more productive, especially since any reconciliation usually ended with the two of them in bed, which wasn’t the worst way to draw a line under the working week.

This time the cause was Sebastian Tornow. He couldn’t believe what she had told him. Above all he didn’t want to believe it: Tornow was no killer. ‘You saw this cop for maybe three seconds, and his face is branded on your memory?’

‘His smile. It’s his smile that’s branded on my memory. It was the same man.’

‘He’s not the only man ever to have smiled.’

‘Don’t joke, you know it upsets me!’

That was when he knew it wouldn’t just blow over. The more arguments he presented the more stubborn she became in her – flimsy – defence.

‘Tornow hasn’t been in uniform for almost two weeks. It can’t have been him in the Hansaviertel.’

He made a triumphant face, but Charly remained unimpressed.

‘Even so.’ She folded her arms like a defiant child. ‘It was him. Just believe me!’

‘How can you be so pig-headed?’

‘I’m not the one being pig-headed around here!’

Five minutes later he was sitting in the car with Kirie on his way to Luisenufer. The dog understood their quarrels least of all. She had been settling in for a cosy evening in Spenerstrasse when suddenly they left without her mistress. Even as she trotted dutifully after him, it was plain that she didn’t understand what was going on. People were inexplicable. With dogs it was different. They sized one another up and, as soon as they smelled each other, got down to business. People are far more complicated, thought Rath as he looked at Kirie, curled up at the bar.

He clinked glasses with Gräf who was immersed in his own thoughts. Rath hadn’t mentioned the quarrel. Even though Gräf was a friend, he never talked about Charly, just went drinking with him whenever they fought.

‘What do you think about the new man?’ he asked, offering Gräf a cigarette from his case.

‘Seems OK. Why?’

‘Just asking.’ Rath also took a cigarette and lit it. ‘I thought he might be one for our team when he’s finished training. It could be worth mentioning to Gennat, don’t you think?’

‘He’s a good fit,’ Gräf said. ‘Impressive powers of observation and deduction…’

‘But?’

‘But nothing.’ Gräf sipped at his beer.

Rath already regretted the question. Gräf would see Tornow as competition and, besides, no one liked being used as a spy. That hadn’t been his intention, but now he was curious. ‘You don’t sound like you’re convinced.’

‘Some of his opinions are a little out there. I think if it was up to him, he’d put all criminals away without trial.’

‘That’s exactly what you said the other day in the canteen.’ Rath realised he was defending Tornow, but there was no way Gräf could know the baggage the man carried around.

‘Maybe. It’s frustrating when someone gets away with something. Or when you can’t get them even though you know they’re guilty. Last week, we had Goldstein on a plate, and now that we can actually prove he did something, he’s disappeared.’

‘It’s something you have to get used to in our line of work. Where would we be without the rule of law?’

‘Then I fear young Tornow has a lot to learn,’ Gräf said.

‘Are you about to do the dirty on a colleague, or what is this?’

‘You did ask.’

Rath gazed ruefully into his beer. ‘I’m just surprised. I thought the two of you were getting on well.’

‘We were until he started asking these strange questions.’

‘What kind of questions?’

‘Well, what I think of the fact that there are so many criminals at large, for one.’

‘Questions like that always bother young officers. More experienced ones too. It’s good that he asks questions. It means he wants to learn.’

‘It felt more like he was sounding me out. As if he wanted to see if I shared his opinions.’ Rath looked at him quizzically. ‘He asked me if I thought a good police officer should be able to kill.’

102

Watching the churchgoers streaming out of mass, Rath felt something akin to guilt that he hadn’t fulfilled his Sunday duty. Now that cynicism was his only creed, he rarely gave it a second thought, but these people had a different perspective. Believing in something other than the Great Big Nothing, they aroused his envy and scorn in equal measure. He scorned them for their naivety; he envied them their faith.

Having faith made you strong, which was precisely how he didn’t feel this morning. Worse, he was unsteady on his feet. He had left the Buick at his new permanent parking spot, outside the undertaker’s and diagonally opposite the church front. He couldn’t request an Opel from the motor pool today without arousing suspicion. He was off duty so, whatever he did here, he was doing it for himself and, since his business didn’t concern anyone in the Castle, it felt wise not to have his signature beneath today’s date in motor pool records. He checked his watch. Sunday Mass had ended promptly. He surveyed each member of the congregation as they emerged. Joseph Flegenheimer wasn’t among them, but of course not, he hadn’t visited the church because he harboured Catholic sympathies.

Rath’s head was still fuzzy from last night. In truth his quarrel with Charly suited him just fine. He had better things to do than idle the day away with his girlfriend and his dog. He had left Kirie with the Lennartz family, knowing that he couldn’t expect her to sit in the car all day. He didn’t fancy it much himself, either, but sometimes you just had to bite the bullet. The word ‘bite’ reminded him of his rations, and he took his first apple from the picnic basket. He still hadn’t been at his observation post for five minutes.

An hour later his food supplies were dwindling and there was still no sign of Joseph Flegenheimer. One hour! It felt more like three. He looked down on a solitary sandwich and a hard-boiled egg. Boredom made for hungry work.

He opened the car door to take a stroll down to the main drag. It was pleasantly warm, a gentle breeze was blowing, a beautiful Sunday, and here he was dividing his time between the inside of a car and a telephone booth.

He sighed. He had no choice but to do Marlow’s bidding if he didn’t want to find himself in serious trouble later tonight. True, he had made progress since his conversation with Gregor Lanke’s informant, but he had no desire to throw Christine Möller under a bus. Better to give Marlow a concrete lead on whoever was actually responsible for Red Hugo’s death. If he had one by then, that is. If need be, he could always serve up Lanke, but even there Rath had his scruples. The man might be an arsehole, but he didn’t deserve to end up in Dr Mabuse’s claws. Rath didn’t want to be responsible for another two people getting killed; didn’t want any more demons haunting him at night.

He needed a concrete lead, but the only thing he had was the telephone number from Christine. How many times had he tried it now? And all because this mysterious number wasn’t to be found in any telephone book. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, his mother always used to say. He just had to keep trying.

It was stuffy in the glass booth, a real greenhouse. Rath lifted the receiver and put in a ten-pfennig coin when a face on the other side of the street justified his choice of observation post. In the meantime the operator spoke on the line.

Rath automatically reeled off the number: ‘STEPHAN 1701 please.’ At the same time he kept an eye on the pretty lady turning into Mühlenstrasse. She must have got off the tram, and it couldn’t be a coincidence that she was hanging around here. He followed her with his eyes until she disappeared from his field of vision. He opened the door of the booth to watch as she made for the church. A slightly scratchy voice announced itself on the line.

‘Yes.’

He was a little taken aback. He hadn’t been expecting to get someone on the line so quickly, after all the failed attempts yesterday and the day before. Back inside the booth, he closed the door, muffling the noise from the street. ‘Who am I speaking to, please?’ he asked. This idiotic custom of answering the telephone without saying your name! Just like Charly!

‘Who am I speaking to?’

The subscriber refused to be intimidated. Damn it, Rath wasn’t prepared for this. He had hoped whoever it was would give their name, so that he could hang up and take care of everything else through the civil register. Perhaps the name might turn up in the files of the Berlin Police…

‘I find it incredibly rude not to give your name,’ he said. He couldn’t think of anything more intelligent to say.

‘Gereon?’ the voice at the other end said, and Rath felt something like an electric shock pass down his spine. It was no coincidence that the voice had felt familiar from the moment he first heard it. ‘Is that you?’

He hung up with his mind racing. He lifted the receiver a second time and waited for the operator. ‘Operator,’ he said. ‘Would you be so kind as to repeat the number you just connected me with? I’m not sure I gave you the right one.’

‘STEPHAN 1701,’ a mildly irritated voice said. Rath looked down at the scrap of paper he had used to write the number. There was no doubt. The telephone number provided by Christine Möller, which concealed the man who almost certainly had Red Hugo on his conscience, had been answered by a colleague.

103

Charly paced around her flat like a tiger in a cage. Even at breakfast she hadn’t been able to sit still. She simply didn’t know what to do. Telephone Lange on a Sunday? Or Gennat? It was unlikely to be a problem, but she wasn’t sure it was urgent enough. Gereon’s misgivings had driven her so dotty that she no longer quite believed what she had seen in the Hansaviertel. Had there actually been a uniform cop? And had he really looked like Gereon’s new colleague? She was furious with him. He could never back her, not even this one time. He always had to play devil’s advocate!

She knew how sensitive it was to accuse a colleague of murder. Because that was what it boiled down to. He couldn’t be a harmless witness if it was the same man who had ransacked Kuschke’s flat.

Damn it! She’d have felt happier with Gereon onside. Just with him being there at all.

She could always resume her search for Alex, but there was too much going on inside her mind since she had seen Sebastian Tornow smile and experienced her moment of insight.

The telephone rang.

Perhaps it was Gereon? Despite her rage she was happy to call it quits. It was all getting too much for her, and she could use him by her side. Then why, she asked herself, did you send him packing yesterday evening, you silly goose? She had wanted to borrow money off him, too, since Maltritz would be back tomorrow for the rent. Very well. If he wanted a reconciliation he could have it. Just not right this minute…

Come on, don’t be childish, don’t keep him in suspense. He’s already called five times. She lifted the receiver. ‘Yes?’

‘Charlotte Ritter?’ It wasn’t Gereon’s voice.

‘Speaking.’ In the same instant she wondered whether it was wise to confirm her identity. ‘Who is it, please?’

‘I’d like to speak to Gereon Rath.’

‘He isn’t here.’

‘Then please excuse the interruption.’

‘No problem,’ she said, but the caller had already hung up.

104

Rath slammed his fist down and swore. Engaged! Did she have to be on the phone at precisely this moment? He hung up and the ten-pfennig piece jangled onto the change slot.

Marion Bosetzky had disappeared inside the church, and he was still standing in this telephone booth trying to reach Charly. He had to speak to her, now, as soon as possible, quarrel or no. He couldn’t help thinking back to last night ever since he had heard Tornow’s voice on the line. It didn’t make any sense, but something here was rotten. His argument from yesterday resurfaced: Tornow hasn’t been in uniform for almost two weeks now. But that wasn’t true. There was a day last week when Sebastian Tornow had been in uniform, even if he was still a long way from the Hansaviertel: Schönholz Cemetery in Pankow, at Emil Kuhfeld’s funeral.

He took the ten-pfennig piece from the coin return and put it back in the slot. Hopefully she wasn’t speaking to the grinning man, or else this could take forever. Keeping the church portal in view he gave the number. Still no sign of Marion Bosetzky, illegal nightclub dancer, chambermaid and gangster’s moll. At last, the dial tone! Charly picked up.

‘Yes?’

Well, of course, she never gave her name, unless she was at work. Now he remembered why he found it so annoying. ‘Charly,’ he said quickly. ‘Gereon here. I hope you’re not still mad.’

‘Gereon! I… what a coincidence. I was just…’

‘Listen,’ he interrupted. ‘I’m in a rush. I’m sorry about yesterday. I’m a total imbecile.’

‘You’ve finally realised?’

‘Listen,’ he said again. ‘I need to know exactly when you saw Tornow in the Hansaviertel. What day? What time?’

‘Wednesday about half past twelve.’

A fit! The funeral started at eleven, at which point he had said goodbye to Tornow. After that he hadn’t seen him. The cemetery was right next to the S-Bahn. Changing once or twice, it would take no longer than half an hour, forty-five minutes, to get to Tiergarten.

‘I think it really was Tornow you saw in the Hansaviertel,’ he said. ‘Something’s not right. It’s just possible he had something to do with Red Hugo’s death too, and Rudi the Rat.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Two gangsters. Right now I’ve got something else to take care of, but I can be at yours in an hour. Wait for me there.’

‘But…’

‘Just wait. An hour tops. Then we can get something to eat, and I’ll tell you everything.’

He hung up, left the cramped, stuffy booth and walked quickly towards the church. On the way he debated how he could provide Charly with a plausible explanation for his knowledge of the Hugo Lenz case. Under no circumstances could she discover that he was working for Johann Marlow. He thought about Henning and Czerwinski. Unlike him, Plisch and Plum were actually involved in the case, and Charly knew that the three of them often worked together. Whether she believed him or not was of secondary importance. What mattered now was that they pooled their knowledge of Kuschke, Lenz and Höller.

Things here could be tied up quickly. Once he had Marion Bosetzky, everything else would follow. If need be, he could always cuff her and take her back to the station. After all, why shouldn’t an inspector just stumble upon a woman who had been the object of a police search warrant for more than a week? Perhaps it would be enough to lean on her a little so that she led him to Goldstein’s current pied-à-terre. In that case he’d save his handcuffs for the Yank and let Marion go. Both would earn him points in Gennat’s eyes, although the Goldstein variant was clearly preferable. Something like that could make him quite a name at the Castle, especially since the man had twice given him the slip.

He entered Saint Norbert’s through the middle door, crossing to a little anteroom before reaching the nave. He saw the holy water and, without thinking, dipped his fingers in it to make the sign of the cross. He hadn’t been inside a church for a long time, but the rituals of childhood soon took over. He had never been sure about his faith, but there was no doubt in his mind that he was Catholic.

He took in the familiar smell of a Catholic church, the same the world over, everywhere you went a slice of home and childhood. Perhaps they were the same thing: childhood and home.

It was pleasantly cool as he made his way through the nave alone, his steps echoing against the white walls. There was no sign of Marion Bosetzky. Where on earth had she got to? He looked inside the confessionals: empty. He even popped into the sacristy: again, no one. Perhaps in the organ loft? She had to be in here somewhere, or he would have seen her leave. He climbed to the upper floors, to the section of building overlooking the street. It looked more like an office than a priest’s quarters. Rath gazed around curiously. Had Marion Bosetzky disappeared inside one of the rooms? Was she paying the priest a visit?

He knocked on one of the doors. No one answered. He pressed down on the handle, finding the door unlocked. He opened it slightly and looked inside. The room was similar to their offices at the Castle: desk, telephone, roll-front cupboards, even a typewriter and a smaller table by the window. Only the large crucifix and pictures of the Madonna and the saints made it look any different from police headquarters. Instead of the obligatory Hindenburg portrait was an oil painting depicting a saint in Norbertine habit holding a monstrance. Out of his chalice crawled a spider. Rath could vaguely remember a legend in which Saint Norbert of Xanten had drunk a spider that fell into his communion chalice, displaying both death-defying courage and an unshakeable belief in God. It was one of many hagiographies that had been drummed into him as a child. He glanced out of the round-arched window. Below on Mühlenstrasse, his Buick glistened in the sun.

Aside from a saint with a spider in his chalice, there was nothing unusual here. He left the office and knocked on the door opposite. Again, no response. The room was dark. He was groping for a light switch when something jumped at him.

The blow to his chin didn’t strike him flush, but only because he had turned his head to one side. A blow like that to the point of the chin would have knocked him out but, as it was, he just felt a hellish pain in his jaw and fell backwards against the doorframe. The figure was on him, dealing a second blow to the solar plexus that left him short of breath, before making for the door. Rath stuck out a leg and, in the light from the corridor, caught sight of his attacker.

Abraham Goldstein.

He didn’t have time to wonder how Marion Bosetzky had morphed into the Yank. Goldstein was now running downstairs. Struggling to get his breath back, Rath gave pursuit, leaping as Goldstein reached the bottom. The pair crashed onto the stone floor with Goldstein taking the brunt. He was still dazed as Rath knocked him down with a right hook. He got up before toppling backwards into the nave of the church, his hands desperately searching for a hold, but succeeding only in tearing prayer books from a shelf.

Rath jumped after him, to finish him off, as he had stupidly left his handcuffs in the car. As he was about to throw a second punch, Goldstein dodged, recoiled, seized Rath’s arm and rolled over backwards. Rath didn’t understand what was happening until Goldstein pulled him down with his entire body weight. He felt the Yank’s boot against his groin as he slammed against the church pews, Goldstein having now let go of his arm. There was a loud thump as the wood struck his forehead and he saw stars, teetering like a ship on troubled waters.

Then Goldstein was on him again, pulling him up by the collar. Rath dodged the ensuing punch, and essayed a kick to the groin which momentarily gave Goldstein pause for thought. Just when he saw his chance to land the deciding blow and send the Yank into the realm of dreams, he felt a hard thud against the right side of his head and heard a loud, gong-like clang. There was a flash of brightness which seemed to light up the world before everything went black.

105

Charly paced her flat increasingly nervously. She had already smoked seven cigarettes, one after the other, not knowing whether she should be happy or even more furious with the bastard. He had barely let her get a word in.

‘I’m in a rush’, she imitated. What was he thinking? Snubbing her like that. At least he had conceded, but what was it he said about those gangsters? That their death had something to do with Kuschke’s? Red Hugo had been found dead at the Mühlendamm, and, as far she knew, he wasn’t Gereon’s case.

For some reason his telephone call had made her even more nervous. Pacing up and down, she felt the need to do something, but hadn’t the slightest idea what. He had told her to wait but her curiosity was greater than her rage. Almost an hour had passed. Where was he, and who was it that had telephoned for him? Did it have to do with his latest discovery?

There, the doorbell!

She checked her watch. Gereon had telephoned forty-seven minutes ago. If he had shaken a leg to get here it was most unlike him.

Her rage subsided, her tension eased. She had wanted to be mad with him but, as was so often the case, when he finally showed up her anger dissolved into thin air. At least she had the self-discipline to wipe the smile off her face as she opened the door.

She froze.

It wasn’t Gereon.

Sebastian Tornow was outside with an older man who looked familiar somehow, even if she couldn’t quite place him. She only knew it was his pistol pointed at her.

106

His head hurt. In fact, his whole body hurt. It was an unpleasant awakening. He’d sooner have slipped back into unconsciousness. At first he didn’t know where he was; he saw angels and saints in fluttering robes. Then he remembered: Saint Norbert’s. Goldstein!

Carefully, he turned his head. He was still in the church, and on one of the pews sat a mildly overweight priest, holding a battered incense burner, the sort of canister Rath would have swung as a ten-year-old boy. Though not to knock anyone out, which seemed to be what the priest had used it for.

Rath felt his temples. He had a mighty bump above his right eyebrow. ‘Did you do that?’ he asked.

Only now did he see Goldstein lying a few metres away and looking a little worse for wear too, holding the back of his head where the canister must have struck him.

‘I don’t tolerate violence in the house of God,’ the priest said, sounding like a teacher who had caught two young punks fighting in the schoolyard.

‘That man’s a dangerous gangster,’ Rath said, pointing towards Goldstein. ‘He’s armed.’

‘This man,’ said the priest, ‘has sought the sanctuary of the Holy Church, and he has been granted it. Besides, he is unarmed.’

‘What did you say?’ Abraham Goldstein, a Jewish gangster, had found asylum here, in a Catholic church? ‘There’s a warrant issued for his arrest.’

‘This man is enjoying church asylum, and, as long as I’m priest around here, won’t be surrendered to any secular justice system.’

Rath could almost have laughed if the situation wasn’t so serious.

‘Who says?’

‘I do. Johannes Warszawski.’

‘We’re not living in the Middle Ages!’

‘Ecclesia iure asyli gaudet ita ut rei, qui ad illam confugerint, inde non sint extrahendi, nisi necessitas urgeat, sine assensu Ordinarii, vel saltem rectoris ecclesiae,’ Priest Warszawski declaimed.

That went beyond Rath’s knowledge of Latin. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘From the Codex Iuris Canonici. It means something like no one who seeks asylum in my church can be made to go with people like you. At least not without picking a fight with me first.’

‘What does church law say about priests striking police officers with incense canisters?’

‘You’re a police officer?’ Warszawski showed no contrition, despite this revelation. ‘You don’t behave like one.’

‘He’s telling the truth,’ Goldstein said, taking up residence on a church pew.

Rath could do without his support. He ignored the Yank.

‘This man is a murderer,’ he said, struggling to his feet. ‘He stabbed someone to death in Humboldthain and is alleged to have shot two criminals.’

‘He’s no murderer,’ the priest said. ‘He’s simply wanted for murder. He’s told me everything. That you and your fellow officers are wrongly pursuing him.’

‘You believe him?’

‘Yes, I believe him.’ Coming from the priest, the words didn’t seem so naive. Perhaps because Rath shared his opinion. All the same, Goldstein was still a contract killer, who killed at the behest of an American criminal organisation. At least that’s what they said over there.

‘Joseph Flegenheimer vouched for this man,’ the priest said. ‘That’s enough for me.’

‘How does a Catholic priest know an orthodox Jew?’

‘I’m an old friend of Joseph’s. You can have a good old-fashioned ding-dong with him about questions of faith.’

‘You can have a good old-fashioned ding-dong with most Jews,’ Goldstein said.

‘You’re one to talk,’ Rath said, holding his head.

‘You weren’t exactly pussy-footing about either, but that bump there,’ Goldstein pointed towards Rath’s head, ‘is from the priest.’

‘You only have yourselves to blame,’ the priest said. ‘There are two things that I won’t tolerate in my church: one, that someone who’s sought the protection of the Holy Church should be surrendered to the state’s henchmen…’ That was directed at Rath. ‘…and, two, that blood should be spilled here.’ That was directed at Goldstein.

The pair nodded like a couple of candidates for confirmation.

‘Where’s Marion, by the way?’ Rath asked.

‘Long gone. There’s a rear exit,’ Goldstein said. ‘You should have come in a different car, Detective. Marion recognised the Buick.’

‘You should have gone with her.’

‘I couldn’t have known you’d sniff around the whole building. Besides, it’s about time we spoke in private, away from the prying eyes of your colleagues.’

Priest Warszawski understood. He got up and took the battered old incense burner back inside the sacristy.

Rath took a seat on the pew next to Goldstein. Despite everything he was alleged to have done, he couldn’t help but warm to the man. ‘What is there to talk about that can’t be discussed in an interrogation room at police headquarters?’

‘A whole lot of things. I hope you have time.’

Rath looked at his watch. ‘Not really. I’m already running late.’

‘Then I’ll keep it brief. Firstly: I did beat up those bastards in the park. They were trying to pummel an old man. I even shot one of them in the foot. It was dumb luck; the gun just went off.’ Goldstein looked at him, as if trying to gauge whether or not Rath believed him. ‘Secondly, I didn’t kill anyone, simple as that.’

‘That was the abridged version?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that why you kept quiet about what you did in New York?’

‘What I’ve done in the States is none of your business.’ Goldstein gave him an angry stare. ‘The only thing you can charge me with here is illegal possession of firearms, but you can’t even prove that.’ The gangster laughed. ‘Pastor Warszawski has the Remington. That was his one condition, before he unfolded the camp bed.’

Rath looked at his watch. He should have been with Charly long ago. He knew how much she despised lateness, and there was no way he could explain that he and Abraham Goldstein had fought in a church and afterwards settled down for a nice chat.

‘You’re aware that the old man you helped is the only person who can exonerate you?’ Goldstein shrugged. ‘Take me to him. Do you know where he lives?’

‘Of course. I walked him home. His name is Teitelbaum. Simon Teitelbaum. I don’t think he’s been here long. At least, he doesn’t behave like it.’

‘He didn’t want to tell me his name,’ Rath said. He took another glance at his watch and stood up. ‘I really do have to go now.’

‘Why should I trust you not to have the church here besieged by your Warrants unit?’

Rath shrugged. ‘I’m Catholic.’

‘The same goes for the Irish in Brooklyn, but I wouldn’t trust them as far as I could throw them.’

‘You trust the Italians, if I’ve understood your file. They’re Catholic, aren’t they?’

‘Trust isn’t a matter of religious affiliation.’

‘Let’s make a deal. Isn’t that what you say in the States?’ Goldstein looked surprised. ‘I’ll promise to leave you alone until you’ve taken me to this witness, if you promise me something in return.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘That you don’t ship out on the next boat to the States.’

‘If only it were that simple,’ Goldstein laughed. ‘You see, that’s one of things I wanted to talk to you about but, sadly, you don’t have time.’

107

What a beautiful Sunday, Alex thought as she stepped onto the pedestrian bridge across the Spree. For the first time since Benny’s death, she felt like she was getting back on top of things, and not just because last night had passed off without a hitch. The bags, weighed down with coins, were so heavy that she and Vicky almost hadn’t got them through the window. No, Alex felt good because she was finally fixing everything she had neglected so for long. Soon everything would be back on track, above all her life and Vicky’s.

She had even purchased a ticket for the S-Bahn journey to Bellevue. She couldn’t run the risk of being caught fare-dodging again, not now. Besides, money was no longer a concern at twenty pfennigs a pop. They hadn’t got three thousand marks out of the Wertheim registers, but it was well over two, and she’d never earned that much stealing watches with Benny. She should have thought of it sooner, but her reluctance to break into Wertheim prevented her. She was through with this city now, with Wertheim too. The store owed her this parting gift for all the misery her dismissal had caused.

She reached the junction at Spenerstrasse, feeling nervous and not knowing what to say to Charlotte, the court woman. Secretly, Alex hoped she wouldn’t be home. She could slip the envelope with the hundred and fifty marks and the little note she had written through the letterbox, and the matter would be resolved.

With a queasy feeling in her stomach she climbed the stairs and, for a moment, stood outside the door to the flat before pressing the bell. Nothing. She pressed again and laid her ear against the wooden door. Nothing doing inside. A noise made her spin around. The door opposite had opened and in the frame stood an elderly lady in her Sunday best.

‘Good day,’ Alex said, dropping a curtsey. She could be a good little girl when she wanted.

The woman looked her up and down. ‘Good day, young lady,’ she replied. ‘Are you looking for Fräulein Ritter?’

Alex nodded.

‘She left ten minutes ago.’ The woman painstakingly closed her door, turning the keys twice before saying, in a mildly disparaging tone: ‘In the company of several gentlemen…’

There could be any number of things a woman might do on a Sunday afternoon in the company of several gentlemen, and evidently she disapproved of them all.

‘I have a message for Fräulein Ritter,’ Alex said, pretending she had to write something on the envelope. She waited until the woman had descended the stairs before fetching a picklock, acquired for the Wertheim break-in, from her bag. Only when she heard the front door close did she take the picklock and prise open the door to the flat.

Perhaps it was bravado, but she wanted to surprise the court woman by returning the money to the pot. It was possible, of course, that she hadn’t even noticed it was gone, and wouldn’t realise the amount had increased by thirty marks. Alex was picturing Charlotte’s face when she noticed the mess. The flat was like a bombsite.

All the drawers had been pulled out, their contents strewn across the floor. Books were torn from shelves, letters and files were scattered everywhere. Total chaos. It looked like a break-in, but hadn’t the old woman said Fräulein Ritter had only left a few minutes before?

In the company of several gentlemen.

Alex racked her brains. What had happened here? Which gentlemen had Charlotte left with? Were they the ones responsible for this chaos? Perhaps they were cops who had found out she was sheltering a wanted criminal?

She put the envelope back in her bag and looked around, hoping to find an answer. There were no traces of a struggle, although someone had clearly been looking for something. It couldn’t be the little handheld pistol that must have rolled out of some drawer or other, Charlotte’s weapon from the tannery. Cops would have taken something like that with them, wouldn’t they? She picked it up. The cool, heavy metal felt good. She pulled the magazine out. It was empty, though the rounds lay close by. She had to fiddle around, but soon the magazine clicked back into place.

She didn’t want to leave the money in this chaos. Who could say if it would ever reach Charlotte? She left the envelope where it was in her bag and stowed the pistol next to it. It wouldn’t hurt to own a thing like that, if Kralle’s crew came looking for her again. She knew a handbag wasn’t the best way to conceal a weapon, but there was nothing about her new summer dress that could serve as a holster.

She was just about to open the door when she heard footsteps in the stairwell. Since she didn’t want to have to explain what she was doing coming out of an empty flat, she listened at the door. Someone was coming up the stairs with a heavy tread. A man. Another instant, and he would be past. The coast would be clear.

When the footsteps approached the door to the flat, she instinctively retreated a few metres on tiptoes. The doorbell rang and she tried to hold her breath.

There was another ring. Away, she thought, go away! Can’t you see there’s no one home?

A key turned in the lock, and her heart almost stopped. She fumbled for the pistol, looked for the safety catch and aimed, just as the man appeared in the doorframe. His hands were already in the air.

Rath had been prepared for anything, but not a girl standing in the hallway with a little pocket pistol trained on his chest. The inside of the flat looked as if a bomb had been dropped. ‘What’s all this then?’ he asked.

The girl looked at him suspiciously. She was like a cornered beast of prey. Rath had recognised her immediately. The fake hair dye couldn’t fool him, nor the smart summer dress.

‘It’s Alex, isn’t it?’

Her answer was a tentative nod.

‘Charly told me about you.’

‘Charly?’

At last she spoke to him, but her pistol was still raised. He debated whether he could get to his Walther, but it was hopeless. He had to talk. ‘Charlotte Ritter. The woman who lives here.’

‘I see.’

He pointed his chin at the pistol. ‘Does it have to be like this?’

She let the weapon drop. ‘No, I just thought that…’

That was all she had time for. Rath made a full-length dive, reaching with both hands for her firing arm. He felt the little minx kick and punch, but absorbed the blows until he had control of the weapon, letting it slide across the hall floor into the kitchen and under the table. He held her arms tight and used his body weight to press her flailing legs to the floor. It was an unfair match, and the struggle was soon over.

‘Now, how about telling me what you’re doing in this flat, threatening me with a pistol.’

She spat at him and he dodged just in time.

‘I’ve had enough wrestling matches for one day,’ he said. ‘Shall we bring this to a peaceful end, or do I have to spend the next three hours on top of you?’

Her eyes looked daggers. ‘The first one,’ she said.

He stood up and kept a close eye on her, but she made no move to punch, kick or spit again. He picked up her handbag.

Alex stood up and held her hand.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but it’s what you have to expect when you threaten someone with a gun. It’s no laughing matter.’

‘I know that but, shit, life is no laughing matter.’

Rath couldn’t help but smile. ‘What are you doing here, and where’s Charly?’

‘I could ask you the same thing.’

‘I’m her… fiancé.’

‘What are you going to do? Are you going to call the cops?’

‘I am the cops.’

He had said it casually enough, but noticed how she gave a start, squinting towards the exit as if she might hightail it at any moment.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’m one of the good guys. You don’t have anything to fear from me. Charly told me all about you, and about the business in KaDeWe with the cop. I’m sorry about your friend.’

Rummaging in her bag he pulled out a set of picklocks, and his compassion came to a sudden end.

‘Did you break in here?’

‘Did you think I crawled in through the keyhole?’

‘Are you responsible for this chaos?’

‘I didn’t take anything.’

‘What’s this?’ He pointed to her envelope and fished out a dozen ten mark notes.

‘I was returning it. I borrowed money from your fiancée.’

He shook his head in disbelief.

‘Take a look if you don’t believe me. There’s a letter inside.’

He skimmed what she had written. Thank you for everything, it said. I’m sorry about the money. I found it by chance and borrowed it because I needed it. I hope this will make up for it. Sorry.

‘You borrowed it, did you?’

‘I pay my debts. The money doesn’t belong to you, anyway. Put it back in the envelope and give me back my bag.’

She had a big mouth, no doubt about it, but she was right too. He replaced the envelope and returned the bag.

‘Take your time, and tell me what happened.’

‘I’ve only been here a few minutes. This is how it looked when I got here. Maybe those men have something to do with it.’

Rath felt an alarm bell sound in his head. ‘What men?’

‘Your girlfriend went off with a couple of men. That’s all I know.’ Alex shrugged. ‘Ask the woman, your neighbour. She saw them.’

‘Frau Brettschneider?’

‘Whatever her name is. The one opposite.’

‘Frau Brettschneider.’ Rath sighed. ‘What exactly did she see?’

‘She said that Fräulein Ritter left a few minutes ago: In the company of several gentlemen. That’s all.’

The alarm bells were sounding even louder now but, knowing that he was to blame for the trouble Charly was in, he said nothing. Instead, he dashed across the landing, positioned himself on the doormat, and pressed the bell above the name Irmgard Brettschneider. Never in a million years had he imagined this. He rang a few times, but there was no one inside.

‘You can ring as much as you like, she isn’t home.’ Alex was standing behind him, bag on her shoulders. ‘I reckon she’s taking her Sunday stroll or something.’

He was beginning to calm down again. Perhaps there was a logical explanation for all this. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

‘Do you have a problem with me leaving?’

She was already on the stairs when he called after her. ‘The fact that I’m turning a blind eye doesn’t mean I approve of robbing department stores.’

Alex turned when she was halfway down. ‘I couldn’t care less. Keep your opinions to yourself.’

‘They aren’t my opinions; they’re the law. Breaking and entering is illegal. Think about that.’ Shit, he thought, you sound just like your own father.

Alex reacted like an obstreperous daughter. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you should have a think about it too. I mean, what does a department store like that actually do? They buy jewellery and watches for I don’t know how many tens of thousands of marks and put it in their display window and charge double the price. Ten thousand marks for putting something in the window? I do a lot more for my money, I can tell you.’

She was gone. Probably she isn’t too far wrong, he thought. Figuratively speaking, any number of so-called pillars of the German economy did little more than window dressing to make their exorbitant gains.

He went back inside Charly’s flat. They had made a real mess: books and papers were scattered all over the floor; only her address book was in its rightful place, next to the telephone on the chest of drawers, and open at the letter R. On the second line, under Raabe, Karin, written in her fine, elegant hand stood Rath, Gereon, Luisenufer 47, 1. Rear Building. Tel. Moritzplatz 2955. Complete with address and telephone number. All that was missing was his shoe size.

It looked as if someone was about to pay him a visit. Perhaps he could still catch the bastards. Before leaving he looked under the kitchen table. The pistol was no longer there. Alex had outmanoeuvred him after all.

108

She didn’t have the faintest idea where she was. The men had dropped a hood over her head as soon as they left Moabit, and hadn’t removed it until they set her down on this stool.

It felt like she was in a bad film. What was happening? Tornow and his helpers had taken an ordinary civilian captive from her flat in broad daylight. She still couldn’t believe it.

In addition to Tornow and the man with the pistol was a third man who had driven the car. She had identified it as a Horch, but hadn’t been able to read the number plate.

The room was windowless, a cellar perhaps, but she couldn’t be sure. Unlikely though, on reflection, since she could feel the heat of day. All three men sat behind a table. It felt like a tribunal, a Holy Inquisition, and she was the witch standing trial.

At least they hadn’t bound her.

Tornow sat on the left, with the older man – Charly put him in his early fifties – in the middle. The pistol lay before him on the table. To the right was the driver, whose face she saw for the first time. Draped behind the three of them was a kind of flag or wall-hanging, a black cloth, which bore the silhouette of a great white hand, reminding her of the lapel badge and sew-on patch they had found in Kuschke’s box.

So, there it was, the first link between Arsehole-Cadet Tornow and the deceased Kuschke. If she had any lingering doubts that Tornow was responsible for the sergeant major’s death, they were now well and truly swept aside.

‘Do you know why you’re here, Fräulein Ritter?’ the older man asked. Evidently he was the highest ranking of the three. Charly debated where she knew him from; she was almost willing to bet he was a cop too. The driver likewise.

Police officers who abducted a woman. Unbelievable!

‘Why I’m here? Probably because you wanted to play a hand of Doppelkopf and you were missing a fourth man. Well, I’m afraid I must disappoint you. First, I’m a woman, and second, I only play skat. Seeing as you don’t actually need me, can I go?’

‘I have to admire your sense of humour in a situation like this.’

‘Exactly what kind of situation are we talking about? So far, all I’ve seen are criminal offences: trespass, intimidation, false imprisonment. What the whole thing means, I’m still not sure. Are you trying to extort money? Again, I have to disappoint you there, my parents really aren’t that rich.’

‘That’s a shame, but I would have thought our operation spoke for itself. We’re trying to prevent you from making a serious mistake. It seems you sighted Police Lieutenant Tornow at a given time and in a given place, despite the many witnesses who would attest otherwise.’

‘What an elegant sentence. You must be either a cop or a lawyer.’

The man smiled. ‘Well, you’re a bit of both, aren’t you. With the emphasis on bit.’

Now Charly remembered where she had seen the man, although she still wasn’t quite sure. ‘Do you really think you’re going to get away with this? You abducted me! I might not know where you’ve taken me, but I do know who I have to thank for it.’

‘We’re aware that you’ve already made Lieutenant Tornow’s acquaintance, but he isn’t here. Nor did you see him in the Hansaviertel.’

‘I know who you are too, Chief Inspector Scheer. I hope you’ve seen to your own alibi.’

The man in the middle appeared genuinely thrown. So, it was him. Rudi Scheer. It had been a shot in the dark. Scheer had run the armoury at Alex, before being transferred out for weapons smuggling.

‘You have good powers of observation,’ Scheer said, ‘but I’m not here either. Just like Sergeant Klinger next to me.’

He meant the driver. No doubt he had given the man’s name and rank to demonstrate their certainty that no one would be brought to account.

‘Since you’re just imagining all this, Fräulein Ritter,’ Tornow said, ‘why don’t you tell us what you know, and what Gereon Rath knows? And whether you have any proof? What did you find in Kuschke’s flat?’

‘One thing I do know: there’s no way you’ll get away with this.’

‘There are certain influential people who move in our circles. Underestimate us at your peril!’ Tornow smiled. How could he be so friendly in a situation like this?

‘That’s why you imagine you’re above the law?’ Charly was talking herself into a rage. ‘Do you know what you are, Herr Scheer? You’re nothing but a crummy arms dealer. They should have finished you off when they had the chance, instead of transferring you out to Charlottenburg.’

Scheer looked at her in amusement.

‘You abducted me,’ Charly continued, ‘do you really think you’re going to get away with it, or are you planning to kill me, to keep all this hushed up? Don’t you think Gereon Rath already knows what happened and who’s behind it?’

She certainly hoped he did.

‘What Gereon Rath knows is what you’re supposed to be telling us,’ Scheer said. ‘You needn’t fear for your life. We aren’t going to harm a hair on your head. We won’t have to. Of course, we won’t shy away from it if need be, but we’re counting on your good sense. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to make a fool of yourself, and risk your career.’ He tried to smile, but didn’t manage quite so well as Tornow. ‘You won’t be getting much sleep in the next few hours. That can make people rather talkative, you know.’

It didn’t sound like they were going to release her any time soon.

109

Rath parked the Buick in Ritterstrasse, pulled his hat down and turned up the collar of his coat despite the warm weather. Only now did he approach Luisenufer. There were no suspicious vehicles near the courtyard entrance and the coast seemed clear. The yard was deserted, as always on a Sunday. What if they’ve laid a trap? he thought, stepping into the dim stairwell. What if they’re waiting for you in your flat? He took the Walther out of its holster, released the safety catch and hoped he didn’t run into Frau Liebig or her husband from upstairs.

He turned the key slowly, quietly, and stormed into the flat, weapon drawn, pointing the Walther into every room. Nothing. Whoever had been here was gone.

Rath had guessed what awaited him, but was still surprised at the havoc. It was worse than Spenerstrasse. Half his tableware lay shattered on the kitchen floor, books and papers fluttered on the floor. Flowerpots were tipped over and in pieces, the wardrobe was completely empty, and his mattress had been sliced open, along with his favourite chair. But they had saved the worst for the living room.

They had cleared out his record cabinet.

A great many of his records were broken, including some that were irreplaceable, having been sent over from the States by his brother Severin. The bastards would pay for this; Tornow and whoever else was in cahoots with him!

He tidied as best he could, found a cup that was still intact and put water on for coffee. He had to collect Kirie from the Lennartzes in half an hour, and could use a shot of caffeine to help him think things through.

Two hours later, Rath was parked in Spenerstrasse again. Dusk was falling as he rang on Irmgard Brettschneider’s door for the second time that day. Beforehand he had taken another look inside Charly’s flat, but nothing had changed.

The neighbour who had so often regarded him suspiciously, but never exchanged a word with him, now stared as though he were an apparition.

‘What can I do for you?’ she asked.

‘Good evening, Frau Brettschneider. Would you mind doing me a favour?’

She gazed at him as if he were asking for a cup of flour and two eggs, and Rath realised now would be a good time to reach for his police identification. He took the document out of his jacket and held it under her nose.

‘Rath, CID,’ he said. ‘It concerns Fräulein Ritter. She was seen leaving her flat this afternoon in the company of several men.’

‘Has she… Is she…’ Irmgard Brettschneider struggled to find the right words. ‘Is it prostitution?’ she asked finally. Rath didn’t know whether to laugh or vent his rage on this careworn woman with the overactive imagination.

‘Please! Fräulein Ritter is a judicial clerk.’

Frau Brettschneider gave a confused nod. ‘Of course, of course. I just thought… with the police in the building. So…’

‘It is possible that Fräulein Ritter was the victim of a kidnapping,’ he said.

Brettschneider looked horrified. ‘Those nice men? You must be mistaken.’

‘You saw them?’

‘Through the peephole,’ she said, apologetically. ‘Two well-dressed men. An older man, and a younger man.’

‘Would you recognise them if you saw a photograph?’

She hunched her shoulders. ‘I think so. Do I need to go to the station?’

‘That won’t be necessary for the time being. May I come in?’

She gazed into the stairwell, nodded and stepped aside. He entered the flat and she closed the door behind them, leading him into a meticulously tidy living room. A tea table with two chairs stood by the window overlooking Spenerstrasse. He could see his Buick at the corner. He sat and took a photograph from Tornow’s personal file, which had been passed to his office by Warrants.

‘That’s a police officer,’ Brettschneider said as she looked at the image which showed Sebastian Tornow under a shako wearing his best smile. ‘I thought this was a kidnapping.’

‘Was this man present?’

She nodded. ‘In plainclothes, not uniform.’

‘Undercover operation. Do you see?’ He gave her a conspiratorial smile and she nodded.

‘Are you… Is that why you’re in Fräulein Ritter’s flat from time to time?’ she asked. ‘Are you undercover as well?’

He nodded. ‘Keep it between us.’

‘Why should she have been kidnapped?’

‘I can’t talk about that.’ Rath lowered his voice. ‘Official secrets.’

Irmgard Brettschneider gave an eager nod. ‘I won’t say a thing, Inspector!’ She was beginning to flourish; she ought to have been a secret agent. ‘I have a number plate too,’ she whispered, as if her flat was being bugged. ‘I always take down the registration of whoever parks outside. You never know. It was a black sedan. I can’t give you the make, I’m afraid, I’m not so good with cars. But I do have the registration if that would help?’

Rath nodded, wondering how often Frau Brettschneider must have watched him coming and going, in the stairwell, perhaps even on the street outside.

‘That would be a great help.’

It was dark when he parked on Luisenufer, right outside the house this time. He had spent over two hours at the Castle trying everything to get into Road Traffic, but it was all locked on a Sunday, like most offices at headquarters. He didn’t dare use official channels and call in the division chief or the public prosecutor. What, after all, could he tell them?

He stepped inside the smoky hallway, hoping that Charly might have returned; that she had spent the last few hours waiting for him while he prowled around the station and her flat. Only when he stood at the kitchen door did he realise what was confusing him about the smoke. It didn’t smell of Junos. In fact, it didn’t smell of cigarettes.

It smelled of cigars.

Thus he was less surprised than he might have been, as he entered the kitchen and saw Johann Marlow with a cigar between his teeth, tickling the back of Kirie’s head. The dog didn’t appear to have moved since Rath had left the flat. On a second chair sat Liang. Two more men in summer coats stood by the dresser.

Marlow looked up. ‘There was no one here when we rang the bell, so we took the liberty of letting ourselves in.’

‘I see you’ve made yourselves at home.’

‘As far as we could, but it’s not exactly tidy in here.’

‘It was the men who killed Hugo Lenz,’ he said. ‘They got wind that I’m onto them.’ He took the photograph of Tornow from his jacket and laid it on the table. ‘Sebastian Tornow. The other one’s already dead. A Sergeant Major Jochen Kuschke.’

‘Respect,’ Marlow said. He looked at the two men by the dresser and said: ‘You could take a leaf out of this man’s book.’

‘So far, there’s no official investigation against Tornow. The evidence is pretty thin, and I’ve only just discovered he’s responsible for the whole thing. Clearly, he’s trying to provoke conflict in the underworld. He probably killed Rudi Höller too.’

Marlow nodded thoughtfully. It suited him that police headquarters still didn’t know. ‘Where might I find this Tornow?’ he asked.

‘That’s just it. I’m afraid he’s taken someone hostage.’

110

They were right. Sleep deprivation was the worst torture you could inflict on someone without actually injuring them.

So far, it was only one night, but they were just getting started. Charly had slept badly the night before too, as she always did when she fought with Gereon. What she wouldn’t give for a little nap, but whenever she was about to nod off someone shook her awake.

They had alternated during the night: Tornow, Scheer and Klinger, and other men she didn’t know. For hours at a time they had sat in front of her asking the same questions over and over. What do you know? What does Inspector Rath know? By their style of questioning, she knew they must be police, but it just didn’t fit. She had always thought of police officers as the good guys – with the odd exception.

She couldn’t help thinking of Gereon, the way he had reacted yesterday (or was it the day before? She could no longer remember), his disbelief when she told him about Tornow and what she had seen. He would scarcely believe this, either. What about the others: Gennat and Böhm? What if everyone she accused could provide an alibi? Perhaps Tornow and Scheer were right and no one would believe her. On reflection Gereon might, perhaps. What had he said on the telephone yesterday? Or the day before? Today? Her thoughts went round in circles as she began to doze.

Her body longed to fall into blissful sleep.

Until she was shaken brutally awake.

‘Where did Gereon Rath get this telephone number?’ a voice asked. Not Scheer, or Tornow, but one of the other voices that had been tormenting her. She didn’t have any idea what they were talking about, otherwise she might just have blabbed.

111

The Road Traffic Department opened at eight thirty. Rath had been sitting on the wooden bench outside since quarter past. Shortly before half past, a man in his mid-fifties came down the corridor, moving irritatingly slowly. Furrowing his brow, he looked at Rath waiting outside his office, and took a bunch of keys from his pocket.

‘Good morning,’ Rath said, receiving no response, not even a greeting.

Once the man had opened the doors, he tried to follow him inside, but was forbidden from doing so.

‘If you would be so kind as to wait,’ the man said. ‘We open in one minute.’

Other employees came down the corridor, other doors were opened, but still Rath had to wait until eight thirty on the dot, when the first officer poked his head through the door. ‘Good morning,’ he said.

All smiles now that work’s started, Rath thought, showing his identification.

‘A Division,’ he said. ‘I need some information. The owner of this vehicle.’ He passed the officer a handwritten note.

The man put on his reading glasses. ‘Have you put in an official request?’

‘No, but I’m in a hurry. Exigent circumstances.’ This was usually enough, but the man shook his head doubtfully. ‘It’s urgent,’ he said. ‘If you could help me out.’

‘OK, I’ll turn a blind eye this time.’

Rath waited at the desk, but the man showed no sign of moving.

‘What is it? Was there something else?’

‘The owner of the vehicle?’ said Rath.

‘Things don’t move that fast. I’ll call you.’

‘Would you please hurry up! This could be a matter of life and death.’

The officer was unperturbed. ‘Pretty much par for the course in Homicide, isn’t it?’

Rath hoped the situation wasn’t as serious as all that, but he didn’t know. He hadn’t slept. Uncertainty ate away at his insides. What had Tornow and his men done with Charly? They seemed to have their backs against the wall, and were responsible for at least two murders, probably more. He had told Marlow his theories yesterday evening: that a group of police officers was intent on sparking a gangland war between the Nordpiraten and Berolina. Evidently, some were prepared to commit murder. Murders, plural. All of which they hoped to pin on the mysterious American gangster the press already had its claws into – thanks to Stefan Fink.

It still wasn’t nine o’clock when he arrived at the office. He was the first there. Damn it, that pen-pusher in Road Traffic! Hopefully he’d cough up the vehicle owner’s name soon. It was Rath’s only lead.

At some point Erika Voss appeared, which meant it must be nine. Shortly afterwards Gräf entered too. Rath was distracted; he said hello, but no more. Gräf assumed it was Monday morning blues, and didn’t probe further. Rath sat like a cat on a hot tin roof, needing the vehicle owner, needing something to do. Why were they keeping him waiting?

‘Where’s Tornow?’ Gräf asked, cautiously.

‘He won’t be in today.’

‘Sick?’

Rath didn’t respond and Gräf preferred to focus on his work, phoning his way down the list of outlets that sold Camel cigarettes. In a low voice.

Suddenly, the door to the outer office flew open and Rath thought his eyes must be playing tricks. Sebastian Tornow smiled at each of them as if nothing had occurred.

‘Good morning,’ he said. Erika Voss returned his greeting.

Rath could have strangled her as, not for the first time, she gazed adoringly at the new man. Even Gräf’s friendly nod went against the grain. Rath muttered something incomprehensible, taking a moment to process the shock before he could react in a halfway normal manner.

Tornow hung up his hat and coat, and sat at his temporary desk. ‘Good weekend?’ he asked. ‘Let’s get started, then.’

‘What are you doing?’ Rath asked.

‘Going through the Camel outlets,’ Tornow said, pointing towards Gräf. ‘Our colleague has already made a start.’

‘Our colleague can take care of that on his own.’ Rath said. ‘You’re coming with me!’

‘Where?’

‘Come on!’

Rath was so aggressive that Gräf gave a start behind his desk. Even Erika Voss looked intimidated, which was a rare thing. They seemed to be wondering what punishment Rath would mete out for being ten minutes late.

Rath dragged Tornow outside into the corridor.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

‘Not here,’ Rath snarled. A few officers were making their rounds.

‘I thought we were friends.’

‘Keep your mouth shut.’

Rath yanked Tornow into the toilets and closed the door, seizing him by the collar and throwing him against the wall. Tornow gasped for air. ‘Where is she?’

‘Wait a minute,’ Tornow said. ‘Can’t we resolve this like civilised human beings?’

‘There’s nothing civilised about abducting a woman.’

‘Let me go! Now, otherwise you’ll never see her again.’

Tornow had said it quietly, but pointedly enough to paralyse Rath with fear. Tornow still had the upper hand. He let him go and asked again: ‘Where is she?’

‘The fact you’re so concerned makes me think we did the right thing yesterday.’

‘Who is we?’

‘That’s none of your concern.’

‘Where is she, God damnit?’

‘Also none of your concern. Let’s just say that she’s doing as well as could be expected under the circumstances.’ Tornow straightened his shirt collar and tie. ‘We’ll deliver her safe and sound as soon as you’ve carried out a little assignment for us.’

‘You want me to kill someone? That’s what you lot do, isn’t it?’

‘It’s very simple. You need to forget everything you know about me, or think you know. No one’s going to believe you anyway. Then, and this is the important part, so listen up. You’re going to see to it that Abraham Goldstein is arrested and charged with the murders of Hugo Lenz, Rudi Höller, Gerhard Kubicki and Jochen Kuschke. Oh, and Eberhard Kallweit. I almost forgot about him.’

‘How about I throw in Emil Kuhfeld and Gustav Stresemann while I’m at it? Special offer.’

‘In your shoes, I’d be taking this more seriously. I’m not joking.’

‘What are you saying? That Charly will be released when Goldstein is sentenced? Are you planning to keep her locked up for six months?’

‘It will be enough when Goldstein is arrested and charged with these murders.’ Tornow looked Rath in the eye. ‘It’s up to you how long we keep the poor thing locked up but, in your position, I wouldn’t hang around.’

‘If you have so much as laid a finger on her…!’

‘No one’s going to do anything to her. We don’t believe in assaulting women, but she might not get much sleep over the next few days, which is unhealthy in the long run. Like I said: I wouldn’t be hanging around.’

What kind of man was this? Why was he doing this?

‘You’ll never get away with it,’ Rath said.

Tornow laughed. ‘Funny, that’s exactly what a female acquaintance of yours said. You’re mistaken, the pair of you. You don’t know how well connected we are. I advise you to tread carefully.’

Rath shook his head. There was nothing more he could say.

‘Oh, and another thing…’ Tornow smiled his smile, which now seemed more like a devilish grin. ‘…it sounds rather strange to be saying this to a police officer, but it applies just as well. No police. If you want to get your girl out of this alive. This is between us.’

Rath left Tornow where he was and exited the lavatory, slamming the door as hard as he could.

112

Ernst Gennat sat on the terrace of Café Josty with a slice of gooseberry tart in front of him. Normally it was him dishing out cake to his subordinates, but here it was the other way around.

‘I hope you’re not trying to bribe me, Inspector?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Rath. ‘Please tuck in, Sir.’

Rath had taken his hat and coat and left the office without another word to Gräf or his secretary. Let Sebastian Tornow explain. Before setting off, he had paid another visit to Road Traffic. The information his friend from this morning had provided made him uneasy. He had impressed upon the man how important it was not to share it with anyone else.

The owner of the black sedan used to abduct Charly was known to him. Rudi Scheer had run the armoury at Alex, until it was discovered that he belonged to a weapons smuggling ring operated by right-leaning circles in the police force and Reichswehr. Scheer had been put out to pasture, but avoided censure. Even back then, Rath thought it was a mistake.

Gennat hadn’t touched his tart. ‘I would be very grateful, Inspector,’ he said, ‘if you would please tell me why you have asked me here. On the telephone just now you gave the impression that it was a matter of life and death.’

‘I fear it might be, Sir.’

Gennat listened so spellbound that his gooseberry tart remained untouched. ‘You’re not about to get mixed up in this extortion?’ he said, when Rath had finished. ‘Falsifying evidence!’ He was indignant.

‘I have another idea, but it won’t work without your support. First we have to arrest Goldstein.’

‘We have to find him first.’

‘Taken care of! I know where he’s hiding.’

‘Have you been withholding information again?’ Gennat let his cake fork drop and gazed angrily at Rath. ‘So, you are trying to bribe me!’

‘Absolutely not, Sir. I just want you to hear me out. Ten minutes, then you can decide for yourself.’

Gennat listened.

As expected, Marlow wasn’t pleased when Rath asked him to pull off the men in and around Tornow’s flat.

‘He’ll get his desserts, I promise you that but, if we lean on him now, we’ll be putting someone else’s life at risk. He has to think he’s safe.’

‘You’re asking a lot of me, Inspector.’

‘I know, but how would it be if you let the constitutional state do its work. No vigilante justice. Rest assured, the man will be punished.’

At length Marlow agreed. Another hurdle cleared, but it was the next one that mattered most.

In Saint Norbert’s, Rath came upon Pastor Warszawski, but the man was not inclined to cooperate. ‘I thought you’d be back,’ he said. ‘Which is why I took the necessary precautions.’

‘Goldstein’s no longer here?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Why should I tell you? Why do you suppose he’s no longer here?’

‘Could it be that you don’t trust me?’

‘I trust in God, not in people. Tell me where he can reach you and I’ll set everything in motion.’

‘I don’t have much time, damn it! Someone’s life is at stake.’

‘Then you’ll have to explain.’

Rath explained.

It wasn’t a particularly original hideout, but it was unlikely they’d have found Goldstein without the help of the Catholic Church. Pastor Warszawski insisted on accompanying Rath personally. A seed of distrust remained. They drove southwest along the Reichsstrasse 1, turning left just before Zehlendorf. As they reached a peaceful, green street, the pastor told Rath to stop. On one side were nice little houses with gardens, on the other a seemingly endless green hedgerow.

‘The Abendruh allotment gardens,’ Warszawski explained. ‘I have a plot here.’

Rath parked the Buick outside a pretty, detached house, the kind he always dreamed about owning, but knew he’d never be able to afford without inheriting his parents’ estate. The hedgerow on the other side was broken at regular intervals by entranceways. Behind it he saw trees, shrubs, flagpoles and the roofs of allotment sheds: the classic hideout in a city like Berlin. It was nigh-on impossible to find anyone here if you didn’t already have a lead, or a resident who’d reported something suspicious.

The allotment gardens were huge. Rath followed the pastor along a path that was straight as a die, with hedgerow on both sides. After making a few turns, always at a right angle, now to the right, now to the left, he began to feel as if he were in a maze belonging to a baroque castle estate. Warszawski came to an abrupt halt.

‘Here it is,’ he said, though he didn’t seem too comfortable about it.

113

Barely two hours later, a truck, four green Opels from the motor pool and, lastly, the black murder wagon drew up in Elmshorner Strasse. Uniformed officers sprang from the truck and moved on the allotments using three parallel paths. A group of plainclothes CID emerged from the Opels. Ernst Gennat climbed out of the murder wagon, followed by Wilhelm Böhm.

On their way out west they had been caught in rush-hour traffic, but decided against using the sirens for fear of attracting attention. Rath cursed his luck; every hour Charly spent in the grip of Tornow and his men was one too many. He had to pass the whole journey sitting next to Sebastian Tornow and would have liked nothing more than to ram his fist into the man’s face. Tornow behaved as if nothing had happened between them. Still, Rath had done his best to avoid talking to the man, indeed, had barely even looked at him. Gräf observed the inspector’s reticence, and no doubt put it down to their conversation in the Nasse Dreieck, which was a good thing, although it meant the detective was suffering from a guilty conscience. Gennat had alerted all officers working on the Goldstein case, as well as any murders the gangster was apparently responsible for, more or less exactly the investigations named by Tornow hours before.

Rath and his men made for Pastor Warszawski’s shed along the middle path, where Wilhelm Böhm awaited them, a bastion of calm. In his hand he held a megaphone.

‘Rath and Tornow, you stay out here,’ he barked. ‘Goldstein has already given you the slip once. Let’s not make it a second time. He knows your faces.’ The Bulldog pointed towards Gräf. ‘He knows you from the hotel, too.’

The rest of the CID officers were allowed past. Rath was familiar with the plan of action thanks to the briefing Gennat had held before they set off. First anti-riot police would surround the area, taking cover behind the hedgerow. To the right and left of the plot gate, two officers would be stationed with firearms at the ready. Buddha had warned them to make use of their weapons only in case of emergency. He and Böhm were the only CID officers on the front line; those left over would be deployed to help Uniform keep overly curious gardeners away from the operation.

Rath, Gräf and Tornow were the only officers stationed outside who weren’t in uniform, and held themselves apart. They had even less to do than the uniform cops monitoring the entrances to the allotments. Most used the lull for a cigarette break, Rath likewise.

‘If all we’re doing is standing around, then why are we here at all?’ Gräf said in irritation, returning to the Opel in which they had arrived. Rath was about to follow when Tornow addressed him. ‘Nervous?’ he asked.

‘Do I look it?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s because I’d like to know when you’re going to release her.’

‘As soon as I’m certain that Abraham Goldstein is actually in there, and we lay our hands on him.’

‘You don’t trust me?’

‘All this happened pretty fast.’ Tornow smiled. ‘Either you knew where Goldstein was hiding and decided to keep it to yourself, or this is just a massive ruse and the only things we’ll be digging up here are molehills.’

‘Just wait,’ said Rath, who was still thinking of socking Tornow one. Instead he threw his cigarette on the asphalt and trod it out, as if it were a poisonous spider. Or Tornow’s smile. ‘You still haven’t told me why,’ he said. ‘Why did Lenz and Höller have to die?’

Tornow’s smiled vanished. ‘Best you don’t know too much about that. Not that they’ll be missed. They were career criminals. The whole world knew it, yet no one was willing to take them to court.’

‘Kuschke wasn’t a career criminal. He was a cop.’

‘Perhaps he made other mistakes.’

‘Like leaving a witness behind?’

‘Like I said, there are certain things it’s better you don’t know.’

Böhm’s voice was distorted and amplified by the megaphone.

‘Attention! This is the police! Abraham Goldstein, we know where you are hiding. Come out with your hands up. Resistance is futile; the site is surrounded on all sides.’

For what felt like half an age they heard nothing, and Rath prayed it would all go according to plan. He couldn’t help thinking about Charly; her life depended on the scheme he had hatched together with Gennat.

114

At times she couldn’t remember where she was, or who was questioning her. She just knew that someone was always questioning her, that they hadn’t granted her a single break. There was always at least one man asking questions, sometimes more. She found it harder and harder to concentrate. Sometimes she saw men who weren’t there at all, more and more often something flashed at the edge of her vision: a familiar face, a man in a red pullover. On one occasion she thought she saw Gereon. Fatigue dragged her down like a dead weight, but still they wouldn’t let her sink to the floor. Again and again she was forced to struggle against the burden of her exhaustion. She could no longer say how long this had been going on. Hours, days, weeks might have passed.

Her cheeks stuck to her gums because they weren’t giving her enough to drink. Only when she was no longer capable of speech did they allow her a sip of water. In the meantime she got the hang of simulating a dry mouth, since not all the guards were so strict. Some were a little quicker to show compassion, and one had even let her nod off for a moment before waking her. Others shouted at her constantly, beating their fists against the table to intimidate her.

Though they didn’t let her sleep and seldom gave her anything to eat or drink, they didn’t lay a finger on her. No one would believe what these men had visited upon her, indeed that they had visited anything upon her at all. It was a kind of violence that left no trace.

115

Arresting Goldstein proved easier than anticipated. The anti-riot police had expected a Chicago style shoot-out, something with machine guns, or at the very least smoking Colts, but nothing of the sort had occurred. Not a single shot had been fired in anger.

Böhm repeated his instructions, Rath heard a clink (it later transpired that one of the uniform cops in the adjacent plot had knocked over a garden gnome in his nervousness) and Goldstein had emerged.

‘Keep your hands where we can see them, Herr Goldstein,’ Böhm bellowed through the megaphone.

‘Gold-sstiehn,’ the Yank said, and Rath almost let out a yelp of joy. It had worked. ‘My name is Gold-sstiehn,’ he continued. ‘I’m an American citizen and I think there has been a misunderstanding.’

‘Herr… Gold-sstiehn, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Jochen Kuschke, Gerhard Kubicki, Hugo Lenz, Rudolf Höller and Eberhard Kallweit.’

‘Then tell your men to come out and cuff me. My arms are going to sleep here.’

‘That’s all you have to say?’ The surprise in Böhm’s voice was plain.

‘And that I’m innocent, of course.’

Tornow and Rath listened spellbound to the exchange.

It took a while to escort the gangster out of the allotments and for calm to be restored. First came CID and the uniform cops who had made sure that no innocent gardeners ventured into the line of fire, then the officers who surrounded Goldstein’s hideout. Lastly, the pair shepherding the Yank between them.

Goldstein had his hands cuffed behind his back and seemed more or less unperturbed until he saw Rath, and possibly Tornow, although he ignored the latter. At the sight of Rath, his expression darkened, displaying first anger then outright contempt. He didn’t say anything but, as he was led past, he spat onto the asphalt in front of the inspector. The two anti-riot policemen he was sandwiched between pulled him away and bundled him into the murder wagon. Clearly, Gennat wanted to speak with him on the journey back. Then came the man himself, Ernst Gennat, together with Böhm, who held the megaphone like a Teuton emerging victorious from battle.

‘Good work,’ Buddha said and clapped Rath on the shoulder. ‘That goes for you too.’

He was referring to Tornow, whom Gennat now accorded a paternal glance.

The cadet looked a little confused.

‘And now?’ Rath when they were alone again, strolling towards the Opel.

‘And now what?’

‘We had an agreement. Goldstein has been arrested on five counts of murder. Now it’s your turn.’

‘Just be patient a little longer. First we need to go to Alex, then I’ll head home where I can use the telephone, and set things in motion.’

‘Where can I pick her up?’

‘How stupid do you think we are?’ Tornow shook his head. ‘All that’s left is to wait.’

116

Most evening editions carried the story so that, tomorrow, a significant number of people would know Goldstein was in police hands. Sadly, it was only Der Tag that alluded to Detective Inspector Gereon Rath’s rehabilitation. Had Weinert not been aboard the Zeppelin, it might have appeared in Tageblatt too. Even so, a single mention was enough. Gennat owed him a debt of gratitude, Bernhard Weiss even more so.

Tornow had advised him to be patient, but Rath hadn’t slept a wink. He had headed with Kirie to Spenerstrasse, even started clearing away the chaos in Charly’s flat. He had changed the sheets on the bed, in the process feeling a little like his mother, who had gone to similar lengths whenever little Gereon had returned after the summer vacation. She even used to bake a cake for the homecoming son. Admittedly he hadn’t done that for Charly, though he had put fresh flowers in a vase. He looked around. The flat felt almost habitable again. He hadn’t sorted the papers, of course, as he didn’t want to go snooping through her things, but he had returned the books and everything else to their rightful places.

Finally, he sat at the table with a bottle of cognac and a glass, thinking about her. Had they released her yet? Was Tornow deliberately keeping him in suspense, or did he have to speak to his accomplices? So many questions were swirling around his mind, the uncertainty made him crazy. The only thing he knew for sure was that he was going to need a whole lot of cognac to get any sleep. He savoured the first gulp, then drained the rest of the glass as though it were schnapps – in the end, this wasn’t about enjoyment or etiquette.

Kirie had curled herself up and was looking at him out of sleepy eyes.

‘Cheers, Kirie,’ he said, raising a second glass.

After drinking half the bottle, he fell asleep, to awake from tangled dreams, his right cheekbone aching from being pressed against the hard wood of the table. For a moment, he forgot where he was, then remembered, sitting up with a jolt that started Kirie out of her light doggy-sleep.

The kitchen clock showed four minutes to six. Rath stood up. The bed was empty, of course. Be patient, Tornow had advised, all that’s left is to wait.

Rath had waited long enough. He had to do something. After a lick and a promise, a quick shave, a cup of black coffee, a final cognac and two cigarettes, he grabbed his hat and car keys and set off.

Traffic was still light, so he made it from Moabit to Leuthener Strasse in quick time. In Tornow’s attic flat, the lights were already on and the day seemed to be proceeding as normal. At this hour, that meant: Police-cadet Sebastian Tornow prepares for duty.

Rath left Kirie in the car and climbed the steps to the top floor. Tornow was knotting his tie as he opened but, apart from that, looked as spruce as ever.

‘You?’ he said, not particularly surprised, and stepped to one side as Rath pushed past him into the flat. Tornow closed the door, stood in front of the wardrobe mirror and continued knotting his tie. Rath slammed the paper he had purchased en route on the wardrobe. The Vossische Zeitung, already open at the page.

‘What am I supposed to do with that?’ Tornow asked, finishing his tie knot. It was perfect.

‘It states that a certain Abraham Goldstein was arrested yesterday by police and charged with several murders,’ Rath said.

‘I was there, in case you had forgotten.’

‘I was starting to think I had imagined it. What’s happening with your end of the bargain? Where’s Charly?’

‘Not here, if that’s what you thought.’ He smiled, but by now all Rath could see was a provocative sneer.

‘I don’t think it’s funny,’ he said. ‘Until now I’ve played by your rules. If I find out that anything’s happened to her, or you’ve taken me for a ride, then I’ll start playing by mine.’

‘What is this? Are you trying to threaten me with Johann Marlow and your gangster friends? Trust me, they’re on their way out too!’

Rath froze. How did Tornow know about his links to Marlow? Had Red Hugo blabbed?

‘Stop stalling,’ he said, ‘and tell me where she is. Why are you still holding her, damn it?’

‘We’re not.’ Tornow looked indignant. ‘She was released at five o’clock this morning. I did say you’d need to be patient.’ He looked at Rath pityingly. ‘Hasn’t she been in touch?’

‘She isn’t home, that’s all I know.’

‘We didn’t drive her home. She’ll have to find the way to the nearest bus stop herself.’

‘Where is she? Where did you drag her?’

‘Drag her? She was chauffeured.’

It was unbelievable. Tornow was still smiling.

‘Where?’

Rath felt his anger wrestle against the bonds he had imposed on it.

‘You really mean it, don’t you?’ Tornow made a magnanimous face. ‘Very well, then,’ he said. ‘Onkel Toms Hütte. There’s a toboggan run on the edge of the Grunewald. You should take a look there. Maybe she fell asleep in the middle of a clearing. She’s certainly tired enough.’

Rath couldn’t hold back any longer. He slammed his fist into Tornow’s grin.

Tornow looked at him aghast, leaning forward so that his snow-white shirt wouldn’t be soiled by the blood dripping from his face.

‘You really are an arsehole, Gereon Rath,’ he said, spitting blood. ‘Is that how you thank me?’

‘I’ve thanked you by not hitting you a second time.’

He left Tornow’s flat as quick as he could, slamming the door and running down the stairs until he reached his Buick, where Kirie awaited him, tail wagging.

117

The road to Zehlendorf had never seemed so long. Half an hour later Rath climbed out of his car on Spandauer Strasse and attached Kirie to her lead. She was looking forward to her walk, although there were a few clouds above. On the other side of the road was a path leading to Onkel Toms Hütte, a restaurant popular with day-trippers that had lent its name to the area as a whole. To the right was the start of the Grunewald. A weathered sign pointed towards the toboggan run, a large clearing in a pine forest located on a precipitous slope. Only a ski jump hinted at its winter use. A few men were walking their dogs.

No sign of Charly. Rath called her name and listened. Nothing.

One of the dog walkers approached, bringing his German shepherd to heel with a sharp, ‘Bismarck, sit!’ Rath looked on in envy.

‘Can I help you?’ The man held his head slightly to one side as he spoke, and the dog did likewise.

‘I’m looking for a woman,’ Rath replied.

‘Here in the wood?’ The man looked up at the hillside. ‘You’d be better served using the lonely hearts in the BZ.’

He laughed and walked on. Rath was too taken aback to think of a humorous response, but the man stopped.

‘Wait a minute,’ he said, ‘I’ve just remembered something. A young lady shuffled through this morning at the crack of dawn. She went past my window as I was getting up. She looked – what’s the word – helpless. Is it her you’re looking for?’

‘Helpless? Yes, could be.’ Charly’s condition sounded graver than he had feared. Perhaps Tornow had been telling the truth, and they had tried to make her talk by depriving her of sleep. ‘Where did you see her?’

‘Riemeisterstrasse. Where I live. Beside the U-Bahn station.’

‘Thank you.’

Rath shooed Kirie, who was upset not to be going further, back to the car, and drove to the estate that GEHAG had conjured out of nothing and, indeed, was still conjuring in places, if the piles of sand and planks outside the houses were anything to go by. Some of them still hadn’t been plastered and very few had mown lawns. On the corner of the road stood pines and beech trees, so high they must have been planted long before building work commenced. Rath parked outside the U-Bahn station. The cafe opposite clearly had airs, labelling itself a Conditorei.

He fetched the dog from the car, and no sooner did he have her on the lead than he felt a tug. Kirie had picked up a scent and was suddenly very animated, holding her nose close to the floor, sniffing intently and pulling Rath towards a modern brick portal that served as the entrance to the U-Bahn.

‘If this is another dead animal!’ Rath said.

Kirie took no notice, but dragged him down the steps to the platform. Rath had to watch he didn’t take a tumble.

She was lying huddled on a bench. Charly in her flowery, summer dress.

The other passengers barely took any notice, and those who did were more disdainful than compassionate. It was her, though. Kirie must have sniffed her from upstairs.

She had made it to the U-Bahn, only to fall asleep while waiting for the next train and the citizens of Berlin, accustomed to going their own way and never interfering, had let her sleep. Not even the noise of the nearby construction site had wakened her, in contrast with Kirie’s tongue.

Charly opened her eyes, just a little at first, then wide with fear as she gazed into the face of the smiling, black dog. She sat up and recognised first Kirie, then Rath, who was standing alongside. She smiled blissfully and wrapped her arms around his legs, on the point of sleep again. ‘I have a ticket,’ she mumbled.

‘We’re taking the car.’ He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘You just have to walk a few metres.’

That proved trickier than anticipated. Rath provided support, and Charly made every effort, but her circulation was so restricted that she had to pause repeatedly, above all when climbing the stairs.

‘Come on,’ Rath said. ‘The car’s just up here, you’re almost there. You made it from the wood to the station!’

‘That was before I fell asleep. Sleeping makes you tired.’

Rath debated whether he should get her a Turkish coffee from the cafe opposite, but decided against. Get her in the car, quick-sharp. He bundled her onto the seat and she was asleep again before he started the engine.

At Spenerstrasse he carried her over the threshold, otherwise he’d have had to leave her sleeping in the car. She lay soft and light in his arms as he bore her up the stairs. The hardest thing was turning the key in the lock, but he managed that too. He kicked the front door shut and carried her into the bedroom, laid her on the bed and undressed her as best he could. As he put the covers over her the doorbell rang. It was just before eleven.

He left Kirie with Charly and went into the hallway, took the Walther from its holster on the hall stand and reloaded. He crept towards the door, keeping close to the wall in case the person outside decided to blast their way in. He placed his hand on the handle and with a jolt, threw the door open, taking aim at the intruder.

A small man looked like he was about to collapse out of fear. Rath lowered his weapon. It took a while for the little man to calm down. ‘Maltritz,’ he said at last. It sounded like an apology. ‘I’m the buildings manager here.’

‘Please excuse me, Herr Maltritz,’ Rath said. ‘But I thought…’

‘What did you think?’

‘There was a break-in here a few days a go, which is why I’m on my guard. I’m a friend of Fräulein Ritter,’ he said, ‘and a police officer.’

He showed his identification, but the little man seemed unimpressed.

‘Where is Fräulein Ritter?’

‘Not at home, which I can understand, after everything that’s happened. The break-in, I mean.’

‘She really isn’t here? I heard footsteps on the stairs just now.’

‘Footsteps? Well, that must have been me.’

‘You alone?’

‘Me and my dog,’ Rath said. ‘What business is that of yours, if I might ask?’

‘Fräulein Ritter is behind on her rent. She said she would have the money by yesterday evening. Only, yesterday evening she wasn’t home.’

Rath remembered how Charly had asked him for a loan. No wonder he had forgotten, after everything that had happened. How they could use Alex’s hundred and fifty marks now.

‘You’ll get your money, Herr Maltritz. Fräulein Ritter has… ah… asked me to settle up.’

‘Good,’ Maltritz said, looking expectantly.

‘What is it?’

‘I’m waiting for the money.’

‘I don’t have it for you now.’

‘Listen: go tell your cock and bull story to some kids. Maybe they’ll believe it, but I will not be taken for a fool. Wherever Fräulein Ritter is hiding, whether it’s in this flat or somewhere else, please let her know that Hans Maltritz is not to be messed with.’ He placed his hands on his hips. ‘I don’t care who pays, whether it’s you, Fräulein Ritter, or your monkey’s uncle, but if I don’t have twelve marks fifty by tonight you’ll see a different side to me. You wouldn’t believe how quickly I can get hold of an eviction order.’

Twelve fifty! What a ridiculous sum to make such a fuss about! ‘Don’t do anything rash,’ Rath said. ‘You’ll have your money. I’ll go to the bank later today.’

‘Are you being funny with me?’

‘Nothing could be further from my mind.’

‘Then you obviously haven’t seen the papers. You won’t be getting any money at the bank. I hope you’ve got another source of capital.’ He looked Rath up and down. ‘I don’t care how you get it. Just make sure you do!’

Once the man had gone downstairs, Rath looked out his copy of the Vossische Zeitung, bought to rub the Goldstein article in Tornow’s face.

It was a different story that had made the front page: a German banking crisis. He skimmed the article and continued flicking through the paper. The stupid buildings manager was right, getting money from the bank today would be impossible.

The Danatbank had hit the skids over the weekend and could no longer pay out to its customers. The Darmstädter and Nationalbank! But that was a perfectly reputable enterprise. Rath had his money elsewhere, in a postal giro account, though things didn’t look too rosy for the other banks either. Fearing for their deposits, an onslaught of customers had attempted to withdraw cash, causing most banks to close their counters – only increasing the sense of panic. Rath felt himself worrying about the few thousand marks he had set aside for a rainy day. As if he didn’t have enough on his plate already.

The Danatbank had been so badly hit that the government had been forced to guarantee all deposits. ‘Aunt Voss’, as the Vossische was known, wrote that following discussions with the government, all other major German banks have declared that they view any government guarantees as superfluous, that they are fully solvent and capable of meeting all demands.

Even so, all bank counters would remain closed for the next few days. Arrogant bastards, Rath thought. He didn’t have much time for the financial industry, which he had never understood anyway. He knew even less about the financial crisis, which now seemed to have pulled the banks into its maelstrom. Only two years ago, any number of shares on the New York Stock Exchange had fallen through the floor, and speculators had jumped out of the windows of the city’s skyscrapers. Why enterprises that had nothing to do with New York should be affected, honest German companies for example, even German public servants such as himself who had seen their salaries cut, was a mystery to him.

To the economics editor of the Vossische too, it seemed. What we lack, was the title of his lead. What has happened? The factories, on which Germany’s economic strength has been built, are still standing, as they were four weeks ago. The German soil has yielded the same harvest as last year, if not better than in many previous years. Our reserves of coal and iron remain intact beneath the ground. In all these ways Germany is no poorer, so why the alarm? Because, although the German economy is as strong as ever in itself, we lack the fuel to drive it forward. We lack money.

How true, Rath thought, we lack money. Isn’t that what so many people have always lacked?

This catastrophe is upon us, the journalist continued, and it would be cowardly to turn a blind eye to the gravity of this unique situation. The collapse of a major German bank is without precedent in the country’s economic history.

What we are now experiencing is not inflation, but its exact counterpart.

Rath didn’t quite know if that was good news or bad. At first glance it sounded good: no inflation. That was something, surely. Nevertheless, it didn’t change the fact that money was in short supply. What a lousy world, he thought, remembering what Alex had said in the stairwell.

When he returned to the bedroom, Kirie was waiting eagerly. Charly was still fast asleep. ‘You dogs have it good,’ he said, stroking Kirie’s fur, ‘and not just when it comes to affairs of the heart.’

He sat beside Charly. She briefly opened her eyes and snuggled up to him, reaching for his hand. ‘I didn’t tell them anything, Gereon,’ she mumbled, more asleep than awake. ‘Not a thing!’ She closed her eyes as Rath pulled the covers over her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, though he wasn’t sure she could hear him. At least it made it easier to admit his error. ‘If I had believed you none of this would have happened.’

He sat on the chair next to her bed and placed the Walther on his lap. He gazed at her, fast asleep in broad daylight. No one would ever take her away from him again.

118

Dusk was falling as the police vehicles pulled up. The enormous silhouette of the gasometer stood against the westerly glow of the night sky. It had rained in the early afternoon, and the pavement was glistening dark and wet. A great number of people and addresses stood on their arrest lists, stretched across all four corners of the city. Even so, Rath had opted for Schöneberg, just like Gennat. Böhm had gone to the West End, which made the decision easier still.

Right now, police units were stationed at seventeen different locations throughout the city. At eight on the dot they would swoop, so that those under arrest would be unable to warn each other. At seventeen different addresses in Berlin, the illusion that police officers were above the law was about to shatter.

Rarely had Rath found the passage of time so torturous as in these last few days.

Even after Charly’s release, little had changed. As far as possible he had kept his distance from Sebastian Tornow, though they had crossed paths on a number of occasions at work. Everyone was working with great zeal to make the chain of evidence in the case against Abraham Goldstein as tight as possible.

Everyone except Gennat, Böhm and Grabowski.

Rath was the only one who knew. Everyone else assumed they were looking into the Goldstein affair. No one suspected that they were actually conducting interrogations in an undisclosed location. Even less, that Helmut Grabowski was the man being interrogated by Homicide’s two oldest hands. They had needed three days to crack him, but then Grabowski started talking. Seventeen names, and enough background information to justify today’s arrests.

Now, they stood at the base of the stairs: Gennat, Rath and the squad leader with his men. They had taken a dozen uniform officers along with them. Every so often the wooden stairs emitted a tired protest, as if unused to carrying so much weight.

Rath and Böhm had discovered that Assistant Detective Grabowski must be the Castle’s leak at more or less the same time. Böhm, still angry that confidential information pertaining to the Goldstein investigation had been passed straight to the press, narrowed the list of suspects one by one. Only seven people had known what Abraham Goldstein looked like: Gereon Rath and his three men, Deputy Police Commissioner Bernhard Weiss, CID Chief Scholz and the female employee who had received the telex from America and passed it on.

At first Böhm focused on Rath and his men, whom he obviously thought capable of such indiscretion. He even briefly considered Weiss and Scholz for different, no doubt politically motivated, reasons. The one person he hadn’t reckoned with was the girl from the teleprinter’s office, an innocent in her mid-twenties. Eventually, however, she had been the only possibility remaining, and, after a marathon interrogation, had confessed to having mentioned Goldstein’s imminent arrival to a fellow officer in the canteen.

That fellow officer had been Assistant Detective Helmut Grabowski. The same assistant detective whom the porter at the Scherl building recognised as the man who had delivered the mysterious envelopes to Stefan Fink.

At first Grabowski stubbornly maintained that he had acted under his own steam, but when Gennat confronted him, bit by bit, with the statements Lanke junior had already made, he cracked. Gregor Lanke, whom Rath had softened up the week before, appeared to be a relatively small cog in the machine.

Then there were the names Charly had been able to throw in. Over the past few days she had gazed at hundreds of police portraits. Gennat hadn’t summoned her to Alexanderplatz but to a safe house. His co-conspirator was his trusted secretary Trudchen Steiner, with whom Charly continued to live for security reasons, and with whom she would stay until Scheer and Tornow were safely behind bars.

The picture they put together was shocking. Die Weisse Hand. The White Hand. A secret band of frustrated police officers, who were tired of the judicial system releasing people onto the streets after they had bust a gut to put them behind bars. Police officers who had resolved to go over and above the call of duty, and play judge, jury and executioner. Their aim: to eliminate the most notorious criminals in Berlin’s underworld.

Police officers who were moments away from being arrested.

They arrived upstairs. Everything in the attic flat was dark. They hadn’t switched on the light in the stairwell. Only a little twilight filtered through from outside. It took a lot of effort but Rath could just about read the nameplate on the door. S TORNOW. Only a week ago, he had been here thinking he had made a new friend. How quickly things changed.

Gennat had paused on the stairs. Rath gave the squad leader the nod. He waved at his men and they stepped into action like a perfectly rehearsed ballet troupe. The first man kicked in the door and the second peeled inside, firearm at the ready, followed by three colleagues. Rath remained outside, his Walther primed, even if he didn’t think Tornow would come out shooting.

The squad leader emerged from the flat shaking his head. ‘No one home,’ he said.

Rath cast a brief a glance over the flat. It didn’t look as if Tornow had fled. His gaze fell instead on the gasometer at the end of Leuthener Strasse. He exited the flat and the officers descended once more, frustrated as ever after a futile operation. Gennat was waiting for them at the foot of the stairs.

Rath shrugged. ‘No one home, but I’d be willing to bet I know where he is.’

Perhaps Tornow had an inkling after all, Rath thought, as they approached the gasworks, although it wasn’t public knowledge that Helmut Grabowski and Gregor Lanke had been arrested, let alone interrogated.

Rath had waylaid Gregor Lanke outside the canteen, using the pretext of a confidential discussion to lure him out to Schöneberg. The detective had been astonished to find Superintendent Gennat and Chief Inspector Böhm waiting for him in the priest’s office at Saint Norbert’s. Once he had recovered from the shock, Lanke had seemed genuinely relieved by the presence of Buddha, and unburdened his soul.

Grabowski, meanwhile, was part of Böhm’s team. All the Bulldog had to do was summon him. The assistant detective from Homicide was, by far, the harder nut to crack, but Gennat’s doggedness, allied with Lanke’s statements and the names Charly had provided, finally broke him.

Rudi Scheer seemed to act as a kind of patron, placing the necessary means at the group’s disposal for specific operations. Grabowski claimed that Scheer was still involved in weapons trafficking, though it would be difficult to prove. The only lead they had was an illegal arms dealer in Grenadierstrasse. Goldstein confirmed that was where he had purchased the Remington. He got the address from Marion, who at that time had been working on behalf of Gregor Lanke and Die Weisse Hand. Somehow, in the maze, Goldstein had become an important witness.

But that was another story entirely.

Even if Scheer had provided the money, the group’s driving force was Sebastian Tornow, young as he was. The two hoods he had told Rath about, who had apparently lost their lives as part of a gangland war, the two who had ruined his sister’s life, had been his first victims. In Rudi Scheer, whom he must have met in the early stages of his training, Tornow recognised a kindred spirit. From that point, the pair had surrounded themselves with men who shared their worldview. Gräf, too, had been sounded out by Tornow, when asked whether a good police officer ought to be able to kill.

In Tornow’s eyes, the answer was yes. Jochen Kuschke, meanwhile, who had taken this principle too much to heart, had to die, because he had acted impetuously and become a danger to the organisation. His fate, so Grabowski said, had been sealed at a secret night-time meeting of group members. In the end Tornow took the job upon himself because Kuschke, his erstwhile superior officer and mentor, had trusted him the most.

They reached the site of the gasworks without any trouble. As Tornow had said, only signs forbade people from climbing the gasometer. They described such behaviour as strengstens verboten, the sound of which alone was enough to make would-be offenders recoil.

Rath was used to breaking rules.

‘Wait here with your men,’ he said to Gennat. ‘I’ll see if anyone’s up there.’

Before Gennat could say anything, he was on his way.

Scaling dizzying heights was hardly the stuff of his innermost dreams, but this was personal. Tornow had taken Charly from him and made her suffer for two days. If he was crouched up there, admiring Berlin’s night sky, then he, Gereon Rath, wanted to be the one to tell him he was under arrest.

The gasometer was a massive, barrel-shaped guide frame, a steel, half-timbered construction, around eighty metres high, in which the gas bell patiently went about its business. A kind of fire escape led upwards, a steel staircase the like of which could sometimes be seen in tenement houses. After four steps, Rath reached the first maintenance gangway, a steel ring of catwalk grating that extended around the whole gasometer. There was one every ten or so metres, but Tornow’s spot was up on top of the gas holder, not on one of the maintenance gangways. Rath continued.

On the first landing he held to his resolution not to look down, but at one point he inadvertently took the risk, and instantly regretted it. He held on tight to the rail and hunkered down. Below he could see Gennat talking to a man, probably the night watchman. Buddha pointed skywards and Rath tried to look the other way, up inside the structure, to dispel the feeling of vertigo. The framework’s interior was filled by an enormous steel cylinder that was in motion day and night, rising and falling, as gradually as the sun and moon, and just as inexorably, an irresistible, relentless force. Cantilevers with guide pulleys ran via tracks into the vertical steel ribs to ensure the gas bell breathed steadily. Rath thought he could see it slowly descending as the bell exhaled again, an operation that would last the entire night. The heavy telescopic bell descended at a speed that was barely discernible, compressing the gas into the network of lines and hoses that played their part in illuminating Berlin’s night sky.

When he reached the topmost maintenance gangway he saw Tornow sitting on the enormous steel bell and the gas supply for half a city. Not just anywhere, but right in its centre, on a large valve that looked like a steel tree-stump and was the same size as a comfy stool. Next to him was a rucksack.

Rath climbed onto the gas bell using one of the cantilevers. Like the maintenance gangways, the slightly domed upper surface of the gas holder was secured by a wrap-around rail.

Slowly he approached the middle of the bell. It was like ascending a little hill, steadily sloping upwards. On top of the flat, circular summit sat the former uniform officer, whose promising career as a CID inspector was over before it had begun. The man with the perfect smile: Sebastian Tornow, the fallen angel.

Rath came to a halt about a metre behind him.

Tornow, who had his back turned, took a brief glance over his shoulder, and turned around without saying anything. In his hand he held a half-finished bottle of beer.

‘I’ve come to take you away,’ Rath said.

‘You sound like the devil himself.’

‘I’m a detective inspector come to make an arrest.’

‘An arrest? It’s not forbidden to sit up here drinking beer.’

‘No.’

Tornow raised the bottle to his lips. ‘Let me finish my beer, then I’ll come with you. You know how much I’m going to miss sitting up here.’

Rath nodded. Tornow offered him a bottle. ‘You want one too?’

‘No, thank you.’ Rath shook his head. ‘You know how it is: business before pleasure… I’ll smoke instead.’

He took a cigarette from his case, lit it and sat next to Tornow. ‘It really is beautiful up here,’ he said, blowing pale cigarette smoke into the night sky.

‘But that isn’t why you’re here.’

‘No.’ Rath looked across at Tornow, who was staring into the distance. ‘Today is the day Die Weisse Hand is finally broken. Right now all across the city men are being arrested. You’re one of them. You’ll also be charged with the murder of Jochen Kuschke…’

‘Kuschke, the fool.’

‘…and with acting as an accessory to the murder of Eberhard Kallweit, Hugo Lenz, Rudolf Höller and Gerhard Kubicki.’

‘I had nothing to do with Kubicki. That was Kuschke’s idea. The same goes for the boy at KaDeWe.’

‘Kuschke was in the SA himself. Why would he stab a fellow member like Kubicki?’

‘I asked him that too. Apparently to pin it on Goldstein, but there were other reasons. For Kuschke, any SA men who didn’t go along with his hero Stennes were just a bunch of fag boys. At least, that’s how he explained it to me. The fact that he was in the SA should have been a warning. Recruiting him for Die Weisse Hand was the biggest mistake I made.’

‘He was good for the dirty work, wasn’t he? Hugo Lenz for example. Or would you have managed him on your own? Did he shoot Rudi Höller too?’

‘What does it matter now? I thought we made a good team, Kuschke and I.’

‘But you were wrong.’

‘So long as he did what he was told, everything worked fine. The problems only began when he started thinking for himself. The man was a sadist, as I should have known. It was my mistake.’

‘Here was I thinking that sadism was a prerequisite for your little troop. You kill people. Just like that.’

‘We eliminate criminals. It has nothing to do with sadism.’

‘You didn’t kill Goldstein. Why?’

‘Perhaps we wanted to shake the general public awake. Show them how dangerous it is to have a gangster roaming the streets of Berlin unattended, and that the laws which allow it to happen need to be changed.’

‘He wasn’t unattended. It was only through your expert help that he gave us the slip.’

‘We were watching him the whole time. Die Weisse Hand isn’t as dim-witted as Inspector Rath.’

‘With the exception of Kuschke. He was only supposed to be keeping Goldstein under surveillance, wasn’t he, not to be killing an SA man into the bargain?’

‘He wasn’t best pleased to see the man behave like a Boy Scout. So he lent a helping hand. To ensure the picture Berliners had of him was accurate.’

‘That he was a Jewish gangster? One who’s about to be exonerated in the press.’

Tornow looked into Rath’s eyes, as if he could read the inspector’s mind. ‘He’s in on this, isn’t he?’ he said, in a moment of insight. ‘Goldstein is in on this conspiracy against Die Weisse Hand!’

‘Conspiracy’s the wrong word. These are criminal proceedings, and his role is not to be underestimated. Quite simply, because he didn’t commit any of the murders your lot tried to pin on him.’

Rath thought of Simon Teitelbaum, Goldstein’s defence witness. The old man had good reason to withhold his name and address: fear of deportation. Teitelbaum was in Germany illegally. It was only after Gennat set everything in motion to grant him citizenship that he had declared himself willing to repeat the statements he had made to Rath in court.

‘You working with gangsters is nothing new,’ Tornow said, ‘but Gennat too! That was Buddha I saw down there, wasn’t it?’ Tornow pointed his beer bottle down towards Leuthener Strasse.

Rath shook his head. ‘I just can’t believe that you’d simply stab a man to death.’

‘It wasn’t simple, you’ve got it wrong there. It was unavoidable.’ He looked at Rath. ‘Believe me, I wasn’t always this cold-blooded, but time teaches you. Having a sheet of ice around your heart helps. A carapace, like after a sleet storm.’ He paused and gazed into the distance, towards the western horizon, over which the last of the daylight could still be seen, before the night finally took over. ‘The ice set in the day we found my sister Luise in the Hollandwiese, when all that remained of her was her physical shell, and the person she had been only that morning was irretrievably lost.’

‘You think that gives you the right to become just like the men who destroyed her?’

‘I’m nothing like those bastards!’ Tornow flashed him a look of such rage that Rath gave a start. ‘I never will be!’

‘You’ve become just as hard-hearted as them. Is that really worth striving for?’

‘It isn’t about whether it’s worth striving for.’ Tornow took a final gulp of beer. ‘We don’t get to choose whether we become hard-hearted or not.’

The bottle was empty. Tornow packed it inside the little leather rucksack, clinking it against another bottle. The one Rath had turned down. He stood up.

‘Let’s go back down,’ he said. ‘I don’t have to cuff you, do I?’

Tornow shook his head and stood up, shouldering the rucksack and fiddling with its clasp.

‘You’ve been very open with me,’ Rath said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me all that a few days ago? You would have spared us a whole lot of trouble.’

‘Because back then I didn’t know I was talking to a dead man.’ All of a sudden there was a pistol in his hand. ‘You’re a Catholic. You know what good it does to unburden your soul. Above all when you know that the seal of confession will be preserved.’

Rath gazed into the mouth of the pistol. It was a Mauser, he saw now, the same model he had once had. ‘Don’t do anything stupid. There’s a squad of a hundred officers waiting below. You’ve no chance of escape.’

‘Who says I want to escape. Perhaps I just want to shoot you.’

‘In front of over a hundred witnesses?’

Tornow shrugged. ‘So what? Have you forgotten that I’m already a police killer. One more won’t make any difference.’

Rath shook his head. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘What is it you don’t believe?’

‘I don’t believe you’re cold-blooded enough to just gun me down. Besides…’ He pointed towards the maintenance gangway encircling them. While they had been speaking the gas dome had descended by a few centimetres. ‘At any moment this place is going to be surrounded by uniform officers with loaded carbines. If you shoot me, they’ll gun you down like a hare.’

Tornow looked to the side, which was all Rath had wanted. With a quick movement he was beside him, with both his hands on the pistol in Tornow’s right hand. A shot resounded from the Mauser, the bullet flying high into the night sky.

The two men landed on the gently sloping dome of the gas holder. There was a muffled thud as the Mauser and Tornow’s right hand crashed against the metal. While Rath focused his energies on the man’s firing arm, Tornow kicked him hard in the groin, catching him off guard. Rath felt everything go black and for a moment couldn’t breathe, but still he clasped the hand holding the weapon, slamming Tornow’s knuckles against the steel gas holder. He absorbed the kicks and punches until Tornow’s knuckles bled and he let go of the pistol. It slid a few centimetres and came to a halt. Before Tornow could retrieve it, Rath slapped it away as if it were a table-hockey puck, only to watch it skidding across the gently sloping metallic surface. It turned on its axis several times and finally, still moving at pace, slid over the edge of the gas bell. It didn’t fall into the depths, between the telescopic bell and guide framework, as Rath had hoped, but flew across the gap to land on the catwalk grating of the maintenance gangway.

Tornow ran over, diving across the floor and lying face down on the edge of the gas holder, frantically stretching to take the pistol in his grasp. Rath rose unhurriedly to his feet, ignoring the pain from the blows Tornow had dealt him, and pulled his Walther from its holster.

He had just loaded the weapon when Tornow finally reached the Mauser. He had failed to realise that the gas holder was still falling. The handrail on the maintenance gangway hadn’t moved, but the rail that fenced the edge of the gas holder continued its descent. Tornow had reached through both rails to grasp hold of the weapon. His eyes dilated when he realised that his right arm was stuck, jammed between them.

Rath needed a moment to work out what was happening. It was Tornow’s initial, barely suppressed cry of pain that alerted him.

‘Pull your hand away, for God’s sake,’ he cried.

‘I can’t! I can’t!’ Tornow’s voice was already panicked. ‘Stop the damn thing! Stop it.’

Rath looked around for an emergency switch, but that was nonsense: it was gravity pulling the gasometer down. Someone had to pump in more gas to reverse its relentless downwards motion. He climbed onto the maintenance gangway, ignoring Tornow’s cries, and called down to the others. ‘Stop it!’ he shouted, as loud as he could. ‘You need to stop the gasometer. Send it back up!’

He couldn’t tell whether they had understood. Tornow was still screaming when he climbed back onto the dome and tried to lift him out of the trap. It was hopeless.

Tornow pulled on Rath’s arm, but it was already too late. The two rails had wedged his forearm tight and wouldn’t let go.

He screamed like a banshee as the bones in his forearm broke one by one. Rath tried to pull him away, but couldn’t, the steel rails that were slowly moving apart had his arm firmly in their grip. The pistol slipped onto the catwalk grating; Tornow’s hand hung loose and strangely contorted above it.

Tornow wasn’t screaming any more. The pain had rendered him unconscious. Still, the gasometer descended relentlessly, millimetre by millimetre. Rath heard muscles and ligaments tear, bones crack, and despairingly tried again to pull him away. He didn’t think about what he was doing, just pulled and pulled, knowing all the while that it was hopeless. Then, abruptly, and with one final, ugly noise that sounded like a curtain ripping, the gasometer released the cadet, and Rath pulled his body away from the handrail.

Dismayed and exhausted, Rath gazed at the unconscious Tornow, at his right arm, or what remained of it. From the shredded stump jutted fragments of bone, torn sinews and ligaments. Blood sprayed at regular intervals onto the metal of the gas bell. Rath took his belt and bound Tornow’s arm, until the blood was no more than spitting from the horrific wound. He climbed onto the maintenance gangway, surprised, at that moment, not to experience any vertigo, and looked for Gennat and the officers below. ‘An ambulance,’ he shouted down. ‘We need an ambulance, God damnit! Quickly!’