The Fatherland Files

1

Reinhold Gräf had never seen Potsdamer Platz so dark and deserted. It was a quarter past five in the morning, the neon signs had long been extinguished, and the buildings that lined the square loomed like dirty cliffs against the sky. The black Maybach, out of whose side window the detective gazed, was the only vehicle on the otherwise busy junction. Even the traffic tower was unmanned, its lights glowing dimly behind the glass. Gräf pressed his forehead against the car window and watched the raindrops form little pools on the windscreen, buffeted by the airstream.

‘That’s Haus Vaterland there, isn’t it?’ Lange piped up from the rear seat. ‘The one with the dome.’

Gräf signalled for the driver to stop and folded down the window.

The cop standing in the rain on Stresemannstrasse had already seen the murder wagon. ‘Goods entrance, Inspector!’ The man gestured towards Köthener Strasse and saluted.

‘Inspector’s on his way,’ Gräf said. He folded the window back up and instructed the driver to take a right.

He wasn’t in the best of moods. The sole accompanying officer was Assistant Detective Lange, who, like Gräf, had been on night shift in Homicide. They had roused the stenographer, Christel Temme, from her bed, before collecting her in Schöneberg, otherwise there was only the driver. Gräf hadn’t been able to reach anyone else in the twilight hour between midnight and morning, not even an inspector. Despite being on standby, Gereon Rath wasn’t answering his phone. After four failed attempts Gräf had lost heart and climbed into the Maybach with Lange, picking up the stenographer en route and heading for the crime scene. The journey had passed in silence, broken only by Lange’s superfluous remark.

Of course it was Haus Vaterland. Köthener Strasse took them along the dim rear side of the building, past an endless row of high round arches, meagrely lit by the gas of the street lamps. Once upon a time Ufa, the film production company, had resided here, but since then the Kempinski group had spared no expense in redeveloping the enormous complex from scratch, converting it into Berlin’s largest pleasure palace. As a result Haus Vaterland now provided your average provincial tourist with everything they could hope for from a night out in the metropolis, from food, dance and booze, to scantily clad revue girls – and all under the same, one roof.

Threads of rain glistened in the dazzling electric light that filtered through an open gate at the back of the building. The goods entrance was situated as far away as possible from the busy Stresemannstrasse. A light-coloured delivery van was parked on the street corner with its rear doors open, alongside a dark-red Horch. The Maybach nestled in behind, and the driver moved to open the door for Gräf.

‘That’ll do, Schröder. I’m hardly the police commissioner.’

‘Very good, Sir.’

The slogan Mathée Luisenbrand, der schmeckt was visible on the side of the van, and underneath, in smaller letters: Herbert Lamkau, Spirits Merchant. Gräf pulled his hat down over his face as the rain grew heavier.

‘Don’t forget the camera,’ he barked at Lange, who was already making a move to find shelter. He hadn’t meant to sound so ill-tempered, but he wanted there to be no doubt about who was in charge while the duty inspector was conspicuous by his absence. Lange shouldn’t go getting any ideas: so long as he was still completing his inspector training, he retained his old rank of assistant detective. Only time would tell whether he would pass the final examination.

The assistant detective moved stolidly towards the boot of the murder wagon, gave it a jolt, then another, more forceful this time. Still, nothing happened. Gräf knew that the flap sometimes became wedged in the rain. There was a knack to it. Surely, in all the months he had been at Alex, Lange had thought to ask?

Gräf rounded the puddles and approached the goods entrance and the uniform cop standing guard. The rain that had pooled in the brim of his hat splashed on the concrete floor as he lowered his head to fumble for his identification. The cop stepped to one side to avoid getting water on his boots.

‘Beg to report: First Sergeant Reuter, 16th precinct, Vossstrasse. We were notified of the corpse by telephone at approximately four thirty-two this morning. I examined the site in person and promptly informed Homicide.’

‘Anything so far?’

‘Nothing, Inspector, only that…’

‘Detective,’ Gräf said. ‘The inspector’s on his way.’

‘Beg to report: no findings, Detective, other than that the man is dead.’

‘So, where’s the corpse?’

‘Up there.’

‘On the roof?’

‘In the goods elevator. Fourth floor. Or third. It got stuck.’

Gräf looked around. To the left were two plain metal elevator doors. To the right was a concrete staircase leading up.

‘We haven’t allowed anyone to use the elevators,’ the cop said. ‘On account of Forensics.’

‘Very good,’ Gräf said. Such a precaution was by no means a given with Uniform, even though Gennat never tired of lecturing its troops on the fundamentals of modern police work. ‘Have there been any issues as a result?’

‘Only with the pathologist. When he realised he had to take the stairs.’

‘Are there no passenger lifts?’

‘Any number, but not back here. Towards the front of the building, in the central hall.’

Gräf sighed and nodded in the direction of the stenographer who, having just joined, was now shaking out her umbrella. ‘We need to take the stairs, Fräulein Temme,’ he said, and opened the door. He just had time to see Lange finally prise open the boot before starting the trek up to the fourth floor.

A handful of men gazed at them as they emerged from the stairwell. Alongside the uniform cop standing watch was a guard from the Berlin Security Corps; next to him, a man easily identifiable as a chef; then a worker in overalls; and, finally, a wiry, elegantly dressed gentleman whose sand-coloured summer suit bore dark flecks of rain. In the space of a few quick glances, Gräf acquired an overview: behind him the door to the stairwell, on the wall to his left two windows, and on the wall opposite the two elevator doors. The left-hand door was open, revealing a gloomy shaft and a thick wire rope from which the car hung. Being jammed, only the upper two-thirds were visible. The light in the car was still on, illuminating a large pile of plywood crates of schnapps that stood on a wire mesh cart. The name Mathée Luisenbrand was branded in ornate lettering on the wood.

Der schmeckt, Gräf thought, removing his identification. Tastes good. ‘So, tell me what happened,’ he said.

Before the cop or anyone else could speak, the man in the suit jumped in. His unkempt hair was testament to the fact that he had been rudely awakened.

‘I just can’t explain it, Inspector, it’s all so…’

‘Detective,’ Gräf corrected. ‘The inspector will be here soon.’

‘Fleischer, Director Richard Fleischer.’ The man in the suit proffered a hand. ‘I’m in charge of Haus Vaterland.’

‘I see.’

‘I hope we can handle this unfortunate incident with discretion, Detective. Not to say, speed. We open in a few hours and…’

‘We’ll see,’ Gräf said.

Director Fleischer looked vexed. He wasn’t used to being interrupted, and certainly not twice in quick succession.

‘All of our elevators,’ Fleischer continued, ‘even the freight elevators and dumbwaiters are regularly serviced. The last time was three months ago. After all, we have seventeen lifts in our building and simply cannot allow…’

‘Your freight elevator jammed though, didn’t it?’

Fleischer seemed offended. ‘As you can no doubt see for yourself, but that isn’t what killed Herr Lamkau.’

‘Why don’t you leave the detective work to us? Is the dead man known to you?’

‘He’s one of our suppliers.’

Gräf nodded, and gazed towards the elevator car, in which a shadow was moving. Suddenly a lean figure in a white coat appeared next to the schnapps, and a blonde, neatly parted head of hair poked its way out of the car. Although Dr Karthaus measured almost six foot three, it was impossible to make out more than his head and shoulders.

‘Well, if it isn’t the Berlin Criminal Police.’ Karthaus’s words rang metallic and hollow from the shaft.

‘Dr Karthaus! How is it you always get here before us?’

‘I wouldn’t complain if I were you. Just be glad it’s me who’s on duty. Dr Schwartz would have refused to climb in here. At his age, he probably wouldn’t have managed either.’

‘Well,’ Gräf said. ‘This job makes no allowances for age.’

‘You’re right there,’ Karthaus said. ‘Still, I’d rather be working than standing here twiddling my thumbs.’

Gräf went over and peered inside the car. The dead man lay next to his delivery, and was dressed in light-grey shopkeeper’s overalls. His face was pale, with blue lips. Above him a red cloth was tied to the wire mesh, its material sodden. The hair, too, was glistening wet, likewise the man’s shoulders, where his overalls had taken on a dark-grey hue. There was evidence of a puddle by his head, its remains now trickling out towards the corner of the elevator.

‘Been in the rain, has he?’

The pathologist shrugged. ‘You’ll have to ask Forensics. Let’s hope they’re here soon.’

‘They’re on their way.’

‘Where’s our inspector?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Gräf said, gesturing towards the door, where the tip of a camera tripod had emerged from the stairwell. ‘First, Lange here will take some photographs. After that you can attend to the corpse.’

Placing the camera and tripod on his shoulders, Lange gazed around curiously. Gräf nodded towards the elevator, and the assistant detective understood.

‘Good morning, Doctor,’ Lange said, lowering the heavy device into the elevator car. ‘Could I pass that over to you?’

Gräf returned to the witnesses. ‘Who found the dead man?’

The chef raised his hand like a schoolboy. ‘I did, Detective.’

‘Herr Unger is one of our head chefs,’ prompted Fleischer.

Gräf was growing frustrated by the man’s constant interruptions. ‘Where were you when the corpse was discovered, Herr Direktor?’

‘Me?’ Fleischer hesitated. ‘At home of course. Why do you ask?’

‘I’m just surprised that a man like you should be here in person at this time.’

‘A dead body has been found! I was notified by security, as you would expect, and immediately made my way over.’

‘In that case I commend you,’ Gräf said, giving a nod of acknowledgement. ‘Still, I assume these men were actually on site when the corpse was discovered.’

Guard, chef and worker’s-overalls nodded as one.

‘Right. Then I’ll question you three first. Is there somewhere more private we can talk?’

‘You… ah… you could use my office,’ Fleischer said.

‘Good idea. Does it have a telephone?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then please show me and Fräulein Temme here the way, and round up all those present when the corpse was discovered.’

Fleischer nodded and started off. ‘If you would follow me. It’s two floors down.’

There was a flash from the elevator. Lange had started taking photographs. Gräf sighed. All he had to do now was find out where the hell Gereon Rath was hiding, then perhaps the day might be salvaged after all.

2

Dawn shimmered grey-blue through the glass roof, displacing the tired light of the electric bulbs. Voices murmured, policemen whistled, the tannoy scratched. The big station clock showed twenty-three minutes past five, and Rath had the feeling that most people were just as tired as him – in spite of the noise they were making. After two cups of black coffee he still felt outside of himself, as if he were hovering above the station observing his body’s movements. A tall, dark-haired man in a light-grey summer suit and hat, carrying a platform ticket in one hand and a bouquet of flowers and a red dog lead in the other. A tired man passing through the barrier, with an equally sleepy-looking dog in tow.

It had only occurred to him to buy flowers when he was outside the station. He had seen a light on in the concourse and knocked on the windowpane. The girl had kindly interrupted sorting the freshly delivered flowers to make up a bouquet. Now here they stood on the platform, all dressed up with nowhere to go: a man, a dog and a bouquet of flowers.

Rath stretched, standing on tiptoes to get the blood pumping. Reaching for the cigarette case in his inside jacket pocket, he wedged the flowers under his arm and lit an Overstolz. The truth was he shouldn’t be here. He was on standby, which meant he must be contactable at all times. Usually people simply informed headquarters where they could be reached if they didn’t want to spend the whole weekend by the telephone. In this way Rath suspected that Buddha Ernst Gennat, the chief of Homicide, had built up a pretty clear idea of how his officers spent their free time, knowing, as he did, the bars, theatres, cinemas, gymnasiums, race tracks and even the women they frequented. It was why under normal circumstances Rath chose to perform his duties from home, as he had done this morning, before ducking out to Bahnhof Zoo. Still, he would only be gone for half an hour, three-quarters of an hour tops. What could possibly go wrong?

Recently, homicide cases had been few and far between – if, that is, you discounted the activities of Communists and Nazis, who seemed to take increasing pleasure in killing one another, ever since the new regime had lifted the SA ban imposed by the Brüning government. Only yesterday there had been gunfights in Wedding and Moabit. The result: one dead Nazi, eight additional casualties. Such cases were handled by local CID forces, if anyone from Alex attended then it would be the political police. Otherwise, suicide was still king. Someone had blown their brains out in Grunewald, while in Bernauer Strasse, a woman had thrown her five-year-old child out of the window before following herself. The usual madness, then.

Rarely had his work in Homicide felt so futile. Rath had always thought that police were there to maintain law and order, but recently it seemed their only role was to pick up the pieces.

There was a scratch on the tannoy and a military-sounding voice announced that the Northern Express would arrive after a delay of approximately ten minutes. Rath flicked his Overstolz onto the platform and reached for another. One more smoke and she’d be here. He felt more and more nervous the longer he was made to wait. It was just him on the platform, no grinning man, no Greta, no one else who might get in the way; two telephone calls had been enough to see to that. He knew that most of Charly’s friends preferred to give him a wide berth, or perhaps it was the other way around, he couldn’t say for sure. He had never known quite what to make of all these students and lawyers.

Accompanying Charly to the station last autumn, he had felt simply lousy, but now that she was on her way home, he scarcely felt any better. Her single semester in Paris had become two. Though they had exchanged many letters and spoken regularly on the telephone, they had only met once, a few weeks after her departure, and endured a frantic night of lovemaking in a Cologne hotel, before saying their goodbyes. Rath’s plan to spend Christmas with her in Paris had been scotched when he hadn’t been able to get the time off.

A contract killer was on the loose, a sniper who picked off his victims with a single shot to the heart, before vanishing without trace. A flashy Berlin lawyer had been gunned down in front of the opera house in Charlottenburg and, with only the bullet to go on, Czerwinski, the portly detective, had made a quip about the ‘phantom of the opera’. The press had gleefully seized on the name.

The Phantom, as the triggerman was now known in official circles, had gifted police officers a Christmas ban on leave, but Rath had consoled himself with the knowledge that Charly would be returning in mid-February. Perhaps they might even catch the man before New Year’s Eve, in which case he could at least decamp to Paris for the Bells.

Sadly, neither came to pass.

They hadn’t caught the Phantom, neither before New Year’s Eve nor after. The unidentified sniper had continued to strike, and was responsible for at least two further deaths, possibly more, and had become a symbol of failure for the otherwise celebrated Berlin Homicide Division.

As for Charly’s return… At the end of January, two weeks before she was due home, she had sent a telegram to say that Professor Weyer had extended her contract. Rath had pretended to share her joy and extended his congratulations, keeping his true thoughts to himself. Everything seemed to be going swimmingly in Paris. Fräulein Charlotte Ritter was beginning to make a name for herself in the legal world. In Gereon Rath’s world, however, things weren’t quite as smooth, and the photo she had left him appeared so unreal it was as if the person depicted no longer existed…

…but all that was over now. She was coming back, and he had sworn never again to be apart from her for so long, had sworn, finally, to take his life into his own hands.

He threw the stub of his second cigarette on the track bed as the loudspeaker announced the train’s arrival. Rath stood up straight, tugged at his suit and gazed into the lights that were gradually emerging out of the dawn, noiselessly at first, until the Northern Express rumbled into the station, hissing and steaming, and filling the air with a loud, metallic squeal. A series of midnight-blue sleeping cars passed, moving ever more slowly until the train eventually came to a halt with a final sizzle of its valves.

It felt as if time had stood still, until the doors flew open and people flooded out, filling the platform with noise and chatter. Rath craned his neck, searching for Charly’s slim figure, but it was hopeless in the mayhem. He had to take a step back to avoid being knocked down. Suddenly Kirie barked, wagged her tail vigorously and pulled on the lead with all her might. Rath yielded, allowing her to lead him through the crowd.

Charly was on the platform, and he was so bowled over by the sight of her that for a moment he stood rooted to the spot. Kirie howled as the lead tightened, and gazed up at him in confusion. Charly had scarcely changed but, somehow, he almost failed to recognise her.

Her hair was different, in a shorter, new cut, her dark locks tinged with an unfamiliar, red sheen. Her hat must be new, too, as well as her coat and her shoes. Her appearance contradicted his mental image of her to such an extent that he was overcome by a feeling of estrangement. He shot up an arm and waved the bouquet until, at last, she saw him. When she smiled, the dimple on her left cheek made her a little more familiar. The dog kept pulling, and positively dragged Rath towards her.

Kirie jumped up to lick Charly’s face, and Rath was so overjoyed by Charly’s laughter that he stood and watched until long after Kirie had settled back into wagging her tail and barking. For a moment they stared at each other without words.

‘Welcome home,’ he said at last, just to say something, and took her in his arms. He breathed in her scent and, even if her perfume was as foreign as her appearance, underneath he perceived the unmistakable fragrance of her skin, a fragrance that consigned all traces of estrangement to oblivion, reviving countless memories along the way. Not memories, exactly, but something from a deeper place, a place he hadn’t even known was there. So much lay in her scent that he felt as if their months of separation had never occurred.

He stepped back to look into her smiling eyes.

‘Are those for me, or were you expecting someone else?’

‘Marlene Dietrich must have missed the train.’

She rolled her eyes, but smiled. Rath handed her the bouquet.

‘Now I’m completely defenceless,’ she said, raising both hands. In the left she held a small travel bag, in the right the bouquet of flowers.

‘Defenceless is good,’ he said, and kissed her. When she reciprocated, he could have fallen on her there and then, but the dog had started to bark and people were looking their way.

‘How about we go somewhere more private?’ Rath said, and she smiled.

He organised a baggage handler and led Charly to the car where the handler stowed Charly’s suitcase and bag onto the dickey seat as Kirie sprang inside. He removed her by the collar, consigning her to the tip-up seat next to the cases.

‘She should know to sit in the back when I’ve got company,’ he said, taking his place beside Charly and starting the engine.

‘Have you had a lot of company these last few months?’

‘So little that Kirie has forgotten her manners.’

Charly didn’t seem to notice that they turned off from Hardenbergstrasse as soon as they reached Steinplatz. When he opened the passenger door on Carmerstrasse, however, she looked around curiously. He lifted the dog out of the tip-up seat, then the suitcases, and marched towards the building behind Kirie, who already knew the way, glad that Charly couldn’t see his smile. She followed them up the small exterior staircase into a bright, marble-panelled stairwell.

‘Good morning, Herr Rath,’ the porter said from his lodge.

‘Morning, Bergner.’

‘What’s going on?’ Charly whispered, as they stood by the lifts more or less out of earshot. ‘Where are we?’

‘Patience. You’ll see.’

Rath pressed the button and the lift door opened. He didn’t have to tell the boy where they were headed, and when they emerged onto the third floor, Charly could scarcely believe her eyes.

He took the key from his pocket and opened up, and Kirie disappeared straight inside. Opening the door wide he set the cases down on the marble floor in the hall, turning away so that Charly couldn’t see his grin. Only now had she spotted the brass plate next to the door.

Rath, it said simply. He hadn’t wanted to commit himself to an initial. At least not yet.

‘I don’t believe it,’ she said, stepping inside.

‘I thought I’d upsize a little,’ he said, helping her out of her coat. ‘Don’t you want to look around?’

She gazed in admiration. Even the hallway was impressive. Bright and modern. Only Kirie, who had settled in her basket and was blinking sleepily, disturbed the picture-perfect image.

‘How long have you been living here? Did they make you detective chief inspector, or move you straight up to superintendent?’

He was afraid she might ask something like that. ‘Inheritance,’ he said, as casually as possible. ‘Uncle Joseph.’

That was true, of course, but his godfather, who had died six months previously, hadn’t left him much. He thought it best not to mention the cheque that had arrived from overseas three and a half months ago. It might not have carried Abraham Goldstein’s signature – the two-thousand-dollar consulting fee was made out by Transatlantic Trade Inc. – but Charly would put two and two together, which was precisely what he hoped to avoid. No one could know that he accepted handouts from dubious sources, and, further, that he actually believed it was money owed – especially since the Free State of Prussia was in no position to pay him properly. His yearly salary didn’t amount to five thousand marks.

He loved Charly’s dark eyes all the more when they were wide open like this. He knew how much she adored modern architecture, and had furnished the four rooms accordingly. It wasn’t cheap, but the leather, steel and fine wood was sturdy enough to last a hundred years.

He opened the door to the drawing room. ‘If you would be so kind as to step this way.’

The morning sun sent its first rays through the window onto a lavishly decked breakfast table of freshly baked bread rolls and coffee. The champagne stood in the cooler, and the glasses were in their place.

Charly seemed genuinely lost for words. ‘I… gracious me. Well, how’s that for a welcome party,’ she said.

‘A Berlin breakfast. I’m sure you couldn’t bear the sight of another baguette with Camembert.’ He gestured towards the one door he still hadn’t opened. ‘And afterwards, I can show you the bedroom.’

‘You old lecher!’

‘At your service, my lady.’ He realised even the thought of going next door aroused him. Suddenly breakfast didn’t seem quite so important.

‘Isn’t that…’ Too late. She had seen the champagne. ‘…Heidsieck Monopol?’

The same brand they had drunk the first time, in Europahaus. When Rath thought that three years had passed since then, his next move seemed long overdue. Pouring carefully, he handed her a champagne glass. The one with the ring.

They clinked glasses. Charly smiled, revealing her dimple. He studied her as she drank. After a moment she hesitated and fished the ring out of the bubbles. She didn’t say anything, just stared at the glistening ring as it dripped through her fingers. Slowly she began to grasp its significance.

‘Fräulein Charlotte Ritter,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘With God as my witness, I, Gereon Rath, do hereby request your hand in marriage.’

He gazed into her astonished eyes and realised, for once, that his customary irony was misplaced. ‘Charly,’ he said, thinking he had never been so earnest before in his life, ‘will you marry me?’

She stared at him, in shock almost, or so he thought, and sank onto the nearest chair. ‘Phew,’ she said. ‘That’s quite enough surprises for one morning.’

‘I thought I’d propose before we went into the bedroom. I’m Catholic.’

‘That’s never stopped you before.’

‘Charly…’ He was still holding her hand, actually kneeling before her now like some romantic suitor from the last century. ‘I should have asked you long ago. Only… Paris got in the way. But I’m serious, goddamn it. Will you be my wife?’

She looked at him. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, but before I respond, I have to…’ She broke off and started again. ‘Gereon, you realise that it’s a very serious question. And even if you should have asked it long ago, it’s still rather – sudden. I…’

She broke off again, and all at once he knew why he had shied away from this moment for so long; why he had continued to avoid it despite purchasing the ring more than a year ago. The sense of estrangement he had felt at the station came hurtling back. The woman before him wore the latest in Parisian fashion; the Berlin girl of memory was gone.

He let go of her hand and was about to get up, when he felt her taking his head in her hands and kissing him. The erotic atmosphere he had thought destroyed returned, or his erection, at least.

‘Is that a yes?’ he asked.

‘Let’s not talk. Not now. Later.’ He kissed her again and began to unbutton her blouse. ‘Take it easy. Didn’t you want to show me the bedroom?’

‘As you wish, madam.’

‘We aren’t married yet!’

He lifted her high and carried her through. She was just as soft and warm and feather-light as he remembered. He didn’t know if he had made a fool of himself with his proposal, didn’t know how she would respond; he only knew that she had brushed the weighty topic aside with a kiss, and now, suddenly, everything was as it had been before.

The telephone rang, but he refused to be perturbed, edging Charly further into the bedroom, where he lowered her onto the bed and kissed her, fiddling with her blouse a second time as she loosened the knot in his tie.

The telephone rang again. Whoever it was, they were stubborn – but Rath was determined to ignore the sound until Kirie’s bark drowned it out. Charly grinned and said, ‘Perhaps you should take it after all.’

He looked at his watch. A quarter to six. He went over to answer.

‘Gereon! Finally! Where the hell have you been hiding?’

Reinhold Gräf. Exactly as Rath had feared. ‘I just ducked out to the train station.’

‘Just ducked out? I’ve been trying to reach you for ages…’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Male corpse. Haus Vaterland. Potsdamer Platz.’

‘Shit.’

‘Shit is right. Now, for God’s sake get a move on, before along with everyone else Böhm cottons on to the fact that the duty inspector is absent.’

Rath hung up and straightened his tie. He didn’t have to say anything to Charly. She was already buttoning her blouse.

3

Haus Vaterland overlooked Potsdamer Platz like a marooned pleasure steamer, and in a sense that’s what it was. It didn’t give a hoot about patriotism, only with fleecing its clients for cash. Behind the building’s façade around a dozen restaurants of all kinds waited for custom: a Bavarian brauhaus, a Spanish bodega, a Wild West bar, a Turkish café, and more, all with furnishings, menus and entertainment to match. Those who came in just to stare weren’t welcome, with would-be patrons obliged to buy food and drinks vouchers at the door.

During his first days in Berlin, Rath had tried to find a home of sorts in the Rheinterrasse, but all it offered was oversweet wine and tacky Rhine romanticism. As for Berlin’s famous metropolitan flair, an idea propagated mainly by Berliners themselves, Haus Vaterland was something of a let-down. Provincial tourists might stop and gawp, but to Rath’s mind, the more sophisticated drinking establishments in the west, such as Femina or Kakadu, had a lot more going for them. The building impressed by its sheer size, as well as its neon strip lights, which dominated Potsdamer Platz at night.

At this hour, however, the marooned pleasure steamer was as deserted as a ghost ship. Only the cars at the goods entrance, above all the murder wagon, suggested that something was afoot. Rath parked his Buick behind an Opel from ED, the police identification service, but remained inside. He took a drag on his Overstolz and blew smoke against the windscreen. Never had he felt so reluctant to work, so begrudging of his profession, as this morning. He had suggested that Charly come along, but she had refused. ‘What would people say if we appeared together?’ He felt aggrieved by her response, even if he knew she was right.

He stubbed out his cigarette in the Buick’s tiny ashtray and got out, determined to get this over and done with as soon as possible and return to Carmerstrasse.

Dr Karthaus, who wore his white coat even outside the dissecting room, stood at the entrance, cigarette in hand, chatting to a uniform cop. The officer saluted as Rath approached; the pathologist nodded his head.

‘Good morning, Doctor.’

‘Good of you to join us, Inspector. I’ve been smoking my lungs black waiting. Car trouble, was it? You should get yourself a German model.’

Rath ignored the dig. ‘What can you tell me about the corpse?’

Karthaus gave a gentle smile. ‘That’s the good thing about the Criminal Police – you get to explain everything three times. Come with me and I’ll show you. It’s upstairs. The undertakers have been positively itching to take it away.’

‘Upstairs?’

Karthaus flung his cigarette into a puddle. ‘If you would be so kind as to follow me,’ he said, and, without waiting for a response, turned and headed inside.

Rath followed the white coat into a large, plain room with two freight elevators and a stairwell, that seemed to be Haus Vaterland’s goods reception. Karthaus took the stairs to the fourth floor where two uniform cops and two men dressed in black waited in front of the lift doors. On the floor was a zinc coffin.

‘Can we get going?’ asked one of the men in black.

‘In a moment,’ said Karthaus. ‘The inspector here needs to look at the corpse.’ He gave a sour smile and gestured towards an elevator car hanging a metre too low in its shaft. Two forensic technicians were taking fingerprints from its buttons, as well as from a wire mesh cart loaded to the brim with crates of schnapps.

‘An accident, was it?’ Rath asked, lighting another cigarette. Even now he felt little interest. Couldn’t Gräf have dealt with this on his own?

‘Accident?’ Karthaus gazed sceptically. ‘I’m afraid not.’

Rath climbed down into the car, cigarette between his lips, and the pathologist followed.

The dead man was wearing grey overalls. His eyes were well out of their sockets, gazing wide open as if they had witnessed the full horror of eternal damnation. For a moment Rath had the idea that the freight elevator in Haus Vaterland might lead straight down to hell. Instinctively he followed the dead man’s gaze, but saw only yellowed plywood.

‘So how did he die, if it wasn’t an accident?’

The doctor cleared his throat. ‘I know it sounds unlikely, but I’m certain the autopsy will confirm my assessment that…’

‘Autopsy?’

‘Your colleague has already telephoned the public prosecutor. On my recommendation, of course.’

‘Where are my colleagues now?’

‘As far as I know, questioning witnesses. Now, as I was saying, unless I am very much mistaken the man here drowned.’

The forensics men continued stoically with their work.

‘Drowned?’ Rath asked. ‘Don’t you normally drown in water?’

‘Perhaps the corpse was simply dumped here.’

‘Doesn’t look like it,’ said one of the forensics officers. ‘Not according to the footprints. Everything points to him entering the lift himself.’ His colleague secured another fingerprint on the wire mesh cart’s steel tubing. ‘Besides, he came here in his own van. He wasn’t dumped here by anyone.’

Dr Karthaus shrugged. ‘We’ll know more once the autopsy is complete,’ he said.

‘Where did you say Gräf was?’

‘Questioning witnesses in some office or other. Ask the cops,’ Karthaus said and climbed out, seemingly in a hurry to leave. Rath stubbed out his cigarette on the floor, about chest height, and followed.

The undertakers heaved the zinc coffin towards the elevator as one of the uniform cops offered to take him down to his colleagues. Rath followed through the eerily deserted Löwenbräu, where the fug of yesterday’s beer still hung in the air, and into the vast central hall. From here a multitude of stairways, tribunes, elevators and doors led to the various restaurants and attractions that Haus Vaterland hosted across four floors. Normally a hive of activity, now the hall’s size made it seem supernaturally calm. Around two dozen men were seated on the stairs, some in kitchen aprons, others in waiter’s uniforms or lounge suits, a few more in worker’s overalls. If the four or five uniform cops were like dogs guarding a herd of sheep, then Assistant Detective Andreas Lange was their shepherd, manning the stairs with two additional uniform officers.

‘Morning, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Good that you’re here.’

‘Morning, Lange. What a lot of people!’

‘Witnesses. Detective Gräf rounded them up.’

‘And all of them saw something?’

‘We don’t know yet. These workers were on early shift at the probable time of death. Or late shift.’

‘All of them?’ If Gräf really meant to question each one, they’d be here all day. ‘Let’s just be grateful this didn’t happen last night during the rush. Then there’d be another thousand people on the stairs.’ Rath thought of Charly in Carmerstrasse, and his mood darkened further. ‘Any findings?’

‘Depends how you look at it. We have a dead man, and an unusual cause of death. Otherwise no idea what happened to the poor fellow.’

‘Do you really think it’s possible that he drowned?’

‘If that’s what the doctor says.’

‘Has he been identified?’

Lange took a document from his pocket. ‘Forensics found this in his overalls.’

Herbert Lamkau, Rath read. A driver’s licence, issued in October 1919 by the Oletzko district authority. The man’s eyes flashed, piercing the photographer with his gaze, a look he must have copied from Kaiser Wilhelm.

‘Lamkau. That’s what it says on the delivery van too, isn’t it?’

Lange nodded. ‘Must be the manager.’

‘Strange that he should be making the delivery himself…’

‘Depends on the size of the company. Perhaps he’s the only employee.’

‘A small-time firm supplying a huge enterprise like Haus Vaterland? I don’t think so. Try to find out how big it is, and whether Lamkau always made the deliveries himself.’

‘Right you are.’

‘And tell the ED men to check the lift was working properly. Just to be on the safe side.’

‘We’ve already spoken to the in-house engineer. As well as the chef, who literally stumbled on the corpse. He called the lift up to the fourth floor and almost fell into the car when he opened the door. At the last moment he saw that it was too low in the shaft, and managed to hold on. That’s when he saw the corpse.’

‘And raised the alarm.’

‘Yes. He informed the guard, who alerted us. The engineer says there’s nothing wrong with the lift.’

‘It doesn’t look that way to me.’

Lange shrugged. ‘He’s assuming someone activated the emergency switch between the two floors. Sometimes when that happens the lift’s no longer properly aligned, and doesn’t stop on floor level.’

‘Hmm…’ A blurred image flickered in Rath’s mind. ‘That would mean Lamkau activated the switch himself, before he died, wouldn’t it?’

‘We’ll see. ED have taken fingerprints.’

Rath gestured towards the office door. ‘Who is Gräf interviewing?’

‘The security guard. He was next on the scene, after the chef.’

‘Fine. I’m going in.’

Rath knocked and stepped inside. The office was surprisingly small and dark in comparison with the brightness of the central hall, the only source of light a desk lamp with a green shade. Numerous photos of artists hung on the wall behind the executive desk where the detective sat: musicians, illusionists, singers, female dancers. Christel Temme sat with her pad at a small visitor’s table, registering the inspector’s appearance as stoically as she did everything else. The stenographer was famously unflappable, even during the interrogation of the most callous murderer. She simply noted everything that was said, no matter how appalling or how trivial.

The man sitting on the chair between the two desks was no callous murderer, however, but a gaunt man in his early forties, dressed in the uniform of the Berlin Security Corps, kneading his cap in his hands. Reinhold Gräf rose from his chair.

‘Inspector,’ he said. It was part greeting, part explanation. The guard started to get up, but Rath waved him away.

‘Herr Janke works as a security guard here,’ Gräf added superfluously.

Rath sat on the edge of the desk and lit a cigarette. Gräf remained standing. Together they gazed down on the man’s eyes flitting between them.

‘So…’ the guard began, and immediately the stenographer’s pencil could be heard scratching across the page, ‘where were we…’

‘You were about to tell me how you knew the man in the lift was dead, Herr Janke,’ Gräf prompted, sitting down when he realised Rath wasn’t interested in taking over.

‘Right.’ Janke nodded. ‘So, I went down into the car…’

‘Did you have to open the door?’ Gräf asked.

‘Pardon me?’

‘The elevator door.’

‘No, Unger had already opened it.’

‘The chef who discovered the corpse.’

‘Right.’ The guard squinted from one officer to the next as if sensing a trap. ‘So, I went down into the car. The way he was lying there all glassy-eyed… I thought straightaway the man’s dead. But first I felt his carotid pulse.’

‘Why the carotid?’ Gräf asked.

‘That’s… what we learned… during training. Security Corps.’

Gräf made a note. Rath caught himself looking at his watch. It was all getting too much for him: the guard’s long-windedness, Gräf’s pedantry, the excruciatingly slow pace of the interrogation.

‘What did you do then?’

The guard stole a glance at Rath. ‘First I climbed out of the car, and then…’

‘Thank you, Herr Janke, but we don’t need to know every last detail.’ Rath slid from the desk. ‘I’d like to pause the interrogation for a moment. Would you be so kind as to wait outside?’

‘Of course.’

Gräf waited until he had left the room. ‘Can you tell me what the hell you think you’re doing?’

‘No need to take down our conversation, Fräulein Temme. If you could wait outside too. Take a little break.’

‘I don’t need a break, Inspector.’

‘We’ll call you back in when you’re needed,’ Rath said, gazing sternly. The stenographer gathered her things and took her leave.

‘Damn it, Gereon! First I spend hours trying to reach you, then when you do finally turn up, you have nothing better to do than terminate an interrogation just as it’s getting started.’

‘Take it easy. I haven’t terminated the interrogation, only interrupted it. You can carry on in a moment; our guard here seems very co-operative.’

‘What did you want to talk about?’

‘First: the people outside – do you mean to question them all here? In person?’

‘I wanted to make a start. Now that you’re here, you can decide.’

‘In that case, continue questioning the guard but, first, tell the cops outside to take down the personal particulars of every employee waiting in the hall.’

‘What do you think we’ve been doing all this time?’

‘If someone saw something, then question them here. If not, these people should kindly proceed to headquarters. In the meantime Lange can supervise Forensics, and we’ll take care of everything else next week in the office.’

‘Who’ll inform the next of kin?’

‘Lange can look after that. He has to learn sometime if he’s to be an inspector.’

‘You’re right.’ Gräf nodded. ‘But that still leaves one question…’

‘Which is?’

‘What’s your role in all of this?’

‘That’s why I’m telling you now.’ Rath didn’t attempt to appear contrite. No one would believe him anyway. ‘I have to go. I’d be grateful if you could run things in the meantime.’

‘Gereon, you know I’ve never led an investigation.’

‘Just do what I told you, then call it a day.’ Gräf didn’t look exactly thrilled. ‘Come on. I’ll make it up to you.’

‘You’ve got some nerve.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

‘You’re the boss.’

Rath clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine. Maybe it was all just an accident. There’s no evidence of foul play.’

‘I know,’ Gräf said, ‘but it’s a mystery. Karthaus says the man drowned.’

‘Perhaps he’s simply mistaken.’

There was a knock on the door. A man in a light summer suit stepped confidently into the room, took a quick look around, and made a beeline for Rath.

‘Inspector? They told me I’d find you here. Fleischer’s the name. I’m the director.’ They shook hands. ‘Good that you’re here at last. I hope you won’t keep my men much longer. We’re well behind schedule. Maintenance is unmanned, the central kitchen’s deserted, and our first customers will soon be arriving…’

‘My colleague here will inform you which members of staff we’re finished with,’ Rath said, gesturing discreetly towards Gräf. ‘Now, please accept my apologies, but I have another case to take care of…’

The director looked annoyed, but before he could say anything Rath had lifted his hat and was gone.

Quarter of an hour later Rath emerged from his Buick on Carmerstrasse, free of the guilty conscience that had accompanied his departure from Haus Vaterland. For the first time since returning to live in Charlottenburg, it felt as if he were coming home. He only had to think of who was waiting inside. They would be spending the weekend together again at last.

The area around Steinplatz was a decent part of town: solidly upper middle class, with most buildings possessing a service entrance, and he had rented the modern apartment primarily because of its size. He opened the heavy front door and stepped into bright limestone and glossy marble. No wonder Charly was impressed; she liked the flat, he had seen it in her eyes. It was twice as big as his old place in Kreuzberg, with plenty of room for two – and perhaps more.

Climbing the five carpeted steps to the entrance hall he heard the pitter-patter of doggie paws, and two short barks, and sensed that something was amiss. Kirie’s black head peered around the corner of the counter, while the porter looked, embarrassed, over the marble top.

‘What’s the matter, Bergner?’ Rath asked, even though he had already guessed.

The porter cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid the young lady… had to leave. She asked me to look after the dog.’

Bergner loosened the lead from Kirie’s collar and Rath accepted the dog’s wet greeting.

‘Did she say where she was going?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Rath’s thoughts were already elsewhere as he made towards the lift with Kirie.

Charly’s scent hung in the air, making the flat seem that much emptier than before. Kirie was unperturbed, pitter-pattering towards her basket and curling into a ball. Rath sometimes wondered how much sleep a dog could take. Standing at one of the big windows, he looked out, seeing nothing, but aiming a kick at one of the heavy armchairs. Out of anger or disappointment? He couldn’t say.

She had cleared the breakfast things and left a handwritten note.

He folded the letter and went into the bedroom. The first thing he noticed was that the bed had been straightened. The ring lay on the bedside table. What did it mean? Did the fact that she hadn’t taken it constitute a response? He picked it up and examined it. What was he supposed to do now? Take it to their next meeting, await her response and – perhaps – slip it on her finger? No expert in such matters, he wiped the accursed thing with the tail of his jacket and placed it in his inside pocket, where it seemed destined to see out its days.

He unfolded the letter again, and tried to understand. How did she feel about him? No matter how often he read it, he was none the wiser. He couldn’t help thinking back to the moment he had seen her on the platform. To that moment of shock, of being afraid he had lost her, or at least the person he remembered. Until he caught the scent of her hair and skin, and felt his whole body being drawn towards her. He knew she had felt the same way, at least when he’d shown her the flat.

The business with the champagne glass was a crackpot idea. Who on earth had talked him into it? Paul? A colleague from the Castle? Perhaps it was the stupid engagement ring that had driven her away, rather than his lingering too long at the crime scene.

Seeing himself in the mirrored doors of the liquor cabinet he realised he still hadn’t taken off his hat. He hung it on the hook and, in the drawing room, chose a record from the pile he had arranged in advance. He put on Ellington’s Mood Indigo, one of the many discs Severin had sent over from the States in the last few months. He had wanted to play it for her; for them both. The record player was a brand new Telefunken radiogramophone, but that hardly seemed to matter now.

He took the bottle of cognac from the cabinet, along with a glass, and sat in one of the armchairs. The truth was he had bought them for her, after she had pointed out a similar set in the display window of some exclusive furniture store on Tauentzienstrasse. That was back in the days before Paris, with her departure already hanging in the air. At least the chairs were comfortable, even if they didn’t look it. He sniffed at the balloon glass and listened to the music, the sad melody of the trumpets, the earthy warmth of the clarinets.

The smell of the cognac soothed him almost more than the music. How he had longed for this moment – even before she had gone away. And now, Herr Rath? It isn’t even lunchtime, and you’re sitting here pouring yourself a cognac just to get through the day.

4

A restless whimpering roused him from sleep. He opened his eyes to see Kirie wagging her tail. She took a few steps towards the door and turned. Rath sat up. He must have nodded off. An empty cognac glass lay overturned on the carpet. By now Duke Ellington spun inaudibly, the needle striking the groove again and again with a soft, rhythmical crackle.

It was almost two o’clock and the dog urgently needed walking. Rath struggled out of the armchair, shovelled a few handfuls of cold water onto his face and fetched the lead. Kirie positively dragged him outside, down the external staircase and to the first shrub in Carmerstrasse, where she eyed him gratefully as she went about her business. Rath took her for a little stroll across Steinplatz and realised his stomach was rumbling. He found a seat on the terrace of a hotel that modestly termed itself Pension, and ordered a beer and a snack. Though the portion was small there were still some leftovers for Kirie, who patiently awaited her chance. Sitting afterwards with a black coffee and a cognac to accompany the obligatory cigarette, Rath knew once and for all that he wouldn’t be heading back to his flat. He called the waiter over and paid, bundled Kirie into the car and drove out to Moabit.

He didn’t park in Spenerstrasse, but on the corner of Melanchtonstrasse, where two roadside trees meant he could keep an eye on her entrance without being seen from the window. By now, certainty had evaporated. Reading her letter for at least the twentieth time offered no clues. Did she actually want to see him? Should he really just go upstairs and ring her doorbell? Perhaps she’d gone for a rest. She’d mentioned how badly she had slept on the train. In which case it would be Greta who came to the door, and that he could do without. He thought back to the year Charly’s housemate had spent abroad, when they’d had the flat to themselves. It was almost like being married…

You’d have been better off staying put, he thought, perhaps she’s trying to call you right now. Then he remembered she didn’t have his new number. Perhaps, thinking him at work, she’d tried the office, unaware of the extent to which he had neglected his duties on her behalf.

While he was thinking, a young man crossed Spenerstrasse, heading for Charly’s front door. Rath hadn’t seen him in almost a year, but recognised him immediately. The grinning man. Guido Scherer, Charly’s former classmate, now plying his trade in some wretched legal practice in Wedding, but clearly still as devoted to her as ever. Rath couldn’t believe it: she couldn’t wait to get out of his flat, yet here she was hosting that arsehole on her first day back? Perhaps she’d invited all of her friends round for a little reunion, all those lawyers he’d never known quite what to make of… and of course Gereon Rath, that rough-hewn cop, would only get in the way.

He started the engine and stubbed out his cigarette. At least he knew he wouldn’t be going up there now. He accelerated so hard that the tyres squealed, causing the grinning man to turn around before he disappeared inside that shitty little house on Spenerstrasse. Fuck! Rath vented his rage on the gas pedal, racing through the city. At first his only aim was to get out of Moabit, but then, without making a conscious choice, indeed, without even noticing where he was going, he travelled further and further south. Only when, in the shadow of the elevated train, he veered east via Gitschiner Strasse, did he understand that he was headed towards Luisenufer.

Parking on the street corner he let Kirie out, and memories came flooding back, all too many of which, stupidly enough, had to do with Charly. The dog sniffed at a tree on the edge of the play area, almost as if she recognised it, before wagging her tail and gazing expectantly towards her master. The cries of the children romping on the vast expanse of sand reminded Rath of how he had sat on a bench here in the sun with Charly, imagining that one of the children playing was their child, the child they shared together. He hadn’t said anything, of course, neither that day nor later on – but then he had shared very few of his dreams with her. Kirie went ahead, full of expectation, having traced the same path many hundreds of times before.

A youth in a brown shirt, blonde hair parted wet, approached from the courtyard entrance. On his left arm he wore a swastika armband; tucked underneath was an SA cap. The Nazi gave him a feisty look, but Rath refused to be intimidated. He’d had enough of these brown so-and-sos ever since he’d seen them running wild on the Ku’damm last year. They were worse than the Communists. If the boy wanted a fight, he could have one, so long as he knew he’d wind up in a police cell. For all that, it seemed as though a provocative glance was enough. The youth walked past Rath without saying anything, only to turn around and shoot him a final, wicked glance as he donned his uniform cap.

Nazis were nothing new in this area, even back when a swastika armband wasn’t nearly such a common sight. At the same time the Liebigs in the rear building had always kept the red flag flying, without things ever coming to a head. Communists and Nazis sharing the same roof; that, too, was Berlin. In workers’ districts especially, Red and Brown often lived side by side, albeit not always as peacefully as here on Luisenufer. As for normal people, Rath had the impression they were getting thinner on the ground, even in the city’s more affluent neighbourhoods.

Annemarie Lennartz, the caretaker’s wife, was out beating carpets, but paused when she saw who was crossing the courtyard. ‘Well, there’s a surprise! Nice of you to drop by.’

Rath tipped his hat briefly and pointed towards the rear building. ‘Detective at home?’

Annemarie Lennartz looked around and lowered her voice. ‘Night shift,’ she said, with a knowing expression. ‘Didn’t get home until lunchtime.’

Rath disappeared inside the rear building and climbed the stairs. Pausing in front of a door on the first floor, he gave a careful knock. He waited a moment, and when still nothing happened, knocked again, violently this time. ‘Police! Open at once.’

Someone clattered about inside, and seconds later the door edged open to reveal Reinhold Gräf.

‘Gereon!’ The detective, hair still wet, and clad in a bathrobe, seemed more irritated than surprised. ‘Has something happened?’

‘Social call. Not interrupting, am I?’

‘I was in the bath, but come on in.’ Gräf opened the door wide. ‘Make yourself at home. Shouldn’t be too tricky.’

Rath followed Gräf into the kitchen where the detective placed a kettle on the stove. ‘Coffee?’ he asked. ‘I haven’t had breakfast yet.’

‘Wouldn’t say no.’ Rath took off his hat and hovered in the doorway. Gräf fetched the coffee grinder from the same cupboard Rath had once used. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, without turning around.

Rath remained standing. ‘How was it this morning then?’

Gräf continued pouring coffee beans.

‘Sorry I had to leave you alone like that… but it really was important.’

Gräf looked at him and turned the crank. For a moment the only sound was the crunching of the grinder. ‘If that’s an official apology consider it accepted.’

Rath fetched two cups and saucers from the cupboard and placed them on the table, while Gräf busied himself with the kettle and filter. For a moment he tried to think of something to say, but nothing came to mind. He sat at the table and waited for Gräf to join him. The coffee dripped through the filter into the pot.

‘You really left us in the lurch this morning, you know that?’ Gräf said. ‘And don’t give me who’s in charge. You’re the one who turned up late to the crime scene. Do you realise how many times I tried to reach you, just to save your skin from Böhm and the rest? Well, more fool me. Because when you do show up it seems you’ve got nothing better to do than piss straight off again.’

Rath nodded without contrition. He had apologised already. Gräf stood up, took the filter from the pot and poured. It was even more watery than usual, but Rath chose to be diplomatic and took an Overstolz from his case. ‘I thought I could make amends by shouting you a beer in the Dreieck.’

‘You’re on standby.’ Gräf shovelled spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his coffee. ‘And I’ve got night shift at the Castle.’

Rath looked at his watch. ‘In three hours.’

‘Exactly. I don’t want to turn up drunk.’

‘One beer. You can use the opportunity to tell me what happened this morning.’

‘Gereon, you already reek of booze. Technically you’re on duty.’

‘It was only a cognac,’ Rath lied. ‘Just now, after lunch.’

Gräf took a few sips of coffee. ‘OK, one beer won’t hurt.’

‘Not if I say it won’t.’ Rath grinned. ‘Remember who’s in charge.’

‘Didn’t I just warn you about that?’

A short time later the pair sat at the counter of the still deserted Nasse Dreieck, probably the smallest and most triangular-shaped bar in Berlin. Before them stood two beer glasses. Kirie had found a spot by their feet, Schorsch, the landlord, having automatically laid out a bowl of water. He had started tapping out the beer before his patrons even ordered, albeit on this occasion the pair declined the schnapps chaser. They clinked glasses. Gräf’s mood seemed to be gradually improving. ‘Then let me get you up to speed,’ he said, wiping foam from his mouth.

‘I’m the one who has to brief our superiors, after all.’

‘The written report’s already in the works. Lange and I were going to take care of the rest this evening.’

‘Good. Then give me the abridged version. Did ED find anything?’

‘Nothing’s confirmed at this stage,’ Gräf said. ‘There’s no sign of a struggle, or of any violence; in fact there’s no sign whatsoever of foul play. Though there’s nothing to point to a natural death either.’

‘We’ll just have to wait for the autopsy then.’ Rath took another sip of coffee. ‘What do you make of Karthaus’s suspicion? That the man drowned, I mean.’

‘I think he could be right, even if it sounds a little strange. His hair was wet.’

‘I didn’t notice.’

‘Because you were so late. Take a look at Lange’s photos and… see for yourself.’

‘Wet hair.’ Rath shrugged. ‘So what? It was raining last night.’

‘He’d have looked different. His shoulders were wet too, but the rest of him was dry.’

‘So, what’s your theory?’

‘On how you can drown in a lift? I don’t have one. The red cloth’s a puzzle too.’

‘Red cloth?’

Gräf gave him a look of mild reproach, and Rath made a conciliatory gesture with his hands.

‘All right, all right! I’ll look at the photos.’

‘The cloth was hanging from the wire mesh cart with the crates of schnapps. It’s with ED now.’

‘A Communist flag?’

‘More like a handkerchief. We’ll see.’

Before Gräf could say anything, Schorsch had placed the next round of beers on the counter.

‘You really think it’s possible to drown in a lift?’ Rath asked.

‘I don’t think anything. The cause of death is a total mystery. If he really did drown, it’ll only deepen.’

‘Perhaps someone just dumped him there.’

‘Using Lamkau’s van?’ Gräf shook his head. ‘No, everything points against it. Besides, the perpetrator could hardly have made it past the guard with a corpse.’ Schorsch placed a third round on the counter and cleared away the empties. ‘That’s enough now,’ Gräf said.

‘One more,’ said Rath. ‘Rinse your mouth out with a little Odol and the smell will be gone.’

‘Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.’

Rath raised his glass. ‘You have to set an example for young Lange, you know.’

Gräf did likewise. ‘The way you set an example for me?’

‘Has Lange informed the next of kin?’

‘The man left behind a widow,’ said Gräf. ‘The Lamkaus live next to their offices, out in Tempelhof.’

‘How many employees?’

‘A dozen, I’d say.’

‘So, why did the boss make the delivery himself?’

‘That isn’t the only question. I’ve summoned the most important witnesses to the Castle for Monday morning.’ Gräf drained his glass and set it to one side. ‘It wasn’t much good having that director milling about – his men weren’t exactly forthcoming in his presence. I think we’ll get more from an interrogation.’ He slid off his bar stool. ‘Perhaps we’ll know then why Lamkau was carrying an envelope containing a thousand marks.’

‘A thousand marks?’

‘In his overalls.’

Rath was about to say something, but, seeing Gräf’s face, decided against it.

‘ED have it,’ the detective continued. ‘They’re testing for fingerprints.’

‘What’s he doing with a tidy sum like that?’

Gräf shrugged.

‘Well,’ Rath said. ‘At least we know one thing…’

‘Which is…’

‘We can rule out robbery homicide.’

5

The brass plate on the brick wall bore the inscription Berlin University Institute of Forensic Medicine, while a stationary mortuary car prepared visitors for what lay inside. At the external staircase the queasy feeling in Rath’s stomach returned; hardly the ideal basis on which to enter the morgue, whose chilly catacombs concealed a range of unappetising surprises.

It had been Dr Karthaus who roused him. He had stupidly kept drinking yesterday evening after Gräf left for his night shift, staying on for a few beers in the Dreieck, before taking a taxi home. Arriving there, he was forced to admit that he was still too sober to bear a deserted apartment, especially now that Charly had been and gone. He had dutifully telephoned headquarters at Alex to inform them where he could be reached for the next few hours, before leaving Kirie in the care of the night porter. In the Ku’damm he had abandoned himself to the swing of the Kakadu bar and its well-stocked shelves, resisted the advances of an adventuresome blonde, and tried hard not to think of Charly, which, of course, was easier said than done. The cocktails, at any rate, had served their purpose, rendering him insensible enough to return home well after midnight and find sleep at last.

Until he was awoken by the telephone.

‘There’s something I’d like to show you,’ Karthaus had said, summoning him to Hannoversche Strasse for two o’clock.

Rath fed the dog, but neglected to feed himself, drinking a coffee and showering before setting off with Kirie. Only when he stepped outside did he realise that his car was still parked in Kreuzberg, and started down Hardenbergstrasse towards Bahnhof Zoo.

It wasn’t quite two when they reached the morgue. Recognising them, the porter took Kirie’s lead, using a bite of his salami sandwich to bring her to heel. ‘Doctor’s waiting downstairs,’ he said, waving Rath through to the cellar, where the pathologists processed their corpses.

Rath kept his eyes on the floor; the black-and-white checked pattern had a soothing effect on his stomach. Stepping through the large swing doors into the autopsy room, he spied Dr Karthaus at his table in the corner, a steaming cup of coffee placed alongside a file.

Karthaus looked up from his notes and furrowed his brow. ‘Inspector! You’re unusually punctual today.’

‘Dead on time.’

The doctor folded his glasses and lit a cigarette. Rath fumbled for an Overstolz, but realised he had left them at home. He stole a glance at the Manoli cigarettes on the desk, but the doctor stood up and led him to a trolley where the contours of a human body could be discerned through a cotton sheet. ‘Take a look,’ Karthaus said, yanking the sheet to the side almost violently. ‘There’s something you have to see.’

The corpse still wore the same horrified expression as yesterday morning, but it was paler now, the area around the mouth a deeper shade of blue. The doctor gripped the ashen face and turned it to one side. Using his index finger, he gestured towards a point on the neck around which a small, bluish dot had formed.

‘See?’ Karthaus asked. Rath nodded, tempted for an instant to lean over the man’s neck to get a better view, only to listen to his stomach’s advice and trust in the doctor’s words. ‘A puncture site,’ Karthaus continued. ‘The injection was administered intravenously.’

‘What kind of injection?’

‘He didn’t get it from a doctor, anyway. I’ve already checked. Perhaps he was a morphine addict.’ The doctor drew on his cigarette. ‘Though it’s hardly common for morphine addicts to inject through the jugular vein. You’d need a mirror, for starters. Besides… if our man here was a morphine addict there’d have to be additional puncture sites. But this is the only one.’

‘Are you saying that someone administered the injection for him?’

‘Everything points that way. Which means we have evidence of external violence after all.’

‘A lethal injection?’

‘Hopefully a blood analysis will reveal all.’

‘So the man didn’t drown!’ Rath didn’t always need to be right, but he savoured it here.

‘It’s difficult to know for sure.’

‘I thought you had completed the autopsy?’

Karthaus nodded. ‘The man had water in his lungs. So much, in fact, that it’s inconceivable it entered post-mortem. So far, so typical for a victim of drowning. Nevertheless, the level of water aspiration wasn’t nearly extreme enough to lead to fatal hypoxia.’

‘You’ll have to break that down for me, Doctor. I’m no medic, and my Latin isn’t up to much either.’

‘Hypoxia is derived from the Greek. It denotes a lack of oxygen. Hypoxia as a result of extreme water aspiration is what we would vulgarly term “drowning”.’ Karthaus looked at Rath like a stern teacher. ‘I suspect, however, that although our man was in danger of drowning, he actually died of respiratory failure. Moments beforehand.’

‘What are you saying? Did he drown or didn’t he?’

‘He drowned a little bit. He definitely inhaled water, a most unpleasant experience, but, most likely, he didn’t die as a result. In other words: he stopped breathing before he could drown.’

‘Because he was administered poison…’ Karthaus shrugged. ‘But we’re definitely talking murder.’

‘We’re definitely talking foul play.’

‘And here, poor fool, with all my lore, I stand…’

‘I see you know your Goethe, at least.’

‘Believe it or not, I graduated high school.’

Karthaus gave a nod of acknowledgement. ‘Then no doubt you’ll appreciate the value of patience. Once we have the results of the blood analysis, we’ll know the cause of death, I’d almost bet on it. This much I can tell you already: we’re dealing with a very peculiar case.’

Rath looked at the corpse, the horror in its face. Who had it in for Herbert Lamkau, and why had they tried to drown him, after they’d already administered a lethal injection? ‘Thank you, Doctor,’ he said. ‘Be in touch when you know more.’ Rath had reached the door when he turned around. ‘There was one more thing…’ Karthaus raised his eyebrows. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have any aspirin?’

Half an hour later, Rath and Kirie climbed the U-Bahn steps to Potsdamer Platz. The stone figures lining the dome of Haus Vaterland made it seem like a neon-signed Roman temple. The enormous complex was the first thing visitors saw as they emerged above ground; only then did the train station and its surrounding buildings come into sight. Things were already happening on the wide perron outside the main entrance. People were actually queuing to be parted from their cash. For the most part they looked like assistant bookkeepers from Königs Wusterhausen out for a wild weekend in the big city – or whatever passed for a wild weekend in their eyes.

Rath ignored the provincials and circled the building. At the goods entrance a few men were unloading sacks of potatoes. Rath observed them for a moment, before strolling inside with Kirie in tow. The left-hand lift was still out of service; the potato men, at least, were only using the right. Rath had almost reached the stairwell when a cry came from behind.

‘Hey! What’re you doing here? Do I know you?’

Rath recognised the uniform of the Berlin Security Corps. So, they kept watch during the day too. The guard eyed his identification suspiciously.

‘CID?’

Rath nodded. ‘The murder, yesterday.’

The word ‘murder’ didn’t seem to have any impact. ‘What is it you want?’

‘To have another look at the crime scene.’

‘Did you call in advance?’

‘CID never calls in advance.’

The guard looked sour, but waved him through.

Rath climbed the steps, pausing to look outside the lifts on every floor. Kirie was nosing everywhere, but experience taught him to ignore her. Though Bouviers were usually excellent sniffer dogs, Kirie had proved herself to be an exception. On the third floor he came across a man in overalls crouched outside the open door of the lift shaft, screwdriver in hand. Rath surveyed him for a moment, then spoke. ‘Is it faulty?’ he asked, offering a cigarette. The man accepted gratefully, and Rath gave him a light.

‘The door,’ the man said, inhaling deeply. ‘Why d’you ask?’ He had a Berlin accent.

Rath lit an Overstolz and showed his badge. The engineer didn’t seem surprised. ‘Were you present when the corpse was found yesterday?’

‘No, that was Siegmann.’

‘Is he here?’

‘No, he’s on nights this week.’

‘What’s wrong with the door? Herr Siegmann didn’t mention anything about it.’

‘Only came to our attention this morning, when someone tried to get out here and it jammed. Most people ride straight up to the kitchen.’

‘The door’s jammed?’

‘Some idiot flicked the emergency switch,’ the man said. ‘Exactly between the two floors. Then forced the door instead of calling for assistance. Metal’s buckled as a result. It doesn’t close properly any more.’

‘That’s the lift where the corpse was found, isn’t it?’

The engineer shrugged. ‘Could be, but that’s no excuse.’

‘But you’re saying someone climbed out of this car? Where the corpse was found?’

A light came on in the man’s head. ‘You mean…’

‘It could be how the killer escaped. Have you touched anything?’

‘No, but I will. Wouldn’t get much done otherwise.’

‘Then take a break. See if there’s anything else on your list. The elevator door here needs to be examined.’

The engineer seemed to take things as they came, and shrugged his shoulders. ‘You’ll need to secure this though,’ he said. ‘So that no one falls into the shaft on me.’

‘How about you take care of that until my colleagues arrive? Now, where can I find a telephone?’

‘Back that way. The waiters have a common room. I can’t be standing around here forever, I…’

Rath ignored his protests and went through the door. At the end of a row of lockers, in front of which four or five men were getting changed, hung a wall telephone. Rath showed a waiter in full regalia his badge, but the man pretended he hadn’t seen him. Clearly he was used to ignoring people but, then again, so was Rath. He pressed the hook down until the connection was interrupted. The waiter was about to protest, but swallowed his words when he saw Rath’s face.

Despite ED only operating a skeletal staff on Sundays, he was assigned two men straightaway.

The engineer appeared relieved when Rath re-emerged. ‘Can I get back to work now?’ he asked.

‘Be my guest. So long as you don’t touch this elevator.’

The man toddled off and Rath lit another cigarette. His gaze fell on two narrow, high windows that looked onto the outside. One of them was slightly ajar. Kirie followed as he went across. He took out a handkerchief and opened the window fully. Outside was a kind of balcony, a walkway with a stone balustrade that lined the building.

He was about to climb out when he heard someone cough behind him and spun around. Dressed in a light summer suit, looking spruce and freshly coiffed, was Richard Fleischer, director of Haus Vaterland. The guard below must have sounded the alarm, or perhaps the engineer had told him he couldn’t access the lift.

‘Inspector! I must say I’m rather surprised to see you here. What are you doing?’

‘My job.’

‘Yesterday you hampered business, today you are preventing necessary repair work! Sneaking through the back entrance like that. Who do you think you are?’

‘Would you have preferred me to use the front entrance and tell everyone I was from Homicide?’

Fleischer made a face as if he had bitten into a lemon. ‘No need to go shouting from the rooftops. It was an accident, after all.’

‘Wrong! It now looks as if we are dealing with a premeditated killing. I can tell you already that in such cases CID makes no allowances for operating procedures, nor for your good reputation.’

‘But who would want to kill Herr Lamkau on our premises?’

‘You have no idea?’

‘Of course not. You think that one of my employees would beat a delivery man to death?’

‘Herr Lamkau wasn’t beaten to death.’

A few waiters came past and gazed in bewilderment at their director, standing in front of the freight elevators in conversation with a stranger and his dog.

‘Be that as it may.’ Fleischer lowered his voice. ‘Now, if we must continue this discussion, I would prefer if we did so in my office.’

‘I’m afraid I’m to wait here until my colleagues arrive.’

‘Your colleagues?’ The prospect of more police officers descending on his premises hardly filled him with joy.

‘Forensic technicians,’ Rath said simply, turning to the window once more. ‘We have to examine a possible escape route.’

‘That takes you to the balcony. You can’t get down to the street from there, at most back into the building somewhere.’

Rath offered Fleischer an Overstolz, convinced that smoking together was the best way to dispel animosity or suspicion.

‘I get the impression your building is well guarded,’ he said, giving the director a light.

‘Oh yes, our people are on the ball.’

‘Where, would you say, is it possible to enter or leave unnoticed?’

‘I would say, nowhere.’ Fleischer drew on his cigarette, and gestured with his head towards the open window. ‘Unless you’re a cat burglar.’

‘How many people work here? Two, three hundred?’

‘Three hundred?’ The director gave a pitying smile. ‘There are around four hundred waiters in the service department alone, then in the central kitchen upstairs eighty chefs alongside one hundred and twenty temporary workers. We cater for around a million guests a year. All in all, we have some eleven hundred employees working around the clock. We’re almost a miniature city; we even have our own waste incineration.’

‘With so many employees, it wouldn’t be possible for you to know each one personally.’

‘Of course not.’

‘How many people were on duty yesterday morning when Herr Lamkau was murdered?’

‘You ought to know better than me, seeing as you rounded them all up. Fifty, sixty perhaps, if you count the technical staff, and security. There was hardly anyone from service.’

Their conversation was interrupted when two men in grey overalls emerged from the stairwell. Rath immediately recognised them as forensic technicians and pointed them towards the battered elevator door. ‘Take a look at the window over there afterwards. See if you can’t secure some fingerprints on the handles and check if there are any marks on the balcony outside.’

The men nodded, unpacked their suitcases and got to work. Rath watched them for a time. ‘What do you hope to find?’ the director asked at last.

‘Information concerning the murderer’s escape route,’ Rath said. ‘Perhaps his identity too.’

‘I just hope you don’t make too much of a fuss. I could do without the press.’

‘Do you have a medical department here?’

Fleischer looked surprised. ‘A first-aid room with several mattresses. For emergencies. Why do you ask?’

‘Do you keep medicine there? Hypodermic syringes?’

‘Naturally. Should I draw up a list?’

‘Please. Today, if possible. Have someone you trust check all your medical cupboards. We need to know if anything’s missing.’ The director nodded like an obedient schoolboy. ‘Did you know Herr Lamkau?’ Rath asked suddenly. ‘Personally, I mean.’

‘No.’ Fleischer’s response was immediate. ‘I saw him yesterday for the first time.’

‘Were any of your employees privately acquainted with him?’

‘Not that I’m aware of, but with such a large staff I couldn’t say for certain.’

‘What surprises me is that Herr Lamkau made the delivery in person. To say nothing of the time of day.’

Fleischer shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Owners do sometimes deliver themselves. The timings vary according to how suppliers plan their route. I’m sure Herr Riedel will be able to tell you more.’

‘Herr Riedel,’ Rath repeated, pulling out his pad.

‘Alfons Riedel. One of our buyers.’

‘Is Herr Riedel on site?’

‘I’m afraid not. It’s Sunday. Purchasing is closed.’

‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ Rath said. ‘Please let Herr Riedel know.’

Director Fleischer was still smiling, but it looked as if he had developed a severe toothache.

The Lamkau firm had its headquarters in Tempelhof, beside the canal. The company buildings had an organised look about them, with half a dozen or so newly cleaned delivery vans arranged neatly outside. Rath drew up alongside one of the vehicles as it gleamed spotlessly in the sun. In comparison, his dull, dusty Buick, which he had since collected from Kreuzberg, was like a street urchin that had wandered into a group of confirmands. The vehicles were similar to the van discovered yesterday outside Haus Vaterland, which was still in the hands of Forensics. Some advertised Lamkau’s liquor dealership and Mathée Luisenbrand; others promoted Danziger Goldwasser or Treuburger Bärenfang.

Rath got out and took Kirie by the lead. Walking to the residential building, he realised the hairs on her neck were standing on end. She issued a soft yip. ‘Easy, old girl,’ he said. ‘Easy.’

Then he gave a start himself, for behind him he heard loud barking and the rattle of a chain unfurling at rapid speed. He turned around and saw a whopping great brute making straight for him. Instinctively he took a few steps to one side. Just as the dog reached him, the chain tightened and held the beast in check. The barking didn’t stop, however, as the guard dog threw its entire weight against the choker, and continued rasping at the visitors. In the meantime Kirie issued her own response, so that the Sunday afternoon peace and quiet was now well and truly destroyed.

The front door opened and a maid looked at him. She had to shout to make herself heard above the din.

‘How can I help?’

‘First, you can stop me being eaten.’

‘I’m afraid Nero doesn’t listen to me. And his master is sadly…’

‘Dead. I know.’ Rath showed his badge. ‘My condolences. I’d like to speak to his wife. Is she here?’

The girl gestured towards the company buildings. ‘She’s in the office next door.’

‘How do I get there without being torn to shreds?’

‘By giving Nero a wide berth.’

Rath proceeded to do exactly that and finally gained the premises, consisting as they did of a warehouse, in front of which the delivery vans were parked, and a simple little office wing at the building’s head. The guard dog stopped barking when it realised Rath was beating a retreat. It seemed the company premises were outside its jurisdiction. A brass plate hung next to the entrance, glistening in the sun, as spick and span as everything else around here. The glass door stood half open and Rath went inside. The office wing appeared neat and tidy, with a slight smell of alcohol.

Inside, a woman with greyish blonde hair sat at a desk, leafing through a muddle of opened and closed files. Bills, contracts, orders, staff lists. A gust of wind and the chaos would be complete.

The woman was so engrossed she didn’t look up until Rath knocked on the open door and showed his badge.

‘Edith Lamkau?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘Rath, CID. My condolences on the death of your husband. Please excuse our disturbing you again.’

The widow Lamkau nodded and gazed at the files she held in her hands. She seemed to be somewhere else entirely, the very picture of despair.

‘What a mess,’ she said.

‘That’s an awful lot of paperwork,’ Rath added sympathetically.

She nodded, and gazed with a wounded expression at the litter of files on the desk before her. They, rather than the death of her husband, seemed to be the cause of her despair. ‘What the hell am I meant to do with all this? Orders, bills… Then all these people asking what’s going to happen. Somehow word on Herbert’s death has got about quicker than news of our latest promotions.’

‘Don’t you have someone who knows their way around the business, and can help you out?’

‘Herbert looked after everything himself. No one could have known that he…’

She let the papers drop, breaking into a sob so suddenly that Rath gave a start. He remembered the lily-white cotton handkerchief in his jacket. Edith Lamkau dabbed gratefully at her wet eyes.

‘Frau Lamkau,’ Rath said, when she had composed herself again. ‘In the meantime, our suspicions that your husband died an unnatural death have been confirmed.’

‘Oh God! Did someone kill him?’ Rath nodded awkwardly. ‘Who?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out, Frau Lamkau. It’s the reason I’m here.’ He pointed outside, to where Nero had barked again. ‘You’re well guarded here. Was your husband afraid? Did he have enemies?’

She shook her head. ‘Herbert was only concerned with our safety. There have been a number of break-ins here recently.’

‘In your husband’s overalls we found an envelope containing a thousand marks. Can you explain where it came from?’ She shook her head. ‘Did your clients settle their accounts in cash?’

‘Some maybe. I don’t know.’

‘Then there must be an invoice for this amount somewhere. Do you know which clients your husband visited yesterday? Is there a journey log? A list of suppliers?’ Edith Lamkau didn’t seem to know anything about her husband’s affairs. Perhaps they weren’t all above board. ‘How about I send a few men over tomorrow to look after your papers?’ Rath said.

She smiled gratefully. ‘You’d do that?’

‘But you have to promise to forget about all this. Just make sure you lock the door when you leave.’

‘Of course. Gladly!’ Edith Lamkau looked as if a burden had been lifted from her soul.

6

Rath folded the letter and placed it back in its envelope, took it out and read it again. A quarter past seven. One more cigarette and it would be time to head over to the conference room. He sat in the Buick by the railway arches, watching his colleagues streaming into the Castle from all sides. He lit an Overstolz and opened the side window.

He swallowed another aspirin from the bottle, washing it down with a slug from his silver hip flask. It felt as if the cognac did more for his headache than the pill. Lack of sleep coupled with too much alcohol was a deadly combination, but last night the bottle had been his only consolation.

From the moment the night porter pushed the envelope across the counter, he knew it was from her, tearing it open in the lift going up. Reaching his apartment, he fetched a bottle of cognac and, still in his coat, slumped into an armchair and began to read, not knowing how to feel.

He didn’t know how many times he had read the letter since, only that he still didn’t understand. She wasn’t made to spend hours waiting for him? Was that a ‘no’ to his proposal? Berlin was pleased to have her back, was she referring to another man, or just old Krause? All right, she hadn’t forgotten him, but did she really have to emphasise how many people had already been to visit…

Even now, with a slightly clearer head, he couldn’t decipher the letter’s meaning, but her words seemed more positive, friendlier somehow. The best thing, however, better than any single word, was that the letter smelled of Charly. He could still smell her this morning in among the odour of paper and rubber lining, and realised it was the thing he had missed most last year. Sniffing the note a final time, he returned it to its envelope.

Kirie, who was crouched on the passenger seat itching to be released, issued two short barks. ‘You’re right, old girl, time to go.’

They made a detour via Alexanderplatz, so that she had a chance to pee before entering the station. The enormous building loomed as sombre as a medieval castle, hence the name given to it by employees: the Castle. Once upon a time, the red brick of police headquarters had held sway over Alexanderplatz, but the various new additions had since relegated it to second place. The police commissioner, who had previously enjoyed a clear view from his private office on the first floor, now had to content himself with the windows of Alexanderhaus, in which the Aschinger restaurant had also found its new home.

Rath’s office on the first floor was still locked. He ought to have remembered that his secretary, Erika Voss, didn’t arrive until eight. He had no choice but to bring Kirie into the conference room. It was already busy, with the meeting due to start in a few minutes. He pushed through the crowd, as far as possible towards the back. A few colleagues were amazed to see him with Kirie on her lead, but what else could he do? He could hardly tie her up outside.

‘Are they introducing the new police dogs as well?’ an officer asked. The bystanders laughed, and Rath forced a grin. To his astonishment, he brought the nervous-seeming Kirie to heel with a sharp ‘sit’, as the cadets started filing in: the latest batch of candidates for inspector. Lange was third, followed at the end of the line by Charly and another female officer, with Bernhard Weiss taking up the rear. Even though he had known she’d be here, his heart started beating faster. Despite wearing an unremarkable mouse-grey ensemble, she still contrived to look stunning, and Rath felt as if all eyes were on her. For a moment he actually thought the male officers were whistling, although nothing of the kind occurred. Seeing them gawp like that, he felt the old rage returning and gritted his teeth until it passed.

The cadets took their seats, out of sight in the front row, as Dr Weiss climbed on stage and the whispering subsided to a murmur. The deputy commissioner waited until the final coughs had abated.

‘Before we turn to happier affairs, allow me to say a few words on the current situation,’ he began. Owing to his thick spectacle lenses, it always felt as if Bernhard Weiss were looking you straight in the eye. ‘It is no coincidence that, in the two weeks since the SA and SS have been allowed to display their uniforms and march again, the situation has become spectacularly worse. This weekend alone political confrontations in Wedding and Moabit resulted in five casualties and a death, and that is merely in Berlin.’

‘Wasn’t the dead man an SA officer, gunned down by the Reds?’ a colleague whispered, careful to ensure he couldn’t be heard up front.

‘There were good reasons for the uniform ban,’ Weiss continued. ‘Deprived of it, SA men could be seen for what they are: a brutal gang of thugs. In their uniforms, however, they don’t regard themselves as criminals. Indeed, some even presume to act as police officers. More and more often, SA members are taking the liberty of carrying out house searches in Communist apartments. There are reports from Friedrichshain that an SA troop stormed an ice-cream parlour and attempted to carry off all members of the Reichsbanner, as though it were a police raid. Fortunately, our colleagues were able to intervene in time.

‘Such behaviour, ladies and gentlemen,’ Weiss said, casting a friendly glance towards the front row at the word ladies, ‘must be nipped in the bud. We cannot allow the mob to rule the streets, whether they are dressed in red or in brown.’

Weiss paused, and a few colleagues began to clap. The applause soon died, making it more awkward than if there had been none at all.

‘Sadly,’ he continued, ‘the new government’s policies seem to have emboldened the National Socialists to carry out such initiatives. For two weeks now, since – not to put too fine a point on it – the lifting of the SA ban, the safety on our streets has been severely compromised.’

‘I always thought the police were apolitical,’ grumbled an officer in front of Rath. ‘He’s sticking his neck out a little too far for my liking. We do work for the government after all.’

‘We answer to the Free State of Prussia, not the German Reich,’ the man behind him hissed. ‘And no one would deny this government’s missing a few screws.’

‘At least it is a government. Prussia doesn’t have one any more, at least not a functional one.’

‘Oh, shut your mouth, would you!’

‘Shut my mouth!’

Before the dispute could escalate, two colleagues pulled the men apart, at which stage the noise and grumbling reached Weiss’s ears. He gazed sternly into the room and it ceased. The two officers who had nearly come to blows contented themselves with exchanging angry glances.

When all was silent again, Weiss continued. ‘Now let us move on to the real purpose of our meeting. Please welcome the new cadets, who will henceforth be serving as your colleagues in CID.’

He reached for a list and read the names of the new recruits, each one dutifully approaching the stage as they were called, until all stood in line at the front. Most grinned nervously. Lange blushed, but Charly, who stood next to a blonde woman, smiled self-assuredly into the horde of male officers. Rath thought her smile a little over-friendly.

The deputy preached the usual sermon, stressing the importance of treating the novices with consideration and offering assistance when it was required, before closing with the same joke he always made: ‘Remember that, in years to come, one of these men could be your superior.’

The officers laughed obediently, even if most of them had heard it all before. No one expressed surprise that Weiss had chosen to exclude the two women. The fact was that, even if Charly and her colleague did make a career for themselves, they would never get out of G Division; nor, irrespective of their capabilities as police officers, would they ever issue orders to men, at least not in the Castle. ‘On this occasion it gives me particular pleasure,’ Weiss said, when the polite laughter died, ‘to introduce two female cadets, who will be augmenting the ranks of G Division.’

So, that was what Charly’s future with the Berlin Police had in store: G Division, the women’s branch of CID, who dealt mainly with youth crime and female offenders. There was no doubt she’d have been better deployed in complex murder investigations, but they wouldn’t be seeing her in Homicide, unless she started working as a stenographer again.

‘I’d like to teach those honeys a thing or two,’ Rath heard someone mumble, recognising the voice. ‘That brunette’s a sight for sore eyes, isn’t she, eh, boys?’

Rath craned his neck but couldn’t make out the man’s face. He felt the same helpless rage as before, especially since the remark was greeted with subdued laugher. Couldn’t the bastards keep their mouths shut? But, of course not. The police was a boys’ club; women had no place here. Rath was suddenly glad Charly would be working with other women, rather than troublemakers like this.

He had stopped listening, but by the ever louder murmuring the meeting had been adjourned. He joined the throng of colleagues drifting slowly towards the exit. Reaching the door, he realised that Kirie had started pulling on her lead. ‘To heel,’ Rath hissed, but she whimpered and pulled even harder.

Seeing a mouse-grey ladies’ hat a few metres ahead he realised what was up: the bloody dog had recognised Charly’s scent. Now she was wagging her tail like crazy, pulling harder and harder on her lead so that Rath could barely keep hold. Suddenly she issued a brief woof, as loud as it was reproachful, as if to say: let me at her!

All eyes turned to Kirie and her master, Charly’s included. Rath saw how she grinned, only for her grin first to freeze and then disappear altogether when she realised what was happening. Kirie was almost upon her, there was no holding her back. She was full-grown now, no longer the sweet, little furball she’d once been. Charly couldn’t bear to see her suffer any longer. She stepped towards her, stroked her and let her lick her hands.

After an extensive greeting Kirie settled down again, allowing Rath to regain control. ‘Tut, tut,’ he said, wagging his index finger and ordering her to sit. He now stood directly opposite Charly, hardly daring to look in her eyes. He saw her dimple, then the curious glances of those standing by. Half of CID had witnessed Kirie’s passionate greeting. This wasn’t how he and Charly had envisaged their first meeting at the Castle.

‘Apologies,’ Rath mumbled, now fixing her in the eyes. ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘Didn’t she lead us to the cinema killer back in the day?’

Rath nodded, grateful for her presence of mind. Charly had worked on the case herself. The fact that the pair had known each other at least since then was common knowledge, in A Division anyway. ‘You’ve a good memory, Fräulein Ritter,’ he said, lifting his hat. ‘Delighted to have you back on board, though it’s a shame Homicide must do without you.’

With that he made his way towards the door, fighting the temptation to turn around. He couldn’t have looked Charly in the eye a moment longer, forced to pretend like this. Kirie made no more trouble, following her master dutifully outside.

‘You’ve got that one well-trained,’ a colleague said, giving Rath a poke in the side as they left the room. ‘You should give us a loan some time.’

Rath forced a smile, and proceeded down the long corridor quicker than in all his years of service. The way was lined with doors, and he was glad to reach his office at last. Once inside Kirie made a beeline for the two bowls Erika Voss kept ready. It was she who had persuaded him to adopt Kirie, whose previous owner had been murdered. ‘Detective Gräf has already left to provide the weekend summary,’ she said. ‘He asked about a report: Haus Vaterland. Do you have any idea where it could be?’

Morning briefing was a ritual first established by Detective Chief Inspector Böhm. CID officers exchanged notes on current investigations, breaking free of the confines of their individual teams. An outside view could kick-start cases that had become stalled, and on several occasions links had been made between apparently isolated fatalities. Of the senior homicide officers, Rath was the only one not to make it to the small conference room on time. All eyes turned as he entered.

Detective Gräf was in the middle of listing all deaths that local CID forces had reported to headquarters over the weekend. He had a fatigued air about him. Though there was little of note, Ernst Gennat, the chief of Homicide, listened spellbound. The superintendent never missed a detail, and often he had resolved homicide cases by recalling seemingly irrelevant items. Other times, he made connections that escaped everyone else.

Rath was only half listening to what Gräf said. There had been a fatal shooting at Stuttgarter Platz in Charlottenburg, probably politically motivated, which Section 1A had already taken on, to go with the dead Nazi in Wedding Weiss had mentioned earlier. The political police dealt with such cases on an almost daily basis. A corpse in Grunewald had turned out to be suicide, and been passed over to the local precinct. In Schlosspark Bellevue a man had killed his wife with a shaving knife. The 21st precinct had initially assumed the case, but now it had landed at Alex. Detective Chief Inspector Wilhelm Böhm had commandeered Henning and Czerwinski, two officers Rath often worked alongside, who had originally belonged to the Phantom troop. He was considering how he could reclaim the pair when he heard his name.

‘Since Inspector Rath is now here,’ Gräf said, ‘perhaps he should tell you about the Haus Vaterland corpse from the early hours of Saturday morning.’

Rath moved towards the front with a small file wedged under his arm. He didn’t look inside; most of what he had to say wasn’t in there anyway. He briefly summarised their findings in Haus Vaterland, before moving onto Dr Karthaus’s discovery. ‘It looks as though we are dealing with a violent death, even if there are no outward signs of force save for the injection to the jugular vein, which was most likely administered by a third party. An extremely peculiar case, not least because of the circumstances surrounding the death itself.’

Ernst Gennat, who had earned the nickname Buddha in part because of his impressive physique, now spoke. ‘If I’ve understood you correctly, the body displays all the hallmarks of drowning, yet there is some doubt as to whether this is the actual cause of death.’

‘Correct, Sir. Assuming I have understood Dr Karthaus correctly.’ A few officers laughed. Most of those present had experienced the pathologist’s use of latinate terms. Lange and Gräf were unsmiling. ‘The written report is still pending but we hope for a more concrete indication of the cause of death from the blood analysis. For all that, it’s strange enough already. What we have here is a simulated drowning that took place in a freight elevator.’

Gennat nodded thoughtfully. Something seemed to be bothering him, but he said nothing more, leaving Rath to continue with his report. He mentioned his discovery by the third-floor elevator, and his suspicion that the perpetrator most likely stemmed from the Haus Vaterland workforce. ‘I’m assuming the offending party was still inside when police arrived. Security pays close attention that no one unauthorised enters or leaves the building. According to the duty guard, no one was seen leaving after the murder. We have a list of around fifty people present on Saturday morning, all of whom will be subjected to a detailed interrogation. Perhaps we’ll find a motive.’

‘What about the thousand marks?’ Böhm asked. ‘That’s your motive right there.’

‘If that were true, then surely they’d have been taken,’ Rath replied, winning another few laughs. He savoured Böhm’s sour expression.

‘Not necessarily,’ Gennat said. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Böhm is right. Carrying so much cash in a blank envelope is highly unusual. Money can always be a motive, not just in a robbery homicide.’

‘Of course, Superintendent. Sir.’ Rath cleared his throat. ‘Needless to say, I also looked into this anomaly. The widow Lamkau can’t explain the money in her husband’s pocket, although admittedly she has little knowledge of company affairs. We’ll be going through the paperwork today to see if there’s an explanation.’

‘If that’s the case, you could have spared us a needless joke at your colleague’s expense.’

Gennat concluded the meeting. Moments later chair legs began scraping over the stone floor. Despite knowing it would be futile, Rath approached to try and reclaim Henning and Czerwinski, who had been withdrawn from the Phantom troop.

‘You haven’t made any progress there for weeks,’ Buddha said. ‘Leave it for the time being. Take Gräf and Lange, and focus your attentions on the dead man in Haus Vaterland. Perhaps you’ll have more success there.’

‘With respect, Sir, I could use some more men.’

‘I’m afraid I can’t spare you any. Homicide is up to its ears at the moment.’

‘What about the cadets?’

Gennat considered for a moment. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

His team was already waiting when he returned to the office. Erika Voss had made coffee, and both Lange and Gräf held steaming mugs in their hands. The pair had dark circles under their eyes.

‘Coffee for you too, Inspector?’ Erika Voss asked.

‘Thank you,’ Rath said, as she set it down, heading into the back room with the two officers.

‘One more thing, Erika,’ he said, before closing the connecting door. ‘Put a call through to Pathology and ask Dr Karthaus if he’s completed the Lamkau blood analysis. Then ask ED if our colleagues from Forensics have found any hypodermic needles in Haus Vaterland.’

‘Good of you to share what you did yesterday,’ Gräf said, no sooner than Rath had closed the door.

‘I stopped by. You weren’t home.’

‘Then you ought to have at least left a message in the office. If you’re going to go about pinching files.’

‘Surely you’re not annoyed that I acted on new information from Pathology?’ Rath placed the file on the table. ‘Well, from now on, we’ll be working alongside each other. As a three.’

‘That’s it?’ Gräf asked.

‘The Phantom case has been temporarily shelved, and Gennat can’t spare us any men for the corpse in Haus Vaterland.’

‘Do you have any idea how many interrogations we need to get through today?’

‘We’ll just have to share them out between the three of us.’

Gräf sighed. ‘Christ, Gereon! You know sometimes you’re a real pain in the arse.’

7

No matter how hard Charly tried, no matter how determined she was to commit herself fully to her first day on the job, she couldn’t concentrate. Gereon’s look just now as Kirie jumped on her… she couldn’t get it out of her mind. There was sadness there, a strange uncertainty which couldn’t just be from Kirie forcing them into an unexpectedly public meeting. They desperately needed to speak to one another, that much was clear. Their weekend, indeed their whole reunion, had been a disaster. She had spent all Sunday trying to reach him, but his number still wasn’t in the telephone book, and there was no one at the Castle she could have asked without arousing suspicion. She’d had no choice but to take Greta’s bicycle out to Steinplatz where the friendly porter told her that Herr Rath had left the building moments before. The first time, she believed him; the second time she began to suspect that Gereon was feigning absence. She left him a letter, the second one since her return, hoping he would call her at least, but he had done no such thing, even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to speak to her in the conference room this morning… and what on earth had he been thinking, bringing Kirie?

‘What do you think? They could be from Wedding?’

‘Hm?’

Charly looked up into the face of her blonde colleague. Karin van Almsick had no experience of police work, having come to Alex from the youth welfare department, which was as much information as they had managed to exchange between the conference room and the offices of female CID, where Superintendent Friederike Wieking gave them a stern welcome. Ernst Gennat led the Homicide division with considerably more warmth. After the briefest of introductions, Superintendent Wieking tasked them with the first item of drudge work: a band of girls had been robbing passengers on deserted underground trains, keeping police guessing for weeks. There was nothing to go on but for a few vague witness statements. Seven hold-ups, each following the same pattern, had already been placed on file, though the descriptions of the perpetrators diverged wildly. The only thing witnesses could agree on was that there were two or three girls involved, and that they used knives to threaten their victims.

‘From Wedding?’ Charly parroted unthinkingly.

Karin van Almsick didn’t seem to notice. ‘The attacks all occurred on the C Line,’ she said. ‘Most of them in the north. That’s something, isn’t it?’

Charly shrugged.

‘What do you think? Should we mention it to Wieking?’

‘What?’

‘Issuing a warrant for these girls up in Wedding. Wieking will want to hear from us, won’t she?’

Her colleague’s zeal was starting to get on Charly’s nerves. On the other hand, she could sympathise. She ought to have been capable of the same. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t got that far yet. Maybe we should exchange ideas after lunch.’

‘Or during.’

‘Or during.’

Karin clearly hoped to make friends, and Charly didn’t want to seem cold, especially since, as a trained lawyer, it could easily be construed as arrogance.

She made a renewed attempt to concentrate on the file in front of her, but, even on the first page, realised she wasn’t processing any of its content. She tried again, but all she could see were Gereon’s sad eyes; his face two days ago, as he tried to hide his disappointment. She should have guessed. After all, she had known he was planning to propose at some point, but the timing had thrown her. Ever since last summer, she’d known he had bought a ring. To think, she could have spent all those months in Paris imagining being married to Gereon Rath, and to some extent, at least at the start, she had – but work and life in a new city had taken over, and before long any such notions had vanished.

Travelling back to Berlin, her thoughts had mostly concerned her new career in CID. Marriage was the last thing on her mind. Couldn’t the stupid bastard have waited a day or two before ambushing her like that?

Realising what was happening, she couldn’t help but grin. She had finally achieved her aim of joining CID, not as a stenographer this time, but as a candidate for inspector. And what had she spent her first day doing? Thinking about Gereon Rath, instead of concentrating on the case she had been assigned. She snapped the file shut. ‘I need to make a quick telephone call,’ she said to Karin.

Her colleague shrugged. ‘Of course.’

‘In private, if that’s OK?’

A broad grin spread across her colleague’s features. ‘What’s his name?’

Charly couldn’t help but smile too, even if she was in no mood to share confidences. She raised a finger in warning. ‘Curiosity killed the cat.’

Her colleague stood up. ‘I wanted to go across to Robbery Division anyway, and ask if they had any similar cases on file.’ She gave a brief wink.

Charly smiled back, despite being irritated by the suggestive wink. She waited a moment for the door to click shut – Karin van Almsick seemed just the type to eavesdrop – and plucked up the courage to dial the extension she knew all too well.

‘Voss, Homicide. Inspector Rath’s office.’

Shit.

‘Ritter, G Division. Inspector Rath, please,’ she said, trying to sound as businesslike as possible.

‘The inspector isn’t here, I’m afraid. Can I take a message?’

‘Not necessary. I’ll try again later.’

Charly hung up. Goddamn it! Was it really so hard to talk to someone when you worked in the same building? Had she asked her colleague to leave for this? Again she turned to the file in front of her, but again her mind wandered until the telephone rang, and she gave a start. Had he simply been feigning absence, only now to call her back?

‘Ritter, G Division,’ she said, heart pounding.

‘Gennat here!’ The beat of her heart slowed again. ‘I wanted to take the opportunity to wish you all the best at the start of your training year.’

‘Thank you, Superintendent,’ Charly said politely, trying not to sound too disappointed. She thought the world of her former boss, worshipped him even, and knew that an accolade like this was no given, even if she found herself incapable of enjoying it.

‘I think I speak for all of A Division when I say we are very sorry that you are no longer with us in Homicide.’

‘I’m sorry too, but I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done about CID’s organisational structure.’

‘Quite,’ Gennat said. ‘Not even I can help you there.’ He cleared his throat before continuing. ‘But I can make you an offer, Charly. If you agree then I’ll speak with your superior officer. If I know Frau Wieking, she’s unlikely to object.’

‘What sort of offer, Sir?’

When he told her, Charly was glad she’d sent Karin van Almsick away after all.

8

The interrogations had eaten into their lunch hour. Against expectation, Gennat had failed to provide any additional troops, not even a cadet. With no time for a proper break or to discuss their findings, Rath paused at the Aschinger on Leipziger Strasse for a Bratwurst and red cabbage. The interrogation marathon had confirmed what they already knew, the only item of note being that one of the witnesses failed to show up.

Rath had sent Gräf and Lange out to the Lamkau office in Tempelhof. ‘Lamkau’s widow is expecting you. Take a look at the company papers, most recent bills and so on. See if you can’t find some explanation for the thousand marks in Lamkau’s overalls.’ With that he had not only dispensed of his colleagues, but kept his promise to Edith Lamkau.

Arriving at Haus Vaterland he was glad to have eaten en route, since he met Alfons Riedel, the spirits buyer, in the afternoon hurly-burly of the Rheinterrasse. Behind a glass pane, the end wall of the saloon displayed a huge, illuminated Rhine panorama: Sankt Goarshausen complete with moving trains and ships. Riedel sat in a quiet corner of the restaurant before an array of bottles, testing the quality of various digestifs. ‘Yes, yes. Lamkau.’ He nodded. ‘A tragic business.’

Rath ordered a coffee from the waiter who had led him over. ‘You knew him personally?’

‘More professionally, I would say.’

‘But you’ve shaken his hand? Spoken to him?’

‘Naturally.’ Riedel sniffed calmly at the glass he’d just filled.

‘We found a large quantity of cash on his person, the source of which is still unclear. Could it be that Lamkau made the delivery in person on Saturday morning because there was an outstanding balance here in Haus Vaterland?’

‘Kempinski pays by cheque or banker’s order. Not in cash!’ Riedel sounded almost indignant.

‘So, is there an outstanding balance between Haus Vaterland and the Lamkau firm, or not?’

‘Kempinski,’ Riedel said. ‘I don’t just buy for Haus Vaterland, but Kempinski too.’

‘Right. So does the Kempinski firm still owe Lamkau?’

‘I’m not directly responsible for company accounts, but no, not as far as I know.’

‘Then can you explain why he had so much cash on him?’

Riedel shrugged. ‘Perhaps he’d just delivered somewhere else. I don’t know how other companies settle their accounts.’

‘We’re surprised the company owner should’ve made the delivery in person on Saturday.’

Riedel looked around, as if afraid someone might be listening. ‘One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,’ he said at length. ‘But you’re bound to hear it at some point.’

‘Hear what?’

‘His delivering in person might’ve been a gesture of…’ There was a pregnant pause. ‘…goodwill. The Lamkau firm has a little ground to make up.’ Rath pricked up his ears as Riedel gestured towards the bottles in front of him. ‘This is all high-quality stuff. No such thing as rotgut at Kempinski. Our clients know that, and so do our suppliers.’

‘What’s that got to do with Lamkau?’

‘A recent delivery was tainted. Several crates of the stuff. Not Luisenbrand, like it said on the label, but cheap hooch. A layman might’ve fallen for it, but an expert – impossible.’ Riedel sniffed at a glass of light pomace brandy. It wasn’t hard to believe the man was an expert in all things alcoholic, and not just because of the colour of his nose.

‘You’re saying Lamkau tried to palm you off with low-grade hooch?’

‘Who knows? He may not make the stuff himself, but he’s the sole distributor of Mathée Luisenbrand across Central Germany. Either way, this sort of thing shouldn’t happen.’

‘But it did.’

‘Yes. Which is why the Lamkau firm stood to be removed from our list of suppliers. In fact I had invited Herbert Lamkau to a meeting today.’ He looked at his watch. ‘He ought to be sitting exactly where you are now.’

Suddenly everything in the room went black, and a murmur passed through the crowd. Behind the glass pane there was a flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder, and rain started falling over the miniature Sankt Goar. Cries of astonishment suggested the majority of diners had never been here before. Rath doubted there was anyone who would watch the show a second time.

‘Im Haus Vaterland ist man gründlich, hier gewittert’s stündlich,’ Riedel said with a shrug.

A reference to these simulated hourly storms, the tired slogan was designed to entice potential customers. Riedel made it sound more like an apology. Rath waited until the noise had died and lit a cigarette. ‘This meeting. What would it have been about?’ he asked, waving the match out. At the same moment the lights came back on.

Riedel took a sip from one of the glasses before him, taking notes on the individual drinks. ‘Staying on our list of suppliers,’ he said.

‘What happens now that he’s dead?’

‘I can get hold of their other products easily enough. It’s only Luisenbrand the firm has sole distribution rights to.’

‘What about Danziger Goldwasser?’

‘Lamkau isn’t the sole distributor there.’

‘So, if the Lamkau firm had been dropped, who would supply Haus Vaterland in their place?’

‘Do you know, honestly, I haven’t given it much thought, but Luisenbrand isn’t the only decent Korn about.’

Rath tore a sheet from his notebook and passed it across the table. ‘Write me a list of potential alternatives and their suppliers.’

‘You think it’s a competitor who has Lamkau on their conscience?’ Riedel shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine it.’ He wrote down a few names and Rath briefly surveyed the list. He didn’t recognise any of the companies on it.

‘Let’s get back to your meeting with Lamkau,’ he said, stowing the paper in his pocket. ‘What could have persuaded you to change your mind?’

‘An apology.’ Riedel held a glass containing a yellow-gold liquid against the light. ‘A reasonable explanation as to how it could’ve happened. And, naturally, a guarantee there would be no repeat. That would have been enough.’

‘Perhaps the odd banknote might have helped.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You have a lot of power here. In the whole Kempinski firm, in fact. Surely the odd supplier has tried to bribe you?’

‘In my position, you can’t afford to be susceptible.’

‘But a thousand marks? Wouldn’t that make you more… susceptible?’

Riedel laughed loudly. ‘A thousand marks? You must be joking. The quantities Lamkau supplied, how d’you suppose he’d recoup a sum like that?’

On the way up to the fourth floor Rath noted that both freight elevators were back in commission, before reaching the heart, or rather the stomach, of Haus Vaterland. There was so much equipment on display the central kitchen felt more like a small factory. Inside, Rath found a line of gas stoves: huge cauldrons, big as bathtubs, full of steaming soups and sauces, numerous coffee machines, stirring machines, slicing machines, mixing machines, potato-peeling machines and mincers. Set slightly apart, an enormous metal structure went about its business, a kitchen-hand loading a never-ending supply of trays and dirty crockery onto its conveyor belt. Everything hissed and scratched and rattled and clanked and jangled and turned, while countless staff scurried between the glistening technology snipping vegetables, stirring pans, tenderising meat or loading trays of food onto the little paternoster.

Directly above the time clock at the entrance hung several job advertisements. Dishwasher, kitchen-hands wanted; office worker wanted (knowledge of shorthand and experience of commercial kitchens desirable). Rath flagged down a boy pushing a crockery trolley. ‘Where can I find Herr Unger?’ he asked. ‘Apparently he’s the head chef.’

The boy nodded towards a large window before wheeling his trolley on. The window was more like a glass wall, and belonged to a small office. Inside, a man with a chef’s hat sat behind a desk, making entries in a thick notebook. Before him were shelves of files. Here, too, vacancy notices hung by the window. Rath gave a brief knock and entered.

For a chef Manfred Unger was surprisingly thin. He seemed less than pleased at the interruption. ‘What are you doing here? The entire kitchen is closed to unauthorised personnel.’

The room reminded him of a shift supervisor’s office at Ford. The large viewing window made it possible to keep a close eye on the kitchen. ‘Manfred Unger?’

‘Who’s asking?’ Rath reached for his badge, and the chef stood up. ‘So that’s what this is about! Don’t you see I can’t come to the station now?’ He gestured towards the milling mass that was the kitchen. ‘We’re in the middle of a rush.’

‘Who said anything about now?’ Rath looked at his wristwatch. ‘You ought to have been there four and a half hours ago.’

‘When it was even busier. If no one comes to relieve me, there’s nothing I can do.’

‘I’m not sure you understand the gravity of being issued with a summons.’

‘What summons? On Saturday your colleague requested that I come to the station this morning. I’m afraid it wasn’t possible.’

‘I’m not here to argue, Herr Unger, but I’d advise you to make a little time for me now, otherwise things could get nasty.’ Unger sat down. ‘You do realise you’re an important witness in a murder inquiry…’

‘A murder inquiry?’

‘…and refusing to co-operate can very quickly turn a witness into a suspect.’

‘Inspector, as I’ve just explained…’ Unger gestured beyond the viewing window, a hint of desperation in his eyes.

‘I just wanted to make those things clear. Now, am I right in thinking you do have a little time for me?’

‘Of course.’

Rath lit a cigarette before taking his notebook from his pocket. Examining the point of his pencil, he asked his first question. ‘It was you who found Herr Lamkau?’

‘I’ve already explained everything to your colleague.’

‘But not to me.’

‘It scared me half to death, seeing him there like that. I almost fell on top of him.’

‘What were you doing by the lifts?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Why did you push the button?’

‘Why do you think? I needed to get something from downstairs.’

‘What did you need to get?’

‘How should I know? I imagine it was something to eat.’ Unger laughed, but fell silent when he saw Rath’s expression.

‘Aren’t the cold store and stockrooms up here?’

‘Most of them, but not all.’

‘Surely you don’t often go down to fetch goods? It would mean serious disruption.’

Unger looked rattled. ‘What are you getting at? What does this have to do with a murder inquiry?’

‘Leave me to worry about that. You wanted to fetch something, but have forgotten what?’

‘I never had the chance, did I, not when your people showed up. Talk about serious disruption. They were here for hours.’

Rath made a lengthy note. Not because there was much to write, but as an unsettling tactic. Unger had spent the whole time fidgeting on his chair. His legs hadn’t stopped moving for an instant. Time and time again he craned his neck to look out of the viewing window into the kitchen. What he saw only seemed to make him more nervous. Rath was about to ask his next question when he sprang to his feet, opened the door and issued a volley of instructions.

‘Friedhelm! Get the pot roast out of the oven, for God’s sake! Carsten, if you’re not finished with that chicken ragout soon, I’ll come out there personally and light a fire under your arse. And where the fuck is the mash? The first orders will be here in less than an hour! Now get a move on!’

‘Im Haus Vaterland ist man gründlich, hier gewittert’s stündlich,’ Rath murmured.

‘Did you say something?’ Unger closed the door and returned to his desk.

‘Herr Lamkau…’ Rath cleared his throat. ‘Did you know him personally?’

‘The spirits man? Why should I? I’m a chef.’

‘I was only asking, Herr Unger.’

‘Of course.’

Again the thin man squinted through the window. Rath wasn’t sure if it was their conversation or the lack of kitchen supervision that was making him so uneasy.

‘Is there anyone here who did know Herr Lamkau?’

‘No.’ The chef shook his head.

‘Herr Riedel perhaps?’

‘Who’s that?’

‘A colleague of yours. Spirits buyer at Kempinski.’

‘Yes, I know the one.’

Rath made another note, before continuing with his questions. ‘Apparently he had some trouble with a batch of spirits…’

‘There’s always issues with suppliers. We don’t have much cause for spirits in the kitchen. For seasoning perhaps, or if something needs to be flambéd.’

‘So you didn’t hear anything about the tainted schnapps? Luisenbrand. A whole consignment apparently.’

‘Come to think of it, that does sound familiar. Though we absolutely never use Korn.’

Unger was still gazing out of the window. His mind seemed elsewhere. Suddenly he sprang to his feet and ran to the door. ‘What the hell is that?’ he screamed at an unfortunate who had just carried an enormous plate of roast beef past the window, and now froze mid-motion. ‘Who the fuck’s going to eat that? It’s overcooked! Pink! It has to be pink! Only place that’s good for is the pig pail!’ Unger struck out, and there was a clatter as the plate landed on the tiled floor. ‘Now clean it up!’ he said, face the colour of beetroot. ‘I want to see you in my office!’ He slammed the door and returned, still breathing heavily as he took his seat.

‘I hope we’ll be finished here soon,’ he said. ‘You see what happens when you take your eye off the ball.’

Rath stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. ‘That’s it for now,’ he said, looking through the window to where three kitchen-hands in white aprons were scooping roast beef up from the floor. ‘Sorry to have caused so much trouble. Next time just come to Alex when we ask, and this sort of thing won’t happen.’

Rath drove to Hannoversche Strasse from Potsdamer Platz, arriving at the morgue half an hour early. Dr Karthaus wasn’t in the autopsy room, so the porter sent him up to the first floor. He heard a typewriter clattering behind the office door, and knocked. The clattering ceased as he entered and gazed into the eyes of Karthaus and his secretary. The doctor squinted over the rim of his reading glasses and glanced at his watch.

‘What are you doing here? Did I give your secretary the wrong time?’

‘Punctuality is the politeness of princes,’ Rath said.

‘In my estimation, arriving too early is far worse than arriving too late. Or is this a way of compensating for your legendary tardiness?’

‘Don’t make such a fuss, Doctor. You were more or less on my way – so, here I am.’

‘Then you must simply be dying to hear my assessment.’ Karthaus turned to his secretary. ‘Wouldn’t want to disappoint such scientific curiosity, would we, Martha? Pack your things. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.’

With that the doctor swept out of the room and down the stairs, white coat flapping in his wake. Rath struggled to keep pace. Karthaus didn’t say another word until they had passed through the swing doors into the autopsy room. ‘You do realise that was your hotly anticipated written report I was working on?’

‘So?’

‘I was hoping to have it ready for you by this afternoon. Now you’ll have to wait for the internal mail tomorrow.’

‘I prefer my reports to be delivered orally.’

The pathologist shook his head as he sat behind a messy desk and offered Rath a rickety wooden chair. He straightened his reading glasses. ‘So,’ he began. ‘The results of the blood analysis.’ He glanced at a sheet of paper, then reached for another. ‘I’ve found evidence of an unusual substance in the dead man’s bloodstream.’

‘Unusual in what respect?’

‘It’s something you might expect to observe in the South American jungle. It’s called tubocurarine.’

‘Tubo… what?’

‘Curarine. We have the Indians from South America to thank for it. Savages in the Amazon jungle hunt with a blowpipe, killing their prey with a deadly arrow poison, curare. The stuff paralyses the musculature, affecting a victim’s breathing. The speed depends on the dosage.’

‘Are you saying we should be looking for an Indian? Why don’t we start in the Wild West Bar in Haus Vaterland?’

‘You can spare me the unhelpful jokes. Now, let me finish.’ Karthaus actually seemed offended. ‘There are different forms of the curare poison, one of which is tubocurarine…’

‘…which you found in the dead man’s bloodstream.’

‘Right. The interesting thing is that it is currently being trialled in modern medicine for use during surgical procedures…’

‘A poison?’

‘…as a muscle relaxant during operations on the abdomen and thorax. Believe it or not, by loosening the muscles, tubocurarine makes a number of subsequent procedures possible. You just have to administer the correct dose. And, of course, monitor the patient’s breathing.’

‘Then our dead man was given an incorrect dose.’

‘Difficult to say, but since we are searching for a cause of death, and, despite the symptoms, drowning can be ruled out, I would say our man died as a result of respiratory paralysis.’

Rath nodded thoughtfully. ‘That means someone thrust a syringe into Lamkau’s jugular vein, which first put him out of action, then killed him.’

Karthaus nodded.

‘And while all this was going on,’ Rath continued, ‘this same someone tried to drown the poor bastard? That doesn’t make any sense.’

‘Maybe he only tortured him. Water torture has been used since the Spanish Inquisition. The guilty party believes they are drowning and suffers mortal terror.’

‘How does it work?’

‘The tormenta de toca? First the guilty party is held fast, then a cloth is placed over their mouth and nose while water is poured over it.’

‘How much water?’

‘A few litres are enough. You just have to make sure the cloth stays wet. The gag reflex takes care of the rest.’

‘You’re frighteningly well informed, Doctor. Should I be concerned?’

Karthaus was unmoved. ‘The history of criminal interrogation is fascinating stuff. Particularly from a medical standpoint.’

‘I see.’ Rath resisted the urge to shake his head. With his gaunt figure and sunken cheeks, Karthaus really did give him the creeps. He felt more at home with the easy-going Dr Schwartz and his macabre humour. ‘Something I don’t understand… Torture is about extracting information from your victim. Why would you administer an anaesthetic beforehand? A lethal one at that?’

‘Anaesthetic isn’t quite right,’ Karthaus said. ‘Tubocurarine doesn’t act as an analgesic. It paralyses your musculature, but you remain fully conscious and sensitive to pain. Even if you can’t move, can’t even speak, in fact.’

Rath gave a shudder. ‘I just hope something like that doesn’t happen in theatre.’

‘You’ll laugh,’ Karthaus said, making a deadly serious face, ‘but it already has. Unfortunately the patients couldn’t say anything during the procedure, because they were completely paralysed at the time.’

‘Knock it off, Doctor. Lucky for me I’ve never had to go under the knife.’

‘No invasive procedure is devoid of risk, a fact any colleague will confirm.’ Karthaus shrugged again. ‘At least I can open up my clients with peace of mind.’

There was no trace of irony in the doctor’s voice.

9

He was too late, damn it! Had he learned of Lamkau’s death sooner, none of this would have happened, but they hadn’t telephoned him until this morning. They must be going out of their minds in Treuburg, but what else could he do? The green Opel arrived just as he was about to drop in on the widow to offer his condolences. You could tell the pair who got out were cops from a hundred metres, so he had continued down Ordensmeisterstrasse as if it were part of his beat, inwardly cursing the bastards as he went.

With any luck they wouldn’t find anything, but he couldn’t be sure. After all, these were Gennat’s boys, homicide detectives from Alex. The kind that didn’t miss a thing.

Goddamn it!

He’d wait until the cops had disappeared then take a look himself. Perhaps Lamkau had managed to hide the book. If he was smart he’d have chucked it long ago. Still, he couldn’t be that clever, otherwise he’d have survived all this. Whatever this was. They still weren’t sure, even if the death notices were plain enough. Somebody knew; the question was, who?

There was movement on the other side of the road. The cops were returning to the Opel, laden with cardboard boxes. It was exactly as he’d feared. They were taking everything back to Alex to sift at their leisure.

‘Why can’t Rath look at this himself,’ he heard one say. ‘What are we, bookkeepers now?’

‘That’s clearly what the widow thought. It felt like she expected us to put her papers in order.’

‘Well, more fool her.’

They heaved the boxes into the car and went back inside, accompanied by the sound of the great mutt Lamkau had acquired after Wawerka’s death. For a moment he was tempted to take a look, but the car was parked in the courtyard next to the delivery vans, and would be visible from the office. Besides, the cur would sound the alarm. He resolved to stay where he was, in the shadow of an advertising pillar. The men emerged several more times to load boxes before driving off.

He briefly considered going inside to the widow, even if it was no longer necessary. The two officers had been kind enough to say where the documents were headed.

10

Erika Voss was still waiting to finish for the day. Through the open door Rath could see Lange’s and Gräf’s desks were already deserted, in their place were around a dozen cardboard boxes full of files. ‘Detective Gräf said to tell you that examining the Lamkau accounts proved trickier than expected,’ she explained. ‘They seized a number of papers instead.’

Rath nodded and hung up his hat. Kirie pitter-pattered towards him and sniffed his hands.

‘And a lady telephoned a few moments ago,’ she continued, looking at a sheet of paper. ‘From G Division.’

‘Very good,’ Rath intoned casually. ‘Did she say what it was about?’

‘No. She said she’d call back.’

‘Any news from ED?’

‘Afraid not. Herr Kronberg says the report will be ready for tomorrow.’

With that, Erika Voss was gone. Rath gazed after her. Under normal circumstances, he’d have accompanied her, perhaps even driven her home, but the prospect of his deserted, oversized flat filled him with dread.

He went into the office and heaved one of the boxes onto his desk. Didn’t look like company papers. The overzealous Gräf appeared to have purged Herbert Lamkau’s private desk. Or perhaps it was the equally overzealous Lange. Kirie pattered over and let Rath ruffle her fur as he sifted through the contents. A few letters, a passport with a few foreign stamps, mainly Poland and the Free City of Danzig. A thick black notebook, containing endless columns of figures he couldn’t make head or tail of, and, right at the bottom, a pile of gazettes. Alkohol, read the title on the first, General Magazine for the Spirit, Korn and Compressed Yeast Industries. Official Organ of the German Association of Brewing and Distilling. Another was called the Spirit Industry Magazine, Mouthpiece of the Association of Spirit Manufacturers in Germany. Rath shook his head. What a country to be a boffin!

There didn’t seem to be anything else private in the remaining boxes. A glance was enough to tell Rath it wasn’t just the last few months his colleagues had seized, but several financial years. The widow Lamkau would have her work cut out.

He was about to light a cigarette and look at some of the more recent files, when there was a tentative knock at the door. Kirie sprang to her feet and pricked up her ears. Perhaps it was Kronberg, here to share some of ED’s findings. Ever since his wife had died, Kronberg, too, was prone to working overtime. ‘Yes!’ he said.

The door slowly opened and a young woman appeared in the outer office. Kirie made a beeline for her. ‘Superintendent Gennat sent me, Sir.’

Rath couldn’t believe his eyes. She gazed at the floor like a convent girl, but perhaps it was only to conceal her grin. ‘Truth be told,’ the convent girl continued, ‘I’m not due to report until tomorrow morning, but I thought I’d come and introduce myself. To save you from alarm.’

He couldn’t help it. The moment he’d seen who it was, he’d felt a tingling sensation. ‘Let’s have a look at you then. Unfortunately the others have already called it a night.’

‘Unfortunately?’ She closed the door behind her and stepped inside, gaze still firmly fixed on the floor. Gently, he took her chin and tilted it upwards so that she was finally looking him in the eye. Then he kissed her, and felt her kiss him back. ‘But Sir,’ she said.

The fact that she was still in character only aroused him more.

‘Why don’t you come into my office,’ he said sternly, observing her for a moment from behind before following. He shooed Kirie into the outer office, where she sulkily lay in her basket. Once inside he closed the door and they looked at each other. It seemed she could read his mind.

‘We can’t,’ she said, even before he leaned over and kissed her on the nape of the neck, the point that always made her grow weak. Her heavy breathing gave the lie to her protest. ‘Not here!’

‘You are a CID cadet, Fräulein Ritter, and I am your training officer.’

She sighed when he kissed her again. ‘Gereon, cut it out!’

He turned her around and looked at her. ‘For once, will you just do as I say. At least while we’re on the job!’

‘Yes, Sir!’

‘In the upper desk drawer is a key. Take it and lock the door. Just in case.’

She did as bidden. ‘And now, Sir?’

He had already pulled the curtains. He carefully unbuttoned her blouse, kissing the soft skin above her clavicle, working his way slowly down, button by button. Charly breathed heavily and sighed. ‘I’d forgotten how much you enjoy delayed gratification,’ she said.

‘Only up to a point,’ he said.

He surveyed her as she stood before him and decided that point had been reached.

11

He stood outside the police station and gazed up at the offices of Homicide, whose corridors he had visited years before. A crowd of officers left the building, signalling the end of the day shift. He remained in the shadow of the railway arches until the two men emerged. Keeping a low profile was easy in the throng at Alexanderplatz, and he was certain they hadn’t recognised him. They probably hadn’t even seen him.

He smoked a cigarette before leaving his post, knowing that he could enter the building without passing the porter’s lodge. There was no one in the atrium save for two uniform cops at the gate. You just had to say hello and look as if you had business and no one took any notice. He strode determinedly towards the stairwell and climbed the stone steps to the first floor, reaching the glass door on which the word HOMICIDE was printed.

There wasn’t a soul up here, the clatter of typewriters had long since faded. After passing a line of names and doors, including that of the famous Gennat, he found the one he had been searching for.

Detective Inspector Gereon Rath.

He felt for the picklock in his pocket, which he had fetched from Kreuzberg, and looked around. The corridor was still empty. He listened at the door. Silence.

Then out of the corner of his eye he saw movement. The glass door opened, and a reflection flitted briefly in the corridor, a slender young woman. He turned away from the door and continued down the corridor, trying not to move too quickly, resisting the temptation to turn around. There was no way she could have seen him standing outside the door, she was just some dim-witted secretary doing overtime. He saw a toilet and went inside. The stalls appeared to be empty. He opened one, bolted the lock and sat on the toilet seat, listening to the drip of a tap and what he thought was the sound of a door closing. For a long time there was silence, but still he waited before venturing outside.

The corridor was empty. He had no idea whose secretary it was, but hoped it wasn’t Detective Inspector Rath’s. That he, of all people, should be doing overtime… but no, or his colleagues would never have left when they did. No one reacted when he knocked, and he was about to remove the picklock from his pocket when he realised the door was unlocked. He replaced the false key, knocked a second time and, when still no one answered, opened the door.

The outer office was deserted, but just then he caught sight of the black dog looking at him, head tilted to one side. The thing had probably been staring at him this whole time, curiously, guilelessly, neither growling nor gnashing its teeth. He beat an orderly retreat, realising he’d made the right choice when, before he’d even closed the door, the cur issued two short, loud barks.

He looked around but no one had entered the corridor in the meantime. Everyone had finished save for the late shift; the late shift and those imbeciles still clocking up overtime, like Detective Inspector Rath.

What a stroke of luck he hadn’t bumped into him, only his mutt – who couldn’t speak.

The incident had him break out in a sweat. On the way out he took the stairwell at the opposite end of the corridor to avoid crossing Homicide again.

At least now he knew where to look.

12

‘You still haven’t given me a response,’ Rath said, as they shared an Overstolz. ‘Or was that it just now?’

He pulled back the curtains and allowed daylight into the office, not knowing how long they had lain skin to skin on his ‘overtime’ sofa, dreaming and out of breath. Kirie had barked once or twice, fetching them back to reality, reminding Rath that she was waiting for him outside. They put on the rest of their clothes.

‘You seduced me, you cad,’ she said, taking a drag on the cigarette.

‘I thought it was you who seduced me.’

‘Then we’re equally culpable.’

‘Agreed, Your Honour. Now, how about that response?’

She took another drag and passed him the Overstolz. ‘Not now,’ she said. ‘And not here.’

‘I know a nice restaurant in Friedrichstadt.’ He could have eaten a horse.

‘Gereon,’ she said. ‘Not now.’

‘Then when?’

‘Soon. Right now I don’t have the time.’

He looked at his watch. ‘At nine, then? Ten?’

‘You’re incorrigible!’ She gazed out of the window, as if her appointments diary was hovering in the sky above the court building. ‘Ten’s too late, but nine should be fine.’ She smiled.

‘Splendid, then let’s go to Femina. Make sure you put on your dance dress.’

‘Then I really do have to go.’ She grabbed the cigarette for a final drag. ‘I’m late enough as it is.’ She kissed him, giving him an angry look. ‘You and your delayed gratification.’

With that she turned the key. No sooner had she opened the door than Kirie came bounding in. ‘You two ought to wait a while,’ she said. ‘Late as it is, I don’t want to risk being seen together at the Castle.’

‘Well, don’t be upset if Kirie takes it personally.’

She shrugged and left. He gazed after her pensively, and only when he saw that Kirie wore a similar expression did he break into a grin. Half an hour later, after taking Kirie for a short walk in Tiergarten, he was back in Carmerstrasse, albeit much earlier than planned. He felt almost indecently cheerful as he marched up the steps with Kirie in tow.

‘Evening, Bergner,’ he said in passing.

‘Evening, Herr Rath.’

He relished the porter’s greeting, which sounded a little like Evening, Herr Kriminalrat. Evening, Superintendent. For the first time in a long time he caught himself thinking about rank and promotion as he took the lift up. Superintendent might be a distant dream, but by now detective chief inspector was surely overdue. It felt like forever since he had been in breach of his duties – at least, it would feel like forever to his superiors. His status as husband and, hopefully, family man, could significantly increase his chances of promotion. Assuming Charly said ‘yes’, it wouldn’t hurt to make their engagement public in the Castle as soon as possible. Perhaps they might even persuade Gennat to act as witness…

Arriving upstairs, he slung his hat on the hook and let Kirie off the lead. He went into the living room, opened a window, lit a cigarette and gazed out. The fresh summer breeze and evening atmosphere only improved his mood further. For once he felt at peace with the world.

The telephone rang. Was it Charly already? He still had to get changed.

‘Apparatebau Rath, Rath am Apparat,’ he answered, rolling his ‘r’s’ and stressing his ‘t’s’.

‘Are you ever going to grow up?’

‘Paul?’

Paul Wittkamp was Rath’s oldest friend, the only one left from his Cologne days. When he’d moved to Berlin, nearly all his supposed friends had turned their backs on him. In truth it had started even before that, when the Cologne press were hounding him and his colleagues began avoiding him in the canteen; when his fiancée, a good match from an equally good Cologne house, broke off their engagement. Only Paul had stayed loyal. Since then Rath had met a great many people in Berlin, but Paul remained his one, true friend, even if they only saw each other once in a blue moon.

‘Fräulein Heller left a note saying a Herr Rath from Berlin had been in touch.’

‘I need your advice.’

‘There was me thinking you needed a best man. She’s back now, isn’t she?’

Paul had already made Charly’s acquaintance. In fact, it was he who’d urged Rath to marry her, over two years ago. Since then the prospect of their marriage came up at every turn.

‘We Prussians are slow on the draw.’

‘Funny, I’d never realised. How long is it now?’

‘You know very well.’ Rath was pleased Paul couldn’t see his grin. ‘Things might be moving quicker on that front than you think, but right now what I need is your professional advice.’

‘Do you want me to recommend a wine? I’m afraid Wittkamp don’t supply bachelors with burgeoning drink problems.’

‘But you do supply Kempinski?’

‘For two years now. I remember my Berlin visit very well. Cost me a grazing shot and a few bruises. Managed to get you out of trouble and land my contract with Kempinski on the side.’

‘Just how important is that contract with Kempinski?’

‘Very. Not only in terms of revenue, but reputation. Once upon a time you could be a purveyor to the court, to the Kaiser or King. Now you can supply Kempinski. The name means something, not just in Berlin.’

‘Is it hard to get in there?’

‘Let’s just say, other clients are easier. For Kempinski quality is the most important thing, and then the price.’

‘Can Kempinski buyers be bought?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Can you jog their goodwill? I don’t know, with gifts for example.’

‘I don’t know how you think these things work, but I’ve never done anything of the sort.’

‘I’m not saying you have. I’m just asking if it’s a possibility.’

‘Fundamentally, anyone can be bought. But if the quality isn’t right, no Kempinski buyer would be interested. The supplier would be out on their ear right away.’

‘Supposing the quality wasn’t up to scratch just once, and you were in danger of being out on your ear, might a gift help then? Provided you swore blind it would never happen again?’

‘Gereon, listen, I don’t know if I can help. I don’t know what desperate people do. I can’t predict how Kempinski buyers might react.’

‘But it could drive you to despair, losing your Kempinski contract…’

‘It could certainly ruin your good reputation. Provided, of course, you had one in the first place.’

13

The Femina-Bar was at the top of Nürnberger Strasse, right by Tauentzienstrasse, in a large, modern premises with an apparently endless, elegantly curved façade. Nowhere was Berlin more fashionable than here. A man in a red-gold uniform opened the taxi door and helped Charly out, while Rath pressed a note into the driver’s hand. Already he knew the evening wouldn’t be cheap. A few hundred metres further towards Wilmersdorf was where he had lodged with the widow Behnke, three years before. Back then the Femina had still been a construction site.

Charly stood next to the taxi and smiled, looking stunning in her midnight-blue dress and light summer coat. Rath was glad he’d purchased a new dinner suit. He offered his arm, and she took it in hers, and how amazingly proud he felt to be strolling with her through the night, following the gold-braided porter as he led them to the entrance, a row of modern glass doors, a wide, inviting strip of warm, bright-coloured light, above which the rest of the façade was lost in darkness, broken only by ribbons of neon: Femina, das Ballhaus Berlins. Berlin’s ballroom.

It was the hottest ticket in town, but he wanted to show her that she was worth it, that she meant more to him than money could buy. In the taxi they had barely exchanged a word. Rath had the feeling that Charly was at least as nervous as he was, although he didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad.

The porter opened one of the glass doors. Unseen by Charly, Rath thrust five marks into his hand, upon which the man entrusted them to a colleague in the lobby, who in turn led them to the cloakroom, where he was likewise rewarded with five marks. All the while Rath took pains to ensure that Charly saw no money exchanging hands. After relieving them of their coats, the man accompanied them to a large lift. As they stepped into the car Rath couldn’t help thinking of Herbert Lamkau’s dead eyes.

The lift took them up to a huge ballroom with a wrap-around gallery, the imitation gold Rococo offering the perfect contrast to the modern façade. Another five marks guaranteed a front row seat and an unusually obliging waiter. Rath was glad when they finally sat down. He was starting to run out of change.

The first dancers began moving to the sounds of the jazz band, who played flawlessly despite their stiff appearance. Rath ordered champagne to start while Charly studied the menu. Apparently she was hungry. He watched her eyes widen as she whistled quietly through her teeth. ‘You must be feeling flush!’ she said, placing it to one side.

‘It’s a special evening.’

She threw him an enigmatic glance. All of a sudden he felt overcome by the insecurity which had dogged him these last few days.

The champagne arrived and they clinked glasses. ‘What are we drinking to?’ he asked. ‘To us?’

‘How about we start with tonight, and your bulging wallet,’ Charly said, revealing her dimpled smile. At that moment he knew she had long since made up her mind, and that her answer would be more complex than a simple ‘yes’. They were silent for a time as they browsed the menus.

‘So, you want to marry me,’ she said at length, fumbling a Juno out of her handbag, the trailing vestiges of a smile still on her face. ‘Do you have any idea what you’re letting yourself in for?’

‘I think so,’ he said, and opened his cigarette case. ‘I mean, we’ve been practising long enough.’

‘Marriage means more than performing your conjugal duties,’ she whispered across the table.

‘Keep talking like that and I’ll jump on you right here.’

‘Seriously, Gereon. How do you envisage our everyday life?’

Here they come, he thought, the complex Charly-style questions, and even though he’d been expecting them, he still didn’t have any answers. How could he? He didn’t envisage his everyday life or his future, he just wanted to live them, with her by his side.

‘It’ll be like a fairy tale,’ he said, drawing the words in the air with his cigarette: ‘And they lived happily ever after.’ He held his lighter first to her Juno, then to his Overstolz. ‘What about you? How do you envisage our everyday life?’

Charly’s response came promptly. ‘I know I don’t want to spend the whole day in the kitchen looking after our hundred kids, just waiting for the master of the house to return so I can serve him dinner and pamper him.’

‘What a picture. But who said anything about a hundred kids? I’d settle for between one and three…’

She laughed. ‘Oh, stop being such a silly clot! I’m not saying I don’t ever want kids! Just that I want a career first!’

The waiter came to take their order. The table held nothing like the romantic atmosphere Rath had been hoping for. Somehow it felt as if they were negotiating a contract, rather than deciding to spend the rest of their lives together out of love.

Charly waited until they were alone again. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, but I know there are lots of women who’d like to work, who are forbidden from doing so by their husbands, and I’ve no desire to join their ranks.’

‘What do you mean “forbidden”? All I’m saying is I earn enough to support us both.’

‘Gereon, listen to me, I’ll work for as long as I please, there’s nothing you can do about it. If you should ever try, I’ll divorce you on the spot!’

He could have embraced her, the way she sat there looking so indignant. He lifted his glass and grinned. ‘Let’s drink to that.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Well, if I’ve understood correctly, you’ve just said “yes”. If we can’t drink to that, what can we drink to?’

For a moment she looked bewildered, only for her dimple to reappear. ‘No flies on you pigs, are there?’ She reached for her glass, and they clinked before she took his hand in hers and gazed at him through her brown eyes. She was worth every grey hair she’d already given him, as well as those that were still to come.

‘Seriously, Gereon,’ she said. ‘These things are important to me.’

He nodded. No one had said it would be easy with Charly, but that’s not what this was about. ‘I promise,’ he said and smiled. ‘I’ll never prevent you from working. But… that doesn’t mean I don’t want kids with you… at some stage.’

She smiled, revealing her dimple again. ‘We can have a hundred as far as I’m concerned, but I must warn you: I can only have girls. And they’ll all be exactly like me!’

‘Lord have mercy! Perhaps we should reconsider after all.’

‘No chance. Now, give me that ring!’

He took the little case out of his inside pocket and opened it. ‘If I could ask for your hand, Fräulein Ritter.’

She stretched out her hand and skilfully he eased the ring onto her finger. It was a perfect fit. ‘You’ve done this before,’ she said.

‘I thought you knew.’ He raised his glass. ‘To us. To the best engagement I’ve ever had!’

She inspected the ring from a distance. ‘You’re lucky it’s so pretty, otherwise I’d be throwing it straight back in your face. The effrontery.’

‘No can do. It’s official now.’ Rath took the champagne from the cooler and poured. ‘But I want to hear it from you, just once.’

‘Hear what?’

‘What do you mean “what”? That little word. “Yes”.’

‘I thought that didn’t matter until the registry office.’ She smiled.

There was a commotion. It must have been going on for some time, but up till that point the music had mercifully drowned it out. Now the piece was finished, however, a man could be heard screeching into the applause.

‘If I want a beer, then it’s your job to get me one, fancy pants!’

Rath turned around. The waiter stood at most three tables away, wine list in hand, trying to pacify a beetroot-coloured customer who seemed determined to kick up a fuss. His companion, a full-figured beauty, was clearly ill at ease. The waiter spoke at a civilised volume, meaning Rath could only catch the odd snippet. ‘…I’m sorry…’, ‘…you have to order wine here…’, ‘…beer is only served in the gallery…’ Then the loudmouth started again, with the whole room listening this time.

‘Are you trying to tell me what I can and can’t order? I’m the customer here, so bring me a goddamn beer! Or do I have to make you?’

In the meantime two elegantly dressed, well-built men had approached. The waiter discreetly took his leave to see to the other guests, while they quietly persuaded the troublemaker to start looking for his cloakroom ticket. The loudmouth still wasn’t ready to accept defeat. He sprang to his feet, thrusting a hand from his shoulder. ‘I won’t stand for it, not in a goddamn Jew restaurant! You can’t treat a German like this!’

He was wrong, of course. As discreetly as possible the strongmen ushered the hothead out of the room. ‘Someday you’ll be in for a surprise,’ he ranted, before being bundled into the lift. ‘You Jews!’ he yelled as the doors closed. ‘Think you’re better than the rest, but you’re wrong!’

His companion gazed around in embarrassment, then took her handbag and stood up.

By now the musicians had finished turning their pages. The band started up again, and the guests, who had listened to the exchange in silence, resumed their conversations. The dancers swayed as before, as if nothing had happened.

‘Maybe that’s a possibility,’ Charly said.

‘Pardon me?’

‘Anti-Semitism. Haus Vaterland is a goddamn Jew restaurant too, to borrow that delightful man’s turn of phrase.’

‘As a motive for murder? I’m not sure. When people like that curse the Jews, they don’t mean it seriously. It’s like getting worked up about a “Jew club” winning the German league. It’s just a manner of speaking.’

‘It’s anti-Semitism. I was angry Bayern Munich won instead of Hertha, too, but you don’t catch me talking about a “Jew club”.’

‘There you are, talking about work again.’ Rath grinned. ‘You know, you can tell you’re a pig too. We aren’t on duty again till tomorrow morning.’

‘Doesn’t quite work calling a female CID officer “pig”, does it?’

‘What should I call you then? A sow?’

‘No animal names until we’ve been married at least ten years.’

‘As you wish, honey bear.’

‘Buffoon!’

Rath grinned. ‘What will Gennat make of it when he hears?’

‘Make of what?’

‘Our engagement.’

‘Let’s keep it to ourselves while the Vaterland investigation is ongoing.’

‘And go public as soon as it’s closed.’

‘It’s a deal.’ Charly stood up. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to dance.’

‘Before dinner? I didn’t hear anything about it being ladies’ choice.’

‘You’re engaged now. You’d better get used to it.’ With that she stretched out a slender arm and waited for him to lead her to the dance floor.

14

Erika Voss’s typewriter clattered on the adjoining desk, but if Charly covered her ear when making a call everything was fine. Gereon had assigned her a spot on the visitor’s table in the outer office with his secretary and Kirie. The dog had taken it better than Erika Voss, who seemed personally aggrieved that she should curl up under Charly’s table. The secretary had been just as surprised by the noisy greeting Kirie afforded the new girl, but accepted both with a shrug. Only when Charly asked to use the telephone did she give a slightly venomous look.

‘So long as you answer when it rings,’ she said.

Charly offered a disarming smile, and Gereon’s secretary left her in peace. Sitting at this wobbly table, she was scarcely able to believe her luck.

Who’d have thought she’d be working for Homicide again? Certainly not her. A transfer like this was exceedingly rare, hence the looks when she appeared at A Division’s morning briefing. She had revelled in her colleagues’ surprise, before taking her place with the Vaterland team and Gereon Rath.

From time to time she’d asked herself whether Gennat suspected her relationship with Gereon was more than simply professional. But then he wouldn’t have allocated her to him. Or would he?

At any rate, neither of them had let on during briefing or back in the office. They greeted one another politely, as usual, when their paths crossed. It was a strange feeling after yesterday evening, and last night. She had stayed over, but they’d travelled to Alex separately, he in the Buick, she on the BVG. She’d arrived on schedule; he a little behind. Then, for the second time that day, she’d bid him good morning, this time using the polite form of address.

She had to take care that she didn’t get things muddled with her new colleagues. She was on first-name terms with Reinhold Gräf, whom she’d known for ages, but not with Andreas Lange, although they’d worked together before. With Gereon, of course, she was also on first-name terms, but not in the Castle. It was pretty complicated. As for Erika Voss, she had absolutely no idea. Under normal circumstances she’d have gone for ‘informal’, but wasn’t that a little too pally? Shouldn’t a candidate for inspector keep her distance from a secretary?

Resolving not to worry too much she focused on the task at hand. Gereon had started her off on a piece of drudge work, of course, since he couldn’t display a preference. She was to canvass suppliers for a paralytic poison called tubocurarine, which had been used to kill the man in Haus Vaterland. Reinhold Gräf had provided a long list of addresses where the drug was stocked: South American researchers and institutes for tropical diseases, as well as a few hospitals. Setting to work on her telephone marathon, she was sceptical that someone who’d employed the poison as a murder weapon would have access by legal means. They’d either have stolen it, or got it from someone who’d acquired it illegally themselves.

After two hours she finished working her way through Gräf’s list with her suspicions confirmed: no thefts, no unexplained dwindling of supplies; curare reserves all intact.

Erika Voss was still hammering away while giving her new colleague the silent treatment. No doubt Charly had made a rookie error in finishing something she’d been given to keep her temporarily occupied, but now wasn’t the time to think about that. She wanted to do something meaningful, and not just sit around. There was no option but to disturb the gentlemen’s club, and request a fresh assignment.

Erika Voss reclaimed her telephone with an expression faintly reminiscent of a smile, as, address list wedged under her arm, Charly knocked on the connecting door, entering to find Lange and Gräf engaged in conversation over a box of files, some of which lay open on the desk. Gereon was on the telephone, and merely raised his eyebrows when he saw her. She hardly took any notice and felt a perverse delight in effecting to ignore him, only to discreetly stroke his hand as she passed. On no account could she think about what happened last night in this office, otherwise she’d have dragged him by the tie into the nearest broom cupboard.

She stood before the desk with the files and cleared her throat. ‘No joy. We can rule out hospitals and South American researchers.’ Gräf and Lange both looked up. No doubt they had been hoping to keep her occupied until at least lunchtime. Before they could say anything, she continued. ‘I suggest we concentrate on known illegal sources of supply.’ Hearing no opposition, she continued. ‘Perhaps I should speak with Narcotics?’

Reinhold Gräf was staring at her goggle-eyed, and she almost burst out laughing. ‘Finished already?’ he said disbelievingly, looking over her list. ‘You didn’t find any irregularities?’

‘None. They all checked their stocks and called back. We’ve no reason to disbelieve them. They’re all reputable establishments.’

‘I see,’ Gräf said. ‘And now you want to look into the disreputable ones.’

Gereon finished his telephone conversation and stood to cast his eye over the list. ‘Good work, Fräulein Ritter,’ he said, ‘and good thinking about Narcotics, but you don’t have to go through the proper channels right away. It can be rather painstaking here at headquarters.’ He gestured towards the wall, and the obligatory portrait of Hindenburg. ‘A few doors along from us is Detective Inspector Dettmann. He joined the department from Narcotics two months ago. Perhaps he has an idea. People say he knows his way around the streets. If that doesn’t work, then you can always make it official.’

He spoke the last sentence in such paternal, schoolmasterly tones that it was all she could do to keep her facial muscles under control. At that moment Erika Voss poked her head around the door.

‘Inspector,’ she said, avoiding Charly’s gaze. ‘Superintendent Gennat says he can see you now.’

‘Tell the super I’ll be along in five minutes.’

She disappeared, and Charly smiled at Gereon. ‘Thanks for the tip, Sir. Detective Inspector Dettmann. Where did you say his office was?’

‘If you wait a moment, I’ll take you there myself. I have to see Gennat anyway.’

He could have skipped the explanation, she thought. It sounded overeager and a little forced. Still, her colleagues didn’t seem to notice anything. She nodded as submissively as one would expect from a female cadet.

Lange and Gräf returned to the files as the pair exited the office. Erika Voss didn’t look up from her typewriter, but Charly was certain she had registered them leaving together.

‘I’m just showing Fräulein Ritter here the way to Dettmann’s office,’ Rath said. ‘Then I’m off to see the super.’ Erika Voss nodded, refusing to be distracted from her work.

With a stoical expression, Rath closed the door behind them. Outside their gazes met for an instant, whereupon Charly noticed something else. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Is that my doing?’

Rath looked around. Fortunately the corridor was empty. A few people stood at the other end by the glass door, too far away to see anything, save, perhaps, for a man and a woman lingering slightly too long outside an office door.

‘You’d better show me the way to Dettmann’s,’ she whispered. ‘Stay here any longer and it’ll look like we’re sharing a tearful goodbye.’

‘We need to think of something, Charly, and fast. Things can’t go on like this.’

‘Maybe you should try thinking a little harder about work.’

‘Shouldn’t be too tricky with Gennat.’ He paused and gestured towards a door. ‘This is Dettmann here. Not necessarily the friendliest, but he spent almost ten years with Narcotics. If anyone can tell you about sources of supply, it’s him.’

‘Right you are,’ she said. ‘Everything OK down there?’

‘Much better,’ he said, kissing her so suddenly that she started. But it was no good, she couldn’t help herself. Afterwards she looked up into his boyish grin and turned around. The officers by the glass door had disappeared, and the corridor was deserted once more.

‘Opportunity makes the thief,’ Gereon said, disappearing in the opposite direction, where Gennat had his office. He was right: they had to think of something.

Detective Inspector Harald Dettmann’s office was only two doors down from Gereon’s. She took a quick glance at her pocket mirror to check her lipstick, before knocking and entering cautiously. Dettmann’s outer office was empty but the connecting door was open, and she went through. A wiry man in his late thirties with thinning hair sat at his desk; a second desk in the room was abandoned. He looked up.

‘Detective Inspector Dettmann, I presume.’ Charly stepped inside, still in high spirits.

‘The very same,’ Dettmann said and stood up. ‘Come on in.’ He sat casually on the edge of the desk. ‘With whom do I have the pleasure?’

‘Charlotte Ritter, CID cadet. My apologies. I thought you were at briefing this morning.’

‘I was busy.’ He looked her up and down. ‘Did I miss anything?’

‘Well, I’m currently working on a homicide case and…’

‘A homicide.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Didn’t know G Division dealt with that sort of thing.’

‘I’ve been assigned to the Vaterland team, led by Inspector Gereon Rath,’ she said, as businesslike as possible. ‘We urgently need information about a substance called tubocurarine. As well as any illegal sources of supply here in Berlin.’

‘I see.’

‘I was hoping you might be able to help.’

‘Why doesn’t Rath come to me himself?’

‘Inspector Rath entrusted me with the task, so it’s me you’ll have to make do with.’

‘Don’t they teach you cadets to speak to Narcotics in such cases? I’m a homicide detective.’

What should have been a harmless chat between colleagues was already going badly wrong. Still, Charly persevered. She wouldn’t let herself be ground down; she hadn’t grown up in Moabit for nothing. ‘Call it an unofficial request,’ she said with a smile, but Dettmann remained impassive. ‘Before I go to another department… I thought, between colleagues…’

‘I see. Between colleagues… Is this some sort of joke?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Do I look like a bloody typist?’

‘I don’t understand…’

‘You were Gennat’s stenographer, weren’t you? And since you take me for a colleague…’

‘I’m no typist, as you’d have it, but a CID cadet. A candidate for inspector in G Division, currently seconded to A Division! And I won’t stand for this much longer.’

‘You won’t stand for this much longer? Well, I say!’

Dettmann looked her up and down, shamelessly ogling her legs. ‘Listen to me, lady,’ he said quietly, leaning so far forward she could smell his aftershave and bad breath. ‘I don’t know who you’ve been blowing around here, Böhm or Buddha, but I do know one thing: you can’t tell me what to do.’

Charly couldn’t believe her ears. ‘What did you just say?’

‘I don’t know what it is you heard, Charlotte.’

‘Since when did I give you permission to use my first name?’ In fact, Dettmann had been using the informal mode of address throughout.

‘Your permission? I don’t need your permission to do anything. Is that clear? Certainly not in my office. Now, why don’t you go back to your women’s division? Maybe they’ll let you order them about. Beat it, I have things to do.’ He returned behind his desk, not deigning to give her another glance.

She stood open-mouthed, baffled. Her initial impulse was to go over and give the bastard a smack, but common sense told her it was unlikely to be a good career move. Instead she stood gasping for air like a fish out of water.

‘Was there something else, Fräulein Ritter?’ Dettmann smiled so brazenly she was rendered speechless once and for all. ‘I thought we were finished here.’

He had reverted to the formal mode of address. Seeing him grin like that, Charly knew, at that moment, that Harald Dettmann would point-blank deny uttering the shameless insults he had just said to her face. And who would believe a female cadet against a veteran detective inspector? Besides, according to the pin on his lapel, Dettmann was a member of the Schrader Verband, the Association of Prussian Police Officers; he’d have to be caught stealing silver spoons from the commissioner’s office to be knocked from his perch.

Charly didn’t want the grinning Dettmann to enjoy her frustration. She turned on her heel, accidentally slamming the door as she returned through the outer office without knowing where she was headed.

The incident seemed more and more unreal the longer she thought about it. As if it had been a dream, although her anger told her in no uncertain terms that it had really happened. Worse than that was her sense of shame. Somehow it felt as if she were the one who ought to be ashamed at Dettmann’s impertinence. Yes, she actually felt ashamed, and when she realised this, she only grew angrier.

Finally, without realising how she had got there, she found herself in the female toilets, built to accommodate the numerous secretaries and stenographers who worked in A Division. Fortunately, there was no one else here; the large washroom was empty, and would only fill up when the women came to fix their lipstick during lunch hour. She locked herself in one of the stalls, sat on the toilet seat and gave way to tears of rage. She couldn’t help it. She kicked against the cubicle door, but it brought nothing but a loud bang and a painful foot.

Dettmann, the fucking arsehole!

The thing that annoyed her most was that he’d managed to hurt her quite so much, just when she’d begun to think of herself as a fully fledged member of the Berlin Police. Now she had been fetched back to earth. The simple fact was that, as a woman in CID, she was nobody. Any inspector with a career-enhancing union membership and a dirty mind could say what the hell he liked, to her face, without fear of the consequences.

15

Rath sat on the worn green sofa in Gennat’s office before a veritable mountain of cakes, contemplating a slice of nutcake whose dryness more than compensated for its lack of size. Gennat helped himself to a slice of gooseberry tart as his secretary, Trudchen Steiner, entered with a pot of freshly brewed coffee. Rath gratefully accepted.

‘That was some performance you gave this morning,’ Gennat said, skewering a slice of tart with his cake fork. Rath had provided an update on the Vaterland case, as the investigation had been dubbed internally, and Buddha was particularly impressed by the results of the blood analysis. ‘Have you made any progress with your search for this Indian arrow poison?’

‘Fräulein Ritter is on top of it. So far we’ve been able to rule out hospitals, university institutes, and all known South American researchers in Berlin. Fräulein Ritter has suggested that with the help of Narcotics we now focus our attentions on illegal sources of supply.’

‘How is she getting on? Are you satisfied?’

‘Very.’ Rath hurriedly swallowed his cake. ‘Fräulein Ritter is a quick and reliable worker.’

‘Isn’t she just? She’d be a real asset to A Division. Sadly I can only loan her from Superintendent Wieking on a case-by-case basis.’ He shook his head. ‘I suppose I should be glad there is a women’s CID at all.’

‘Besides the sequence of events,’ Rath continued, ‘the thing that concerns us most is motive. With that, we’re back to the thousand marks found on the victim.’

‘Still no explanation?’

‘The Vaterland accounts aren’t settled in cash. Gräf and Lange are currently in the process of reconstructing Herbert Lamkau’s final rounds. We still don’t know why he decided to make his deliveries in person on the morning in question.’

‘But you have your suspicions?’

‘It’s possible the money was intended as a bribe for someone in Haus Vaterland, one of the buyers perhaps. Lamkau was in danger of losing his most important client, but above all his reputation. Supplying Kempinski… is like being a purveyor to the court.’

‘So, where’s the motive? The recipient of a bribe would hardly have recourse to murder.’

‘Perhaps it was blackmail.’

‘Then why was the money still in Lamkau’s overalls?’

‘There are some inconsistencies that need ironing out,’ Rath said. ‘It’s clear there were some shady deals going on behind the scenes at Haus Vaterland. Perhaps there still are. It’s conceivable they could be linked to Lamkau’s death.’ He replaced his plate on the table. ‘We can also safely assume that Lamkau’s killer was still in the building when the police arrived, meaning it’s someone already on our list of names. We’ve had no luck with the interrogations so far, but…’

Having only just dealt with his nutcake, Rath looked on in horror as Gennat now shovelled a slice of Sachertorte onto his plate.

‘Thank you, Sir,’ he said, failing to preface the line with a ‘no’.

‘Please continue.’

‘Since we are dealing with a limited group of people, it might be worthwhile checking the employees in question for specialist medical knowledge, acquired before their time at Haus Vaterland, or outside of work. With the Red Cross or wherever.’

‘Because of the deadly injection, you mean?’

Rath nodded. ‘According to Dr Karthaus it isn’t at all easy to inject through the jugular vein. And how many people know their way around tubocurarine?’ He picked up a forkful of Sachertorte and decided to repeat his request for reinforcements. ‘What I could imagine in this situation, Sir, is an undercover operation. We could smuggle someone into Haus Vaterland to keep an eye on our suspects.’

To Rath’s delight, Gennat nodded. ‘Good idea.’

‘I’m glad you think so, Sir.’ Rath was still balancing cake on his fork. ‘Perhaps you could spare me a colleague or two…’

‘I’m afraid staffing issues won’t allow that.’

‘The problem is,’ Rath said, ‘that both Lange and Gräf – and myself too, of course – have already visited Haus Vaterland in our capacity as CID officers, and would be recognised immediately. Quite apart from the fact that we lack the knowledge and skills to work in a commercial kitchen.’

‘Detective Roeder used a fake beard to avoid being recognised.’

‘Detective Roeder is no longer with the police force.’

Erwin Roeder had quit his post a few years back to pursue a career as an author. The sort of costumes favoured by the self-proclaimed ‘arch investigator’ would barely have passed muster at the Cologne Carnival.

‘You’re right,’ Gennat said. ‘A fake beard would be no good to us here.’

‘You’re certain there’s nothing you can do? A single officer would be enough. Couldn’t you pull some strings with the other departments?’

‘I’ve already given you Fräulein Ritter. That’s the best I can do.’ Gennat sounded unusually short. Rath chose to focus on his cake. ‘And when I think about it,’ Buddha continued, ‘she could be just what you need. Am I right in thinking that so far Charly’s been confined to desk duty?’

Rath was still working his way through his Sachertorte, and was happy to stay quiet for the time being. This wasn’t how he’d pictured things, but Gennat seemed set on the idea.

‘A woman would create the least suspicion,’ Buddha said. ‘No one would imagine they were dealing with a police officer. Besides, Charly has worked undercover before. Very successfully I might add.’

‘If at great personal risk.’

‘There’s always personal risk, but Fräulein Ritter can look after herself. It was you that suggested an undercover operation in the first place!’

True, Rath thought, but only because I needed more men.

‘Yes, but…’

‘But what? Go away and have a think about how you’re going to smuggle her into Haus Vaterland. The operation is hereby approved.’

Rath wondered what Charly might say when he suggested she apply for one of the positions in Haus Vaterland, but he could see from Gennat’s face that there would be no going back. Buddha reached for the tray of cakes, skilfully dismembering a second slice of gooseberry tart while Rath made further inroads into his Sachertorte. It was an unwritten rule that you should always finish your plate in Buddha’s office; he was said to view leftovers as an insult.

‘There was something else I wanted to discuss,’ Gennat said. ‘Something just between us. It concerns the possibility that we might be dealing with a serial killer.’

The phrase ‘serial killer’ made Rath sit bolt upright. The press were already breathing down his neck about the Phantom murders, and he could do without such scrutiny here. Serial killer. Gennat himself had coined the phrase, and usually it spelled trouble. The papers were quick to strike when investigations stalled, citing police incompetence and sowing fear among the population, which could all too quickly get out of hand.

Buddha gestured towards the table with his fork, on top of which lay a journal. Rath recognised the cover of the Kriminalistische Monatshefte, a periodical for which Gennat wrote now and again, most recently about Peter Kürten, the Vampire of Düsseldorf, a serial killer who had eventually fallen into police hands by chance.

‘Listening to you yesterday morning,’ Buddha continued, ‘I couldn’t help thinking of an article I read in the Monatshefte a few weeks back, in which a similarly strange case was described.’ He took the periodical from the table and put on his reading glasses. ‘I looked it up again, and I must say the similarities between our case and the…’ He peered through his spectacles ‘…Wawerka case from Dortmund are quite astonishing. Here, too, we have a victim who drowned in an enclosed space.’

‘Lamkau didn’t drown.’

‘Maybe Wawerka didn’t either. Who knows if forensic pathology is up to scratch in Dortmund. Either way, I couldn’t help thinking of it when you spoke yesterday.’ Gennat pushed the magazine across the table. ‘Have a look for yourself.’

Rath laid his plate on the table, praying that Buddha wouldn’t cut him a third slice, and picked up the journal. Perhaps I should read this sort of thing more often, he thought, feigning interest. ‘Have our colleagues in Dortmund had any more luck?’

‘I’m afraid not. The case is with the wet fish.’ Wet fish was Castle terminology for cold case. ‘But the similarities are striking. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it at briefing. Some officers are rather closer to the press than they ought to be.’ He looked Rath in the eye, knowing his inspector had links there too. ‘If the papers should catch the phrase “serial killer”, then all hell will break loose. But I don’t have to tell you that.’

‘No, Sir.’

‘Anyhow, we can’t allow them to make a fuss, especially when we still don’t know if we’re on the right track. I would therefore ask you to pursue this with discretion.’

‘Doesn’t the distance mitigate against your theory? Berlin and Dortmund are more than five hundred kilometres apart.’

‘Four hundred and ninety, if you take the Reichsstrasse. Six and a half hours by train.’ Gennat was unmoved. ‘But you’re right. Normally a serial killer operates in a more confined radius. Even so, we now have two cases that could go together, and perhaps there are more. Perhaps there are links we’re still not seeing, geographical or otherwise.’

‘And if it really is one and the same perpetrator, maybe they don’t come from Berlin at all, but Dortmund.’

‘Or elsewhere. Perhaps it’s a travelling salesman who strikes wherever he stops for the night.’

‘Then we should check if there have been any similar incidents in Prussia.’

‘My thinking exactly, Inspector.’ Gennat polished off his second slice of gooseberry tart, and look sated for the time being, a sure sign that the audience was over. ‘I’ve already notified police headquarters in all major cities, as well as the State Crime Bureau and Gendarmerie. That way we’ll hear of anything, even if it happened out in the sticks.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’ Rath rolled up the periodical and got to his feet. ‘One more thing,’ he said from the door. ‘The dead man from Dortmund – did he have links with the catering industry? Or was he found in a lift like Lamkau?’

‘He was a miner at the Zollern Colliery, found on site, dead in his bed.’

16

At least Rath didn’t have to say anything right away. When he returned to his men, Charly still hadn’t materialised. No one had heard anything from her since they’d left the office together around an hour before, but there was no way her talk with Dettmann could have lasted this long. He lit a cigarette and wondered whether he would have to give her a public dressing-down, if only to show his colleagues there were no favourites. He couldn’t overlook the fact that she had failed to inform the team of her movements. Had she paid Narcotics a visit? She ought to have left that to him. His colleagues would hardly have taken a male cadet seriously, so God alone knew how they’d react to a woman.

‘How’d it go with Buddha?’ Gräf asked.

‘Superintendent Gennat regrets not being able to supply us with additional officers, but would like a CID employee to work undercover in the Haus Vaterland kitchen.’

Gräf was unimpressed. ‘We’re supposed to scrub vegetables now?’

‘I wouldn’t be averse, providing we get to keep the wage,’ Lange said. ‘With our salaries, we need all the help we can get.’

‘It can’t be any one of us,’ Rath replied. ‘Our faces are known there.’

‘That leaves only Fräulein Ritter,’ Lange said.

‘Exactly who Gennat suggested!’

‘Poor Charly!’ Gräf couldn’t conceal a grin. ‘Finally gets a job with CID and still winds up in the kitchen.’

Rath found this less than amusing, since he was the one who had to break the news.

‘At least she knows her way around the kitchen,’ he heard Lange say. ‘You wouldn’t be able to use a man there. Unless you know anyone who can cook?’

‘One more thing,’ Rath said, in a tone that silenced the two jokers. ‘Gennat thinks we might be dealing with a serial killer.’

The phrase could choke any light-heartedness at police headquarters.

‘What?’ Gräf said disbelievingly, but with a hint of cheer still in his face. ‘You’re not serious. Where else is our killer meant to have struck?’

‘Somewhere out in the Ruhrgebiet.’ Rath pointed to the journal he had placed on the table. ‘Buddha came upon the case in the Monatshefte. I’m sceptical myself.’

‘You’re suggesting we ignore a tip from on high?’

‘I’m suggesting we don’t rush into anything. We’re under express orders to investigate discreetly. First I’d like to read the article properly. We’ll talk about it after lunch.’

Gräf nodded. ‘My stomach’s already rumbling. There’s beef liver in the canteen today.’

‘Count me in,’ Lange said. ‘How about you, Gereon?’

‘Liver’s not for me.’ Rath stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Ask Erika if she wants to join you. I’ll get something from Aschinger.’

With his colleagues gone, Rath leafed through the journal to the article in question. Mysterious drowning, the headline ran, sequence of events unexplained. As was often the case in the Monatshefte, the article was written in matter-of-fact, almost bureaucratic German, no livelier than the language used in police statements, albeit underscored by a pseudo-academic, schoolmasterly tone. He remembered now why he read it so rarely.

The man from Dortmund gazed innocently from the page: Hans Wawerka, found dead in his bed on Easter morning.

The investigation left the reader in no doubt that the miner had suffered a violent end, even if questions persisted everywhere else. The pathological report had ruled death by drowning, although whether it was simply a near-drowning, as Gennat suspected, was of secondary importance. Of greater interest was the fact that the Dortmund pathologist had also discovered a puncture site, likewise in the jugular vein, but neglected to pursue the matter, or, at least, failed to perform a blood analysis. Gennat’s suspicions regarding the competence of Prussian CID forces outside Berlin were clearly based on more than just arrogance. Could they establish the presence of tubocurarine in a three-month-old corpse? He would have to ask Dr Karthaus. Either way, it was time to dig the poor bastard up.

He looked at the article and again at the photo. Wawerka was dead, with water in his lungs and a puncture site on his neck, but everything else, as with Lamkau, was a mystery. There were no signs of a struggle or, indeed, of any suspects that were still alive. A Communist newspaper vendor, with whom the dead man had been in conflict, could be ruled out, since he had been killed the day before in an apparently politically motivated arson attack on his kiosk.

Hans Wawerka had just turned thirty-three, and lived alone in a small attic apartment in Dortmund-Bövinghausen. He was a miner at the Zollern Colliery, and a reclusive bachelor. Herbert Lamkau, on the other hand, was in his mid-forties, a successful businessman and father.

The photos gave even less away. Wawerka had the powerful physique of a worker, tall and muscular, whereas Lamkau was what some might call a ‘weakling’. Only the determination in his eyes, staring out from his driving licence, testified to his strength. In contrast, Hans Wawerka gazed almost naively into the camera lens.

They were as different as chalk and cheese, and yet they had suffered the same fate, one in Dortmund, the other in Berlin. Were it not for the striking similarities between the pathological reports, Rath would never have suspected the two deaths were linked. The article in the Monatshefte concentrated primarily on the mysterious aspects of the case though, like their Berlin counterparts, the Dortmund officers had neither a lead nor a convincing explanation. Something else the cases shared.

By the time Rath had finished his last Overstolz, Charly still hadn’t appeared, but he couldn’t put it off any longer. Kirie desperately needed walking and, besides, he had to buy more cigarettes.

‘Come on,’ he said, reaching for hat and lead.

After a lap of Alexanderplatz, where the new tram tracks were being laid, he purchased a Bockwurst from a street hawker outside the train station. While Kirie ate or, rather, devoured the sausage, he turned his thoughts to Charly.

Disappearing for lunch wasn’t a good look at the Castle, no one knew that better than Charly, who had always warned him against it. All the more strange, therefore, that she hadn’t reappeared. Should he be worried? But, then, what could have happened? She’d probably just run in to Wilhelm Böhm, and the DCI had taken his one-time favourite stenographer out to lunch.

To his great surprise, everyone was back in the office when he returned half an hour later. Erika Voss was on the telephone, and Charly sat at her table studying a file as if nothing had happened. She seemed strangely pensive, almost absent, when she greeted him. If her coolness were merely an act, she was making a damn good fist of it. It was in marked contrast with Kirie, who, no sooner than she was untied, licked Charly’s hands and curled up under her table.

When he rounded them up in his office, she still seemed a little remote. ‘We missed you, Fräulein Ritter,’ he said, sternly. ‘Were you successful, at least?’

Charly looked as if she were about to start bawling. Surely she must know all this was just a front; a role that he, like her, was obliged to play.

‘I was in Narcotics,’ she said.

‘Then Dettmann couldn’t help?’

She made a gesture that might as well have been a shiver as a shake of the head, and stared right through him. Her list of known drug traffickers wasn’t especially long, and two were in jail.

‘Detective Gräf will look into it,’ he said, passing the list on. ‘A pretty dubious bunch. No kind of work for a woman.’ He was afraid she might think he was being condescending, but she barely reacted. ‘I have a different assignment for you,’ he said. ‘Superintendent Gennat would like us to carry out an undercover operation in Haus Vaterland.’ He cleared his throat, thinking how much he’d like to wipe the smirk off Reinhold Gräf’s face. ‘In short: I’d like you to present yourself for work in the central kitchen tomorrow. There are a few vacancies. We might even be able to smuggle you in without the help of management – the fewer people who know about the operation, the better…’

Against expectation, Charly’s face brightened. Finally she seemed to be with them. ‘Good idea,’ she said. ‘They’ll never take me for a police officer.’

Rath leafed through the Monatshefte until he found Hans Wawerka’s face. He showed it to the room and briefly recapped Gennat’s theory for Charly’s benefit.

‘Isn’t there usually a sexual dimension to serial killers’ crimes?’ she said. ‘I don’t see one here.’

She was on the ball again. He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Correct, Fräulein Ritter, but that doesn’t mean we should rule out the possibility. There have been a number of serial killings that haven’t been sexually motivated. I need only remind you of the cinema killer. Perhaps there’s a link between Wawerka and Lamkau we’re not seeing. We should continue to pursue all avenues. Given the mysterious circumstances, we should concentrate on the motive. That’s still the quickest route to the perpetrator. Once we get them, they can explain the “how”.’

Lange and Charly nodded, but Gräf looked as if he had been struck by lightning. When he finally moved, it was only for his mouth to form a question. ‘What did you say the dead man was called?’

‘Wawerka.’ Rath checked the journal. ‘Hans Wawerka.’

Gräf turned white as a sheet.

‘What’s the matter?’

Gräf didn’t respond, but proceeded to his desk where he rummaged in one of the boxes he had seized from the Lamkau office. He returned to Rath’s table with two envelopes. ‘Here,’ he said, fumbling for a yellowed death notice that someone must have cut from the newspaper. ‘From Lamkau’s private desk. It was among the other letters. Sorry it took me so long to twig.’

Rath looked at the thin paper and couldn’t believe his eyes. A simple death notice, probably the cheapest available. No bible quotation, just a few words:

17

The new Aschinger was brighter than its predecessor in the former Königstadt Theatre, whose demolition could be observed through the large windows of Alexanderhaus. Despite the light, something of the old building’s ambience had been retained. Most importantly, however, the menu – and the prices – were the same, meaning the Alexanderhaus branch was as busy as its previous incarnation, perhaps more so, for the new building attracted curious passers-by. It certainly took them long enough to find a table.

Rath was happy to be alone with her again after the chaos of the afternoon. The discovery that there was a link between Lamkau and the second victim had sent a rush through the group. Gräf was crestfallen that he hadn’t thought of the death notice sooner, and wouldn’t be consoled.

Rath had sent him to work through Charly’s list of drug traffickers, before dispatching Lange to Edith Lamkau in Tempelhof, and requesting that the forensic technicians from I Division join him in his office. Lamkau’s drawers had contained a second letter, with a further death notice, this one mourning the loss of a certain August Simoneit, who had died aged forty-seven on 11th May in Wittenberge – though not, it appeared, in violent circumstances.

He had asked Charly to investigate the circumstances surrounding the third man’s death, though this proved trickier than anticipated. There had been no police inquiry, nor was Simoneit’s name known to the local CID. It was a poor return, especially since Charly had appeared determined to prove how good she was, something neither Rath nor the others had ever doubted. The only person who had any doubts was Charly herself, and Rath couldn’t help wondering if it went deeper than her inability to trace the source of tubocurarine.

The presence of Erika Voss made it impossible to clarify matters at the Castle, but he hoped it was some comfort for Charly to know that his own inquiries had also stalled. Herbert Lamkau hadn’t received the first death notice from the Zollern Colliery, either from management or the works council, and Rath had failed to get hold of the investigating officer in the Wawerka case, reaching only his secretary. Lange, too, had returned from Tempelhof empty-handed. The widow Lamkau had known nothing about the death notices, and been equally flummoxed by the names Wawerka and August Simoneit.

Charly would just have to get used to the fact that most of what they did in CID was a waste of time.

At long last he had sent his team home, only to intercept Charly outside the train station and invite her to Aschinger. Somehow it felt more like he had ensnared her, as if, without his intervention, she’d have simply gone back to Spenerstrasse; as if, after a single day, she had completely forgotten about their engagement. On the way to Aschinger she had only wanted to discuss work.

Now they sat at the window, Kirie curled up under their table, gazing out at the ruins of the Königstadt Theatre, and the last, forlorn-looking, pieces of wall. A solitary washbasin stood roughly ten metres above the relieving arch. He was considering his opening gambit when Charly broke the silence. ‘The question is why?’ she said, and it wasn’t clear if she were speaking to him, or to herself.

‘Pardon me?’

‘Why make such heavy weather of it?’ She turned from the window. ‘There must be some reason to first paralyse, then drown your victims. Or, at least, let them think they’ll drown.’

Rath didn’t want to talk about work.

‘Perhaps he’s trying to tell us something. Like with these death notices. It’s a message.’

‘A message for whom? The police?’ Rath was shorter than he intended, but she didn’t seem to notice.

‘Then we’d have got them too. No.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s a message for the victim, saying their time is up.’

Why was she pretending everything was fine? He couldn’t take it any longer. ‘What happened today?’ he asked.

She looked surprised for a moment. ‘What do you mean, “what happened?”’ Her smile was so artificial it could have been glued on.

‘You don’t stop by the office after visiting Dettmann, you spend an age with Narcotics, and who knows what you’re up to during lunch. And then, wham, you’re back at your desk making a face like your goldfish has just died. It isn’t normal.’

‘Do you mind telling me what passes for normal at police headquarters? You, of all people?’

‘I just want to know what happened. I was worried. You should have come back when you realised Dettmann couldn’t help. I’d have been better off talking to Narcotics. Did they mock you, or make some stupid remark? Don’t take it personally, they do the same with all new recruits.’

She was about to say something but stopped suddenly. When he saw her face, Rath started. There was something in her gaze that shook him to the core. Something numb, something dead. Her otherwise warm, brown eyes looked frozen. He knew his Charly. She only looked like that when she was losing her temper, or trying desperately to conceal her feelings, but there was no outburst, nothing. She stared at the table as if trying to pull herself together.

‘Sorry,’ he said, as gently as he could. ‘I didn’t mean to sound harsh, I’m just worried. What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, but her voice told a different story.

‘Charly! Has something happened? Is it about how I was today?’ She shook her head. ‘All that bossing you around was just a front. You know that, don’t you?’ She nodded, still incapable of getting the words out. ‘Tell me what’s wrong. You’re really scaring me here.’

She shook her head as if trying to jerk her face awake.

He took her by the hand, as if asking her to dance, only there was no dance floor or music. Even so, she stood up and he took her in his arms. ‘What’s the matter, girl?’ he whispered in her ear. A silent sob heaved through her body. ‘It’s OK,’ he said, stroking her head, and, when she wouldn’t stop: ‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ repeating it over and over like an incantation.

Finally the shaking stopped and she prised herself loose. She looked at him through mascara-smudged eyes before lowering her gaze and disappearing inside the ladies’ toilet. When she returned to the table, tears dried and face newly made-up, she managed to tell him what had happened.

18

Hackhackhackhackhack.

Movements so quick they were almost impossible to follow, and with that the latest onion was chopped into tiny pieces.

‘There, d’you see? Hold it like this, and Bob’s your uncle. Keep the knife pointing down, bish bash bosh, and mind your fingers when you flip it back.’

The red-headed boy couldn’t have been more than eighteen, but he chopped with such speed and precision he could have been in the circus. Charly had rarely felt so clumsy. She tried to hold the knife and onion the way he had shown her, and soon realised she was making progress, even if she was still a long way off his greased-lightning pace.

‘There you are.’ He had been assigned to her by the head chef, Unger. ‘By the time you get through this lot, it’ll feel like you’ve been doing it your whole life.’

This lot must have been a good fifty kilograms of onions, an absolute mountain at any rate. Charly had never seen so many in her life. The boy gave a wink of encouragement and left her to it.

She set about her task with a plucky grin. The tears started immediately, but she was loath to follow his advice – ‘just keep your peepers closed’ – for fear she’d be heading home bereft of her fingers. Besides, her eyes only burned more when she closed them. She decided to let the tears flow, and tried to work out what she was doing through the watery haze.

The interview with Unger was the highlight of her day so far, although he had spent the entire time ogling her legs. He had dictated a small sample text but had failed, so far, to actually use her shorthand skills.

‘You can start immediately,’ he had said, giving her a vexed look when she reached for her pad. ‘No, no. It’s kitchen work for the moment. I’ll get someone to train you up.’

She had put her pad away and asked to make a telephone call, meeting Unger’s furrowed brow with a friendly smile. ‘My mother. She’ll worry if I’m not home for lunch.’

Unger pushed the telephone across the desk. ‘It’ll cost you twenty pfennigs. To be deducted from your wage.’ He left to fetch the apprentice.

She had been looking forward to a few words in private with Gereon, but got Erika Voss instead. The inspector was elsewhere. Moments later Unger returned with the redhead in tow.

Thinking back to last night: it had helped to finally tell someone, even if recounting the incident made her feel small and dirty again. Despite having nothing to reproach herself for, it had felt like a confession. As if Gereon had actually absolved her of sin. At once she felt her anger return, that same, helpless rage. For a moment he’d said nothing, just sat there looking at her, incensed.

‘Why didn’t you defend yourself? Give that arsehole a piece of your mind?’

‘Gereon, it sounds as if you’re blaming me. Haven’t you ever been rendered speechless by someone’s sheer audacity?’

‘Sorry. You know I have.’

She had watched his eyes fill with anger and made him promise not to mention anything at the Castle, neither to Gennat nor anyone else.

In spite of everything, it had turned into an enjoyable evening. Somehow she had managed to laugh again, properly laugh through her dried tears. They had made themselves comfortable in Carmerstrasse, in the huge apartment she still wasn’t convinced Gereon could actually afford, at least not with his salary payments alone. Perhaps his Uncle Joseph had left him something. The family had money, she had seen as much during her visit to Cologne the previous year.

They had drunk a little wine before retiring to the bedroom, where Gereon was so tender she almost burst out laughing. ‘I’m not made of china,’ she said, finally.

‘Now wouldn’t that be a thing,’ he replied, before throwing caution to the wind. Soon, asleep in his arms, she was no longer thinking of Dettmann. That much, at least, Gereon had achieved.

She surveyed the mound of onions before her. It was as if a wicked magician had cast a spell not only on them, but on the large clock hanging above the office window, halting the passage of time. These onions would keep her busy the whole day, making it impossible to have a poke around, let alone discreetly. Unger’s face appeared behind the glass wall-pane, casting disapproving glances whenever she paused for breath. At least her tears were abating, or perhaps she simply had no more to shed.

If all they had her do was chop onions, she would never work out what really went on here, either in public or behind closed doors. Haus Vaterland was a huge complex with hundreds of employees. The kitchen alone was bigger than most Berlin restaurants. She reached for the next onion. At least she was getting a little practice in. As for the rest… perhaps she’d have to accept that she’d never make the perfect housewife, despite her mother’s best efforts. Not that she wanted to be one anyway.

19

Rath could have handled Böhm’s report being as dull as the technical summaries of ED Chief Werner Kronberg, but not the presence of Harald Dettmann in the row in front, wearing the sort of smirk he’d have happily wiped from the man’s face. Dettmann usually skipped morning briefing, often on the flimsiest of pretexts, but today, of all days, he was present and grinning like a Cheshire cat. It was unbearable.

Rath had arrived at the station weary and several minutes late, and not just because Charly had spent the night. In point of fact, they had gone to bed relatively early, or at least Charly had. He, on the other hand, had spent the night watching her or staring at the ceiling, unable to get her story out of his head. She was right: she couldn’t mention anything to Gennat or her direct superior, Wieking, since that would make things official. If, as he’d intimated he would, Dettmann denied both his outrageous behaviour and his even more outrageous remarks, then she would be pigeonholed as a resentful liar out to discredit male officers. And that would only serve to confirm existing preconceptions. Most Castle workers regarded female CID as superfluous, but deploying a woman in Homicide was nothing short of a catastrophe.

Now they were in the conference room, with Harald Dettmann smiling cheerily in their midst. The bastard must have felt like a million dollars.

Rath had taken his seat scarcely able to follow Böhm’s report, but twigging, nevertheless, that the detective chief inspector had as good as solved the shaving knife murder in Schlosspark Bellevue. At least the Bulldog was doing something to improve A Division’s detection rate, in contrast to Inspector Gereon Rath, whose desk housed a growing number of unsolved cases. Perhaps now there was a chance that Henning and Czerwinski would be stood down from Böhm’s command and assigned to the Vaterland team.

A twitch of Gennat’s eyebrow told him he was up next. He walked to the front and summarised the latest findings in the Vaterland case.

‘We have three starting points. First, the anaesthetic agent tubocurarine, whose source of supply we are hoping to isolate…’ He glanced towards Dettmann, who looked as though it was the first he’d heard of it. ‘Thanks to the help of Narcotics officers, we have managed to draw up a list containing the relevant addresses of known drug traffickers, which Officers Gräf and Lange are working through as we speak.’ Dettmann displayed the same languid interest as everyone else in the room.

Rath realised he had paused for slightly too long, and continued. ‘Second, is the prospect of irregular goings-on at Haus Vaterland, in which Lamkau, our victim, could be involved. This is backed up, among other things, by the thousand marks we found on his person. In order to gather more information here, a covert operation is underway as of this morning.’

He didn’t give any further details.

‘The third starting point for our investigation,’ he continued, ‘is something we discovered only yesterday afternoon. We were able to establish a link between the Vaterland case and a second, apparently identical, death in Dortmund. The victims appear to be connected, although we cannot, at this moment, say how. We found the death notice of the Dortmund victim in Herbert Lamkau’s possession, as well as that of another man, the circumstances of whose death remain a mystery.’

He finished his report and, for once, Gennat saw fit to praise the work of his team. He reclaimed his seat, assuming morning briefing was over, and that Buddha, as was customary, would close with a few words. Not on this occasion.

‘Gentlemen,’ the superintendent began, ‘there is still no mention of it in the press but you’ll know by midday at the latest. Shortly before midnight last night, there was a fatal incident outside the Lichtburg multiplex in Wedding. The victim was killed by a precision shot to the heart that took half his chest with it. Despite our immediate intervention, the killer has vanished without trace.’

Though Gennat named no names, everyone in the room knew what it meant. The Phantom had struck again.

Too late for the mornings, but the midday and evening editions would take great pleasure in breaking the news. The headlines would carry the name Phantom once more and refer to the fact that, despite more than six months of investigations, police still hadn’t made an iota of progress. One or two articles would mention the name Gereon Rath, citing him as the officer who had been chasing the Phantom in vain all these months.

In the room, all was silent. With increased public scrutiny, everyone knew that the next few days would be tough, whatever case they were handling. As the officer in charge of the Phantom case, Rath was surprised they hadn’t tried to make contact with him last night, though the reason soon became clear enough.

‘The Bellevue case is now closed, save for the final report,’ Gennat continued, ‘meaning that Detectives Henning and Czerwinski can rejoin the disbanded Phantom troop, which is hereby resurrected under new leadership.’

Most officers in the room were aware that Rath had been in charge, and turned to face him. He put on a brave face, as if he’d known all along.

‘I have chosen to place the case in new hands,’ Gennat explained. ‘With Inspector Rath making great strides in the Vaterland case, it would seem churlish to dissolve his team at this moment in time.’

The superintendent gazed kindly towards him, but he felt as if he were being pilloried. Looking at the floor, he feigned boredom, and wondered who would be taking over. Wilhelm Böhm, most likely.

‘Through happy coincidence,’ he heard Gennat continue, ‘we were fortunate yesterday that an experienced colleague found himself in the vicinity of the crime scene, enabling us to initiate search measures in and around the area with immediate effect. Two suspects were apprehended and are awaiting questioning. I intend, therefore, to pass the case onto the man whose courageous actions may finally have gained us an advantage in our fight against this unscrupulous killer. Please step forward, Inspector Dettmann, and outline the particulars of yesterday’s incident.’

Rath thought he had misheard, but no, a few seats away, Harald Dettmann rose from his chair and strolled forward, a small file wedged under his arm.

He had to make every effort to stay seated, and the longer he listened to Dettmann recounting his heroic deeds with that unbearable strain of faux humility, the angrier he became.

The Phantom’s latest victim was a drug dealer, a figure ‘not unknown’ to Dettmann due to his ‘many years’ of service in Narcotics. Dettmann provided this characterisation of the victim to stress that his was not a loss the world should mourn. The man had emerged with his girlfriend from the picture palace’s late showing and been dropped by a single shot outside Gesundbrunnen Bahnhof. His girl had been unharmed, but the force of the shot had thrown the man to the floor and shredded his chest.

After Dettmann’s report Gennat concluded the meeting, with Rath among the first to leave, preferring to take his anger to the sanctity of his office. Perhaps, he told himself, it was better to be rid of the accursed Phantom case, but the manner of it, and the fact that it was Dettmann who would reap what he and his team had sown, made it hard to take.

‘No interruptions,’ he barked at his secretary as he disappeared inside his room and slammed the door. No sooner had he sat down than Erika Voss poked her blonde head around the door. ‘Didn’t I make myself clear?’

Erika Voss refused to be intimidated. ‘Why not take your anger out on this,’ she said, handing him a file. ‘Just in from Dortmund. Our colleagues there sent a car especially. With best wishes from Detective Chief Inspector Watzke. To Superintendent Gennat too.’

‘Thank you,’ he grumbled, accepting two thick lever arch files.

‘There you are, you see!’ Erika Voss said and smiled. ‘By the way, Herr Watzke telephoned while you were at briefing.’

‘And?’

‘He’ll try again at lunch. He has an appointment at court this morning. And Fräulein Ritter said to tell you she got the job. Stenographer-cum-kitchen maid, as you said.’

‘Wonderful. Thank you, Erika. You’re a gem.’ He opened the first lever arch file. ‘But I really did mean no interruptions.’

‘So you don’t want coffee then?’

He smiled for the first time since entering the Castle that morning. ‘You win,’ he said, ‘but close the door on your way out.’

Smelling as though it had been freshly brewed, sometimes he thought his secretary made the best coffee in the whole of police headquarters. Either way she certainly knew how to make him happy. He lit a cigarette and took a sip before burying himself in his work.

After two hours he had gone through both files and made a whole raft of notes. He might not have unearthed any fresh insights, but experience told him the devil was in the detail. He took the Lamkau file from the shelf and placed it alongside the Dortmund papers on his desk. There were still two Overstolz in his cigarette case. He lit one and compared the dead men’s personal details again.

Herbert Lamkau, born 1890 in Tilsit, married, two children, with a business registered in Tempelhof since 1925; no prior convictions and…

…Hans Wawerka, born 1898 in Marggrabowa, a Zollern Colliery employee since 1924. Unlike Lamkau, Wawerka had been placed on police file two years before, following a politically motivated bar brawl that escalated. The incident had led Dortmund homicide detectives to their sole suspect, a Communist who had fallen victim to an arson attack and subsequently been eliminated from inquiries.

Erika Voss knocked on the door. ‘Apologies, Inspector, two things. Herr Kronberg just called. The Forensics report is as good as finished.’

‘At last. What was the second thing?’

‘I’d like to take my break. If you don’t need me.’

‘Go, but it isn’t that I don’t need you.’ He took out his wallet and gave her a two-mark coin. ‘Can you do me a favour and look after Kirie? Buy her a few Bouletten from Aschinger. Treat yourself to a coffee while you’re at it. I need a few more minutes for my own peace of mind.’

He lit his final cigarette and got to thinking. The two dead men were linked to one another, but how? Why had Herbert Lamkau been sent Hans Wawerka’s death notice? It wasn’t clear from the files. Perhaps he had overlooked some connection between these two very different men? What on earth was it that bound them together? He took a long drag on his Overstolz, as if the truth were concealed somewhere inside the cigarette.

20

No amount of scrubbing could get rid of the onion smell from Charly’s hands. Even her cigarette tasted of them, but at least she was on her break.

After what seemed like an eternity, her red-headed mentor had reappeared, cast a sceptical glance towards the still imposing mound of onions, and ordered her to lunch; she had a quarter of an hour. ‘Then get back to it, and see if you can’t up the tempo.’ She almost threw in the towel.

With strictly no smoking in the kitchen, the longer she was made to wait for her break, the more feverish her anticipation became. Now she was standing on the fourth-floor balcony, with a cigarette that smelled of onions. Imagine having to do this your whole life…

There was no such thing as a joint break at Haus Vaterland. Lunch was the busiest time of day. Vast quantities of food went out, and, clearly, most of the recipes contained onions.

She stood on the south-eastern side of the building, and gazed at the sea of houses, in the middle of which the great hall of Anhalter Bahnhof appeared like a ship floating bottom up. Europahaus seemed almost within touching distance. The tower block was where she had spent her first evening with Gereon, more than three years ago. He had hurt her more than any other man but, even though she’d wished him to hell, they were together again after a year, and now they were engaged. She didn’t know if he’d make a good husband, but she did know she didn’t want anyone else.

Could a police marriage really work? There couldn’t be many who had tried. They might even be the first.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Cadet! You aren’t a police officer yet, and you’ve a job to do here first.

She looked at her watch. Only ten minutes left, and she still didn’t know where to start. So far she hadn’t observed a thing. Save for the fact that Unger had a permanent overview, and spent more time making calls and looking out of his poky little office than he did in the kitchen.

A door opened and a man stepped onto the balcony. His skin was as dark as the night; he wore a checked flannel shirt and red necktie, trousers with loose threads and a gun belt. On his head was a Stetson at least as big as Tom Mix’s. A cigarette dangled from his mouth.

A black man dressed as a cowboy. Charly thought she had seen him in the Haus Vaterland programme on a previous occasion and wondered if there really were black cowboys in America. She hadn’t seen any in the films.

Only after lighting his cigarette did he look up. He seemed surprised to see her, to see anyone here outside, and greeted her with a casual tip of his hat. Just like a real cowboy.

‘Any objection to my joining you?’ His German was slightly accented, but Charly couldn’t place it. She raised her hand in a welcoming gesture and he joined her by the balustrade. ‘I’ve never seen you here before,’ he said.

‘It’s my first day.’

‘What are you doing?’

She gave a lopsided grin. ‘To tell the truth, I thought I was here as a stenographer, but so far all I’ve done is chop onions. Are you American?’

‘No, German.’ The cowboy grinned, showing his white teeth. ‘From Dar es Salaam, German East Africa. I even fought for Kaiser and Fatherland.’

‘You’re an askari?’

‘Husen’s the name.’ He proffered a hand. ‘Bayume Mohamed Husen.’

‘Charlotte Ritter.’ Husen had a pleasantly firm handshake. ‘How is it that an askari winds up playing a cowboy in Berlin?’

‘You’d need longer than a cigarette break. Here’s the abridged version: I’m in Berlin because I’m owed money.’

‘By Haus Vaterland?’

Husen laughed. ‘No, the other Vaterland.’ He described a curve with his arms, as if taking the whole world in his embrace. ‘Germany still owes me my pay.’

‘That doesn’t explain how you became a cowboy.’

‘A man has to live. I wait tables in the Turkish Café or the Wild West Bar. The main thing is to be exotic. Aren’t too many Negroes in Berlin.’

Charly stubbed out her Juno on the balustrade. ‘Do you often come here to smoke?’ she asked.

‘If it isn’t raining. I need to get out. It feels like a prison in there, despite all the landscape murals.’

‘I know what you mean. If I have to spend another day chopping onions…’

‘You’ll be fine. People get used to anything.’ Husen stubbed out his cigarette too. A Turkish brand, she noted, not American. ‘Why don’t you come and see me in the Wild West Bar once you finish,’ he said. ‘I’ll stand you a whisky…’

‘Do you have Luisenbrand?’

‘It’s hardly the classic western drink, but it shouldn’t be a problem for Joe. The Wild West Bar has the best selection of liquor Haus Vaterland has to offer.’

‘Joe?’

‘Our barman. It’s Johannes, actually. But then my name’s not Husen either. It’s Hussein.’

‘We’ll see,’ Charly said. ‘If I haven’t turned into an onion myself by then.’

‘Ma’am…’

The way Mohamed Husen tipped his hat really did remind her of Tom Mix.

21

All was quiet as Rath stepped outside his office. Most colleagues had already left for lunch; only a uniform cop and two plain-clothes officers remained in the long Homicide corridor. He was about to close the door when he heard the clatter of a typewriter, loud as machine-gun fire in the midday silence. He guessed which office it was coming from. He looked inside. The outer office was empty; the clattering came from further back. In the main office he found Inspector Harald Dettmann sitting in front of a typewriter, removing a sheet from its drum. In the absence of his secretary he was obliged to operate the machine himself.

‘If it isn’t Inspector Rath,’ he said, with eyebrows raised.

‘Afternoon.’

Dettmann placed the sheet neatly on a pile of typewritten pages. Rath had forgotten that he wasn’t just an arsehole, but a pedant to boot.

‘What is it?’ Dettmann asked, placing the stack of papers under a puncher. Rath made out a few sentences and concluded it was nothing to do with the Phantom. It looked like the full report on the Tiergarten case. Gennat had requested the report at briefing on Monday. The old excuse about a poorly secretary wasn’t much cop now that Detective Inspector Dettmann had been assigned the most high-profile case Gennat had to offer. There was a crack as the puncher went about its business. There must have been twenty sheets in the pile.

Rath planted himself in front of the desk. ‘A real pain when your secretary’s off sick, isn’t it? You realise how much work they do.’

‘Takes longer to write than type up.’ Dettmann eyed him suspiciously. ‘What do you want from me, Rath? Pining for your old case? I’ve already assembled my team, and it doesn’t include you.’

‘Did you manage to get anything out of the two suspects?’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘No reason. I’d just be surprised if either of them’s the Phantom.’

‘Interrogations are ongoing.’

‘So what are you doing here?’

‘If you looked at your watch, you’d know that we’re almost an hour into lunch break. Which I’m using to complete my Tiergarten report for Gennat and the public prosecutor.’

‘Very commendable, I’m sure. So, it’s true then?’

‘What the hell do you want, Rath?’

‘You know, sitting like that you do actually look like a typist. How many words a minute?’

Dettmann seemed to finally grasp what he was talking about. ‘Has someone been telling tales?’

‘That was what you asked, wasn’t it? Do I look like a bloody typist? And I’d say: yes, you do.’

‘So the dirty bitch actually squealed!’ Dettmann shook his head. ‘Don’t believe everything you hear. These women get the wrong end of the stick. So, police talk can be a little rough. You’ve got to be able to take it if you want to mix with the big boys. If I were you I’d never have invited a little minx like her onto my team in the first place, but you must…’

‘Shut your face,’ Rath yelled, and Dettmann was so surprised that he did as bidden. ‘You arsehole,’ Rath said, leaning both arms on the desk. ‘If you insult Cadet Ritter again; if you so much as even look at her sideways, there’ll be trouble, do you understand?’

‘It’s like that, is it?’ Dettmann looked Rath up and down. ‘What is this? You’re her guardian now, are you? What’s the poor thing been saying?’

‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. This isn’t about specifics. It’s about the principle. Not what bastards like you say about a female colleague, but that you don’t transgress a second time. In thought, word or deed.’

‘This is all getting a bit Catholic for me.’

‘Have I made myself clear?’

Dettmann shook his head in disbelief. ‘I can hardly believe what I’m witnessing here. Inspector Rath, the avenger of tramps and sluts!’ Dettmann made an O with his mouth. ‘Did she have to blow you for this? Or just look at you out of those doe-eyes?’

Rath was centimetres away from Dettmann’s face. ‘I’m warning you. Watch what you say!’

Almost imperceptibly Dettmann took a step back. ‘You’re warning me? Stop making a fool of yourself! What are you going to do? Should I be frightened?’ He was grinning again. ‘Ah yes, of course. How could I forget? Apparently you enjoy beating up colleagues.’

‘Only the arseholes…’ Rath paused. ‘Come to think of it, that might just put you in danger.’

‘Very funny. You really want to risk another round of disciplinary proceedings? Go ahead, I won’t put up a fight.’ Dettmann gestured towards the point of his chin. ‘Come on. What are you waiting for? But you’d better clear your desk straight after, because it’ll mean the end of your career.’

Rath stepped back. ‘You think I’m going to get my hands dirty on someone like you?’

‘Well, well, it seems there’s a first for everything.’ Dettmann looked Rath up and down. ‘I understand, you know. A girl like that might make me go weak too. Have you pulled her across the desk yet? I’m sure none of the boys round here would begrudge you it. Wouldn’t say no myself, either. But all I got from Buddha were Henning and Czerwinski.’

While Dettmann was still speaking, Rath felt for the inkwell on his desk, fixing the bastard in the eye as he gradually emptied the contents over the pristine, freshly typed Tiergarten report. Only when the ink dripped from the edge of the desk and created an ugly pattern on his summer trousers did Dettmann realise what was happening. He sprang to his feet and stepped back so frantically that his chair tipped over and he stumbled backwards.

He stared at the mess in disbelief.

‘Are you fucking mad?’ There was no sign of his grin now.

‘Oops,’ said Rath, replacing the empty inkwell on the desk. ‘How clumsy. I’m afraid those trousers are done for.’

Dettmann’s attention turned to the ink-soaked pages, which he had most likely spent hours typing up. ‘You piece of shit,’ he said, pulling the report from the desk, which worsened the mess. ‘It hasn’t even been copied yet!’

‘You’ll just have to write it again. Take comfort from the old journalist’s rule: you’re always quicker second time around. I’d think that’s true of police reports too.’

‘I’ll kill you, you bastard!’

Rath raised his hands. ‘Then go ahead. I won’t put up a fight.’

Dettmann stood, breathing heavily, holding the desecrated report and staring at Rath, who tipped the brim of his hat and made for the door. ‘I almost forgot,’ he said. ‘I’d like to offer a formal apology for the trouble I’ve caused. I’m truly, truly sorry. I can be a real klutz sometimes.’

The inkwell came flying, but he had already closed the door. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone on his break feeling this good.

22

He had done it: the book was in his possession. You just had to be patient and wait for the right opportunity.

For two days he had marked time but, now, at last, he had been rewarded.

He had been observing the wanted posters near the glass door, fingers already searching for the false key in his trouser pocket, when he saw the inspector disappear inside the next office without locking his door.

Talk about good fortune. It meant he could do away with the picklock, and avoid the risk of being caught fumbling with a police door.

Yesterday there had been a twenty-minute window during the lunch hour when no one else was around, but he knew that might not always be the case. Indeed, he wasn’t alone now, but it was clear the two men standing close by had only agreed to meet here on their way to the canteen, and were soon gone.

So, calm as you like, he made for the door in question, taking one final look around before venturing inside. This time there was no barking dog; this time he could enter unopposed, and saw the cardboard boxes the two officers had seized from Lamkau’s premises spread across the chairs and floor.

He didn’t need long to find the book. A quick look inside told him he had the right one. With any luck, they wouldn’t have deciphered its meaning yet. Cops were ignorant when it came to figures, the ones that worked in Homicide anyway.

Still in the outer office, he stowed the book in his waistband and, after making sure the coast was clear, emerged back into the corridor.

Now he just needed to reach the stairwell. He almost jumped out of his skin when he heard steps behind him and, turning his head slightly, saw Inspector Rath trailing in his wake, gaining on him the whole time. By the time he reached the stairwell door the inspector had caught up. But there was no firm grip on his neck, no ‘What were you doing in my office?’

Instead, all he received was a friendly ‘Afternoon’, as the inspector overtook him on the half landing and continued cheerily down the stairs.

23

Rath was returning from his break when he heard Erika Voss say: ‘That’s him now.’ She pressed her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Dortmund.’

He nodded, ruffled Kirie’s fur, hung his hat on the hook and went through to his office. It was empty, meaning Lange and Gräf were still investigating the tubocurarine lead.

‘One moment, please, I’ll put you through,’ Erika Voss said, and the telephone on his desk began to ring. He closed the door, fetched both the Wawerka and Lamkau files, and placed his notes alongside them on the desk. Only then did he pick up.

Detective Chief Inspector Watzke from Dortmund was helpful enough, but he couldn’t say much that wasn’t already in the Wawerka file.

‘Was the man known for being violent?’ Rath asked. ‘As this business with the fight suggests.’

‘It’s the only incident we have on file. Truth be told it was no more than a harmless bar brawl which led Wawerka to my colleagues at Lütgendortmund. Otherwise the man’s clean. We had a good look into his past, even asked our friends in Treuburg, but there too Hans Wawerka was considered a law-abiding citizen.’

‘Why Treuburg?’

‘His home town. It’s where he lived and worked before moving to Westphalia to earn his keep.’

‘Treuburg, you say?’ Rath was confused. He leafed through the file. ‘But… in the file it says… wait a moment…’ At last he found the relevant information. ‘It says he was born in Marggrabowa.’

‘I assume you’ve no interest in East Prussia?’

‘You must be joking. I wouldn’t be seen dead there. I’m a Rhinelander.’

‘Well, Marggrabowa and Treuburg are one and the same city.’

‘A city with two names?’

‘Marggrabowa changed its name four years ago. Its inhabitants wanted to pay homage to the fact that, during the 1920 plebiscite in Masuria, only two citizens voted for Poland. The rest remained loyal to Prussia and the Reich.’

‘I must say, you know a hell of a lot about East Prussia.’

‘My father hails from Königsberg. He didn’t want to be seen dead there either, and eventually moved west.’

Watzke didn’t sound too upset, but Rath sensed he had put his foot in it. ‘No offence intended,’ he said. ‘I really don’t have anything against East Prussia, it’s just that I haven’t had much to do with it until now. Let me get this straight. Today: Treuburg; before that: Marggrabowa.’

‘You’ll find it in Brockhaus. It’s the capital of the Oletzko district.’

Watzke didn’t stop there, but Rath was no longer listening. A word his Dortmund colleague had said echoed in his mind. He had stumbled across it recently, he didn’t know where, but he knew it was something to grab at, a link, a piece of common ground, information that was contained in the files, information that he had already read. He thanked his colleague for the telephone call and hung up before rummaging through the two murder files on his desk, searching feverishly, leafing through each individual page, each individual document, scanning his memory bank.

At length he held Lamkau’s driving licence in his hand, and the feeling that he had a concrete lead became a certainty, even before his gaze or, rather, his mind alighted on precisely what it was that Watzke had said. It was three words printed on Lamkau’s passport photo.

Oletzko District Authority.

His instincts had been correct. He had found it, goddamn it. The connection he had been seeking for days.

24

Edith Lamkau was amazed to see the police again so soon. ‘I told your colleagues yesterday. I don’t recognise these men, and I don’t recognise these death notices.’

‘Your husband seems to have known them,’ Rath said. ‘Or one of them, at least. Hans Wawerka.’

She shrugged. ‘We weren’t at his funeral.’

‘Take another look at the photo.’ He showed her the police photograph from the Dortmund file. ‘Perhaps you saw Herr Wawerka somewhere. Perhaps he came to see your husband…’

The widow recoiled in disgust, as if the photo had halitosis. She gestured towards the numbered chalkboard Wawerka held in front of his chest. ‘Is he a criminal? Why would someone like that come to see my husband?’

‘Your husband’s from East Prussia, isn’t he?’

She nodded. ‘A Tilsiter. He always joked about that. Tilsiter cheese, you know?’ She smiled, but with the memory came the tears.

He waited until she had composed herself and finished dabbing her face with a lily-white handkerchief. ‘And Marggrabowa?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Does the name Marggrabowa mean anything to you?’

‘You mean Treuburg?’

‘It’s where your husband learned to drive.’

‘That’s right. He lived there for a few years before moving to Berlin. Worked for the Mathée Korn distillery. Somewhere out near Luisenhöhe.’

‘They’re the ones that make Luisenbrand, aren’t they? The label your company distributes.’

‘Bärenfang too. It’s an East Prussian specialty.’

‘So, your husband still had links to his former employer?’

‘We retained the sole distribution rights for Berlin and Brandenburg. It’s a pretty lucrative business.’

‘Might your husband’s death change all that?’

‘I hope not.’ She gave him a look of reproach. ‘Your colleagues seized all our company files from the last few years. I hope they’re returned soon, so we can continue as before.’

‘Who would take charge? You claim you don’t have any idea.’

‘I’ve advertised. I’m looking for a managing director. Besides which, Director Wengler has promised to help.’

‘Director Wengler?’

‘He owns the Luisenhöhe estate. As well as the distillery.’

Rath made a note of the name. ‘Back to Marggrabowa, Frau Lamkau…’

‘You mean, Treuburg…’

‘Whatever. I suspect your husband knew Herr Wawerka from his time there. Are you sure he never mentioned the name to you? When he spoke about the old days for instance?’

‘I’ve told you already. He never mentioned him.’

‘Was Wawerka an old colleague, perhaps? From the distillery?’

‘Inspector, I don’t know. Can’t the police find that sort of thing out for themselves?’

‘Funnily enough, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.’

Edith Lamkau was taken aback by her own hostility, and adopted a more reasonable tone. ‘What is it about this Wawerka?’ she asked. ‘Why’s it so important if Herbert knew him or not?’

‘If I could tell you that, Frau Lamkau,’ Rath said, ‘it would be a major step forward.’

He left her blank-faced and goggle-eyed, and returned to the Castle. He had been hoping Edith Lamkau might remember something when confronted with the magic word ‘Marggrabowa’. Well, too bad.

Before setting out for Tempelhof he had telephoned the police in Treuburg, with equally disappointing results. Wawerka had kept a low profile in his former home town, low enough not to appear anywhere on file. The same went for Herbert Lamkau, who had learned to drive in the same Masurian district capital where Hans Wawerka had spent his formative years. That didn’t prove a thing, of course, but Rath would eat his hat if the two victims hadn’t known each other.

Erika Voss had a whole stack of messages for him when he returned to the office. ‘Superintendent Gennat wishes to speak with you urgently,’ she said, looking at her notes. ‘Then Detective Gräf telephoned about this drugs business, and Fräulein Ritter has also been in touch.’

‘Cadet Ritter,’ Rath corrected, as he hung up his hat.

Erika Voss made as if she hadn’t heard, blowing strands of blonde hair from her eyes. ‘Oh,’ she continued. ‘ED want you to call them back. I didn’t note that one down. They only telephoned just now.’

‘Well, you can’t say I’m not in demand. What did Fräulein Ritter want?’

‘Cadet Ritter would like to meet in order to submit her report. She can’t telephone too often, she said, otherwise people will start taking notice.’

‘She shouldn’t be telephoning so often anyway. Tell her that next time. I’ll call her tonight at home. What about Detective Gräf?’

‘No luck so far. He thinks he’ll be through the list by tonight. Should he and Assistant Detective Lange return to the office after that?’

‘Of course – unless they’ve requested holiday leave.’

He went through to his office and sat by the telephone. ‘Could you put me through to ED,’ he called through the door. ‘After that I’ll need the Mathée distillery in or just outside Treuburg, Masuria.’

Erika Voss did as bidden and moments later Rath had ED on the line. Kronberg took the call himself.

‘Inspector, that was quick. I have something for you.’

‘The written report on the evidence from Haus Vater-land?’

‘With you early tomorrow morning. We’ve got a lot on right now, what with the Phantom…’

‘That’s fine.’

‘No, it concerns the death notices you submitted yesterday,’ the ED chief said, not without a hint of pride. ‘We know which newspapers they’re from.’

‘Excellent. Fire away.’

‘So…’ Kronberg began, as ponderous as ever. Rath could picture him at the other end of the line donning his reading glasses and painstakingly unfolding a sheet of paper. ‘The Simoneit death notice is from the Volkszeitung für die Ost- und Westprignitz, from 14th May this year. The paper is published in…’

‘…let me guess: Wittenberge,’ Rath said. He couldn’t stand the ED chief’s long-windedness. ‘And no doubt the Wawerka death notice comes from a Dortmund paper.’

‘Correct. The Dortmund paper, in fact. Die Dortmunder Zeitung. From 2nd April.’

He made a note.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Many thanks.’

‘The letters in which the death notices were contained, on the other hand,’ Kronberg began, and Rath could tell by his voice that he had saved something special for last. ‘Were both dispatched from Berlin.’

‘Meaning the person who sent them lives here?’

‘That’s a possibility. The other possibility is that he wants us to think he lives there.’

‘If he’s that clever. Have you taken any fingerprints?’

‘We found a few on the envelopes, but they’re not clean. My men are still comparing; though I don’t hold out much hope.’

‘What about the prints from Haus Vaterland? Any luck there?’

‘We’ve managed to account for most. They’re either from staff or the deceased.’

‘Which staff?’

‘A good dozen. You’ll find the names in the report.’

‘It would be good if I could have it soon.’

‘Listen, Inspector, we only got the sheets on Monday. Almost fifty of them. We’re not miracle workers, you know.’

‘It’s just that we’re under a little pressure here, Herr Kronberg. The killer could strike again at any time.’

No sooner had he hung up than Erika Voss poked her blonde head around the door. ‘Do you have the number for the distillery?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘Then put me through, please.’

‘Gladly, Inspector, but perhaps you should wait a little.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s… while you were on the telephone… Superintendent Gennat has been in touch again.’

‘And?’

‘I think you’d better head over…’

He looked at her face and knew she was right.

25

There was no cake, which ought to have given Rath pause, but, aside from that, everything was as normal: he sat on the green sofa, Gennat in his armchair, and Trudchen Steiner poured the coffee.

Buddha seemed interested in the latest developments in the Vaterland case. ‘Looks like the trail leads towards East Prussia?’

‘You already know?’

‘Lamkau is from East Prussia, which is where he gets his Luisenbrand; the dead man from Dortmund is an East Prussian, likewise our man in Wittenberge.’

‘Him as well?’

Gennat pushed a thin file across the table. ‘August Simoneit. Police registration documents from Wittenberge.’

‘Requested by Fräulein Ritter,’ Rath slipped in. ‘They got here quick.’

‘Official mail.’ Gennat slapped the file cover with the palm of his hand. ‘The man came to the Elbe in September 1924. From Marggrabowa.’

‘You mean, Treuburg.’

‘That’s right. Treuburg. I see you’ve done your homework.’

Rath omitted to mention Detective Chief Inspector Watzke’s help. ‘Everything seems to point to Treuburg,’ he said instead. ‘According to his driving licence, Herr Lamkau lived there before moving to Berlin.’

‘So, that’s why you went back out to Tempelhof?’

‘Yes, Sir. I wanted to question the widow on her husband’s past. Lamkau and Wawerka must have known each other from Treuburg, and this Simoneit is clearly the third in the trio.’

‘Let’s hope there isn’t a fourth.’ Gennat stirred his coffee. ‘We need to find out what connects these men. It could be our way to the motive.’

‘I think so too, Sir.’

‘If all three were in Treuburg less than ten years ago, that’s where you should begin.’

‘I’ve already spoken with our colleagues there. None of them have police records.’

‘You’re not seriously proposing to leave inquiries to that bunch of amateurs! The Treuburg Police!’

‘I can hardly transfer my whole team to East Prussia! Fräulein Ritter is working undercover in Haus Vaterland at your behest, Sir. Meanwhile Lange and Gräf are still looking for this tubocurarine, which might prove just as important.’

‘You don’t have to decamp there en masse.’

‘We’re not exactly overcome with resources as it is.’

Gennat looked annoyed, but before he could say anything there was a knock, and Trudchen Steiner appeared in the doorway. ‘The inspector is here now, Sir.’

‘Tell him to come in.’

The superintendent didn’t bother to say which inspector should come in, but the discussion on East Prussia and the make-up of the Vaterland team appeared to be over. It was soon clear why. In the door frame stood the figure of Harald Dettmann.

‘Let’s skip the introductions,’ Gennat said. ‘Please take a seat, Herr Dettmann.’

Dettmann did as bidden, and threw Rath a hostile glance.

Who’s been squealing now, you arsehole, Rath thought, placing his cup back on its saucer. It made him feel more battle-ready.

‘I asked Herr Dettmann here to submit his final report on the Tiergarten case,’ Buddha began. His face gave no indication of what he was thinking. ‘So that he can commit fully to the Phantom investigation.’

Gennat looked at Rath, but the inspector preferred to remain silent. By now he knew Buddha well enough to appreciate this must be serious. Even so the force of Gennat’s ire took him by surprise.

‘What were you thinking, rendering an important report – the work of two or three days, no less – illegible like that?’

‘I didn’t mean to.’

Dettmann sprang to his feet, scarlet with rage. ‘You didn’t mean to? Of all the brass neck!’

Rath remained calm. He knew Dettmann was already in the red. ‘There was this inkwell. It was very precariously placed… I’m truly sorry.’

‘Herr Dettmann, please take a seat,’ Gennat said. ‘Let’s discuss this like grown men.’ He turned to Rath. ‘What were you doing in Dettmann’s office in the first place, Herr Rath?’

‘The Phantom investigation,’ Rath said calmly. ‘My colleague here had taken on my old case, and I wanted to…’

‘That’s a bare-faced lie!’ Dettmann shouted. A look from Gennat was enough to make him see reason.

Rath was now ahead on points. ‘I wanted,’ he continued, ‘to offer my support. But I’m afraid before I could do so… well, you know the rest. Herr Dettmann was so incensed that I was barely able to get a word in.’

‘What? The cheek of it! He’s just manipulating the facts to suit his own agenda.’

‘Inspector Dettmann! I must ask you to control yourself. You’ve already told me your side of the story, now let Inspector Rath tell his.’ Buddha turned to Rath again. ‘Inspector, if things happened the way you say they did, then I must say I’m surprised you didn’t offer to help clean up. After all, you were responsible for this mishap. You should have apologised.’

‘I did, in fact, if memory serves,’ Rath said. ‘Even so, I chose to leave Herr Dettmann’s office after he launched the inkwell at me.’

‘Is this true?’ Gennat asked.

‘It’s all lies. Inspector Rath had no intention of apologising, let alone helping me to clean up. Or…’ He gave Rath a fierce look. ‘…rewrite the report.’

Rath was unmoved. ‘I’ve no objection to our enlisting Forensics, Sir. I’d be willing to bet there are still traces of ink on the door.’

‘I think we’ll leave Herr Kronberg out of this one,’ Gennat said. ‘Let’s settle this among ourselves. Now, Herr Dettmann, did you throw the inkwell at Rath here?’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Good,’ Gennat said, and Dettmann fell silent. ‘You’ve both had a chance to tell your stories. Now, I’d like you to shake hands and make peace. This is Homicide, not some kindergarten.’ Neither inspector made any move to offer the other his hand. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

Rath stood up, and at length Dettmann, too, laboured out of the worn upholstery. The men shook hands. Dettmann’s eyes flashed with rage, but he said nothing. Rath withstood his furious gaze and offered a friendly smile.

‘I’d like to apologise again for my clumsiness.’

Dettmann said nothing, but his handshake grew firmer, and became almost painful as he looked daggers at his rival. Suddenly, he let go, murmured a goodbye and left the office.

Rath was about to follow suit, when Gennat held him back. ‘I haven’t finished with you, Herr Rath. Take a seat!’

Gennat scrutinised him closely, stirring his coffee while Dettmann left the outer office. ‘I hope you don’t expect me to believe that story.’

‘Sir, it’s the…’

‘For God’s sake, man, don’t give me that rubbish!’

Rath gave a start as, for the second time that afternoon, the normally composed Gennat raised his voice. He couldn’t remember Buddha ever shouting like this. ‘You think I don’t know when someone’s playing me for a fool? There are plenty who’ve sat here who can lie a damn sight better than you. So, how about you stop telling tales!’

‘I…’

‘You gave Dettmann the official version, but now I’d like to know what really happened.’

‘I’m sorry, Sir.’ For once, Rath was contrite. ‘You’re right. I did it intentionally.’

‘All because I took the case away from you and gave it to Dettmann? I have my reasons, believe me.’ Gennat shook his head. ‘I just hope your next act of revenge isn’t to set my office on fire. Or indeed the whole building.’

‘The Phantom wasn’t the reason.’

‘Then what was it? If there can ever be a reason for doing something like that!’

‘I’m afraid I can’t speak about it.’

‘Well, you better had, otherwise things could get pretty nasty around here.’

‘With respect, Sir, things can get as nasty as you like, but discretion demands that I remain silent. All I’ll say is that it has to do with Dettmann’s behaviour towards a female colleague.’

‘There aren’t too many ladies in our Division, and Fräulein Ritter is more than capable of looking after herself without you playing her knight in shining armour. This is about Charly, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t want to speak about it.’

‘My dear Rath, this is fatally reminiscent of another episode. When our old friend Herr Brenner wound up in hospital…’

‘Those were false certificates. Brenner was never in hospital.’

‘Be that as it may, but when you beat him up, and survived the subsequent disciplinary proceedings with no more than a slap on the wrist… that was about a female colleague, too, wasn’t it?’ Rath fell silent. ‘Inspector, your private life has nothing to do with me. Except when it impinges upon your performance at work.’

‘I… I wa… I wanted to make it public. But at the same time, I didn’t want this colleague to suffer any consequences.’ He gazed uncertainly in Gennat’s direction, but Buddha appeared to have regained his equilibrium. ‘I…’ Rath cleared his throat. ‘Fräulein Ritter and I have been… engaged… for two days now.’

Gennat actually seemed to be smiling. His face gave nothing away, but his eyes were laughing. He stretched out his oversized paws. ‘Well, then, congratulations,’ he said. ‘My compliments, Inspector.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’ Rath shook the chief’s hand, surprised at how easy it had been. The only person he felt guilty about was Charly. They had intended to wait…

‘Then Herr Dettmann besmirched the honour of your bride-to-be. In what way?’

‘With respect, Sir, if Fräulein Ritter hasn’t discussed the matter with you, I’d prefer to respect her confidence. I’ve already said too much.’

‘All right, all right. I won’t insist further. Did anyone witness the incident in Dettmann’s office?’

‘It was just us, Sir.’

Gennat nodded. ‘With any luck, you’ll be able to bypass disciplinary proceedings. Perhaps it really was your clumsiness that made a mess of the report.’

The hint of a smile flickered across Rath’s face, but he managed to suppress it, in favour of time-honoured grateful humility. ‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘I wouldn’t be too hasty. Dettmann isn’t your only problem. The powers-that-be take a dim view of privately involved colleagues operating as part of the same department.’

‘I’d like to stress again how important it is that Fräulein Ritter doesn’t suffer any professional disadvantage. I know how much she enjoys working in Homicide, and I…’

‘Don’t worry about Fräulein Ritter. She won’t suffer any consequences on your behalf. Heaven forbid. No, Charly will continue to work on the Vaterland case until it’s resolved. I’m glad that G Division has placed her at our disposal.’ Gennat shook his head. ‘In fact, I have a different solution in mind. One that might help defuse the tension with Inspector Dettmann.’

26

No matter how hard she scrubbed she couldn’t get rid of the accursed onion smell. Every bone in her body ached and her eyes were puffy and swollen. My God, what a sight she was!

She couldn’t go to Carmerstrasse looking like this, not with her onion hands, and her hair and clothes still reeking of dripping. You’ve got a lot to learn, Charlotte Ritter, she thought, if you’re serious about this marriage business. You have to be able to let your husband see you like this.

But then was she – serious about this marriage business?

Despite saying ‘yes’ to his proposal, she still wasn’t sure. She didn’t see how it could fit with the life she envisioned. The truth was, she wasn’t entirely clear what kind of life that was, only that she wanted to do things differently from her mother, who had stayed at home and been unhappy. She knew that much – and that she wanted to work. As well as having children, and a home. The trouble was, no one could tell her how to go about it.

There was a knock on the door.

‘Will you be out soon? I need to use the bathroom too.’

‘Be done in a few hours…’

The door opened, and Greta poked her head inside. ‘What’s the matter, my little kitchen fairy? Have you turned into a pumpkin?’ Charly held out her dripping wet hands. Greta sniffed and pulled a face. ‘Have you tried toothpaste?’ she asked.

‘Bad breath isn’t the problem.’

‘No, seriously. Give ’em here.’ Greta took Charly’s hands, squeezed Chlorodont on them, and rubbed her palms together. ‘Ancient remedy – you’d know if you’d ever chopped onions here.’

Charly rinsed the toothpaste sludge with tap water. Her hands now smelled of mint, but no longer of onion. She gazed in the mirror; her eyes were starting to look normal again too.

She wondered if Gereon would even be home. She had tried the office again in the afternoon, but only reached his secretary, with whom, of course, she couldn’t leave a message. From everything Erika Voss had said, it sounded as if he were out pursuing a fresh lead, but Charly couldn’t be sure. Perhaps that was the point.

Despite itching to leave work, she had accepted the black waiter’s invitation and called into the Wild West Bar on her way home. Mohamed Husen, the African cowboy, was delighted, and stood her a Luisenbrand.

‘That’s the stuff,’ she said, placing a hand over her glass when he made to top her up. ‘Doesn’t taste very American, mind.’

‘If this really were America, there wouldn’t be any bourbon either. In fact there wouldn’t be any alcohol at all. It’s illegal over there.’ Husen gestured discreetly towards a band of unruly drinkers. ‘That’s why the Yanks love it here so much. They drink anything, Korn, vodka, brandy. The main thing’s the alcohol content. If you ask me, Prohibition’s only made people want to drink more.’

‘I’m surprised you have any time for me.’

‘I’m taking my cigarette break inside.’ He took out his cigarette case and offered one to Charly, who accepted.

Mohamed Husen seemed pretty well informed, having been at Haus Vaterland two years now. He even knew there had been issues with the Luisenbrand. The Yanks in the Wild West Bar hadn’t noticed, but Riedel, the spirits buyer, who often took a glass here, had discreetly raised the alarm, upon which the waiters had proceeded to gather up all offending bottles. Three of the seven in the Wild West Bar alone were tainted. All in all, around two dozen held cheap hooch instead of high-end schnapps.

The patrons in the Wild West Bar kept looking furtively in their direction. At first Charly thought that she was imagining it, and ascribed the feeling to the paranoia that affected agents during a covert operation. But she wasn’t imagining anything, the explanation was sitting next to her at the bar. She couldn’t be sure if it was Husen’s exotic appearance or his cowboy outfit, or the simple fact that a German girl was sharing a table with a black.

Mohamed Husen didn’t turn a hair. He was probably used to it, Charly thought, examining her tired face in the mirror and fixing her lipstick. Either way, if they spoke again they’d have to go somewhere else. They were simply too conspicuous in the Wild West Bar. If the waiters here started gossiping, the rumours would soon reach the central kitchen, and Charly would be out of a job.

Sitting, at last, in a taxi to Gereon’s flat in Charlottenburg, she considered what she could actually tell him about Haus Vaterland. That she had met a black man in the Wild West Bar and attracted the attention of everyone inside? No, it would be enough to tell him about the tainted Luisenbrand. She asked the driver to stop in Carmerstrasse and paid as she got out. She gazed down the street towards Steinplatz, and looked at the house fronts. It still didn’t feel like home, but she was looking forward to seeing Gereon and Kirie and spending the evening together.

The porter greeted her casually as she passed his lodge, and the lift boy brought her to the third floor without having to be asked. Perhaps it did feel a little like home after all and, after a day like today, there was nothing she needed more than the feeling of coming home.

She rang the bell, inspecting her fingernails as she waited and realising that, although she had rubbed her hands with toothpaste, she had completely forgotten to brush her teeth. She would almost certainly still smell of alcohol. Damn it! There was a crash, and then she heard his steps. The door opened. Gereon was in hat and coat, and Kirie seemed to be elsewhere, otherwise she’d have greeted Charly long ago.

‘You just got home too?’ she asked.

He shook his head. ‘On the contrary.’

She didn’t understand what he meant until she registered a large suitcase in the hallway. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, trying to locate a smile. ‘Engaged two days, and you’re leaving me already?’

‘Something like that.’ He forced a smile. ‘I’m afraid I have a confession to make…’

27

The scissors are sharp; they need only touch the newsprint and it falls to pieces. Carefully, you cut around the double black border. It should remain intact, you don’t want to destroy it.

O Death where is thy sting? O Hell where is thy victory?

You wonder whether it was the widow who chose Corinthians or the funeral parlour. But what does it matter?

For as much as it has pleased Almighty God in his unfathomable wisdom to take unto Himself my beloved husband, suddenly and unexpectedly departed from his busy life.

Such a death notice reaches many people, but still only those who read the newspaper in which it appears. You, on the other hand, ensure that the right people set eyes on it; people the widow doesn’t know, of whose existence she can barely even conceive.

It appeared in the Kreuz-Zeitung. A Prussian like Lamkau, you ought to have guessed. The man in the kiosk was about to complain at your leafing through so many newspapers one after the other for the third day in a row, but bit his tongue when you produced your wallet, and looked at you strangely as you straightaway purchased two copies. Still, he said nothing. That is the wonderful thing about Berlin. No one is surprised by anything.

You still have one more task to take care of in this city, and then, finally, you will be able to take the long road back. Back into the past.

To the day when your old life ends.

There is nothing you can do. You relive it over and over again. It was a beautiful day, that much you still remember, until the moment it was destroyed and the world shattered like thin glass.

A glorious Sunday morning, the city decked out in bunting and flags. But the peaceful surface is deceptive; underneath is hatred. You meet the hostile glances they cast in your direction with a smile. You smile because you believe in the future; you don’t know that your life is already at an end – the moment you step out into the street and blink in the sunlight.