The Fatherland Files

28

The engines roared in Rath’s ear, an infernal noise, but it took an age before the plane started moving. Suddenly, he felt a jolt and soon they were gathering speed. Instinctively he gripped the rests with his hands, until a glance outside told him they were being taxied across the strip.

Charly had told him that flying was different from a tower or scaffolding: he wouldn’t have any problems with his vertigo. Statistically speaking, aeroplanes were actually safer than trains and motorcars. That was all very well, but right now he was scared, scared, goddamn it – and they weren’t even airborne!

Her reassurances had proved in vain as they waited alongside twelve others, mainly businessmen, for the Königsberg night flight to be called. ‘Perhaps you’ll see an elk,’ she said, as if his trip to Masuria was some kind of holiday.

He wasn’t sure if she was being comforting or sarcastic but, whatever, she wasn’t in the best of moods. On the journey to Tempelhof they had barely exchanged a word, and what little they had said had been ill-tempered. No doubt she had pictured their first week of engagement differently. She certainly couldn’t have imagined one of them would be leaving so soon.

The journey passed in silence until they reached the Yorck Bridge and he came clean about Dettmann. What choice did he have? Sooner or later, it would have got out, and, besides, now that they were engaged, he had resolved to be more honest. With Charly, at least.

‘You have to learn to control yourself,’ she said.

‘Maybe, but the arsehole still deserved it.’

Then he saw that, despite her best efforts to look stern, she was stifling a grin, and he knew once and for all that he’d done the right thing. A few days in exile seemed a fair price and Gennat was right, someone had to make the journey east, so why not him? After all, it was his investigation. Perhaps the flying was part of his punishment. Buddha had certainly been keen to scotch any notion that he might drive there himself.

‘Have you any idea how long that will take? You need a transit visa to pass through the Corridor, and the Poles won’t exactly welcome you with open arms, especially not when they see you’re a police officer.’

‘Don’t we have an agreement with the Polish Police?’

‘You’ll be dealing with customs officials, not police officers.’

Buddha had refused to budge, Rath’s ticket was already on the desk, and all other arrangements had been made. Gennat handed him the travel documents. ‘You’re expected first thing tomorrow morning at police headquarters in Königsberg. Report to Superintendent Grunert; he’ll assign you a vehicle.’ First thing tomorrow. Suddenly Rath realised how keen they were to be rid of him. ‘You’re not due at the airport for another six hours. See that you pack something warm. Masuria can be very cold, even in summer.’

Before he could head home to follow Gennat’s advice, Rath visited Deputy Commissioner Weiss for a letter of introduction that called upon all officers of the Prussian Police and Gendarmerie to provide Detective Inspector Gereon Rath of Berlin with any assistance he might require. While Rath skimmed the text, Weiss took the opportunity to launch into one of his political sermons. ‘I want you to appreciate the significance of your presence there as a Prussian officer.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Do you know why the Brüning government stepped aside?’

‘I’m afraid I’m not interested in politics, Sir.’

‘Well, you should be, Herr Rath. You should be! Everything we do is political, whether we like it or not.’

‘With respect, Sir, I see things differently. My job is to fight crime.’

‘Things are delicate in the East. The farmers are having trouble with the landowners and many have left the country. The Brüning administration has been a disaster. In April, the Masurians hailed this Hitler – a man who has only just finagled himself German citizenship – as if he were the saviour of East Prussia, and already the Nazis are talking of a “Masurian awakening”. You know how they glorify everything and exploit it for their own propaganda.’

‘What are you trying to say, Sir? That they’re all Nazis in East Prussia? Should I invest in a swastika brassard as camouflage?’

‘The opposite. I want your presence in East Prussia, and in Masuria especially, to be an advertisement for Prussian democracy…’

‘Not German democracy?’

‘You are welcome to try, of course, but I fear there is no longer such a thing. The Reich might still be a Republic in name, but in reality it is simply biding its time until the Kaiser can be re-installed – or a military dictatorship proclaimed. Ever since Hindenburg appointed that schemer, von Papen, as chancellor.’

At some point Rath switched off. He had no interest in all this political bickering. Like Weiss, he was no fan of the self-proclaimed Führer and his SA thugs, but then so what? You didn’t have to vote for him. He caught himself wondering when he had last visited the polls. At the presidential elections he had stayed at home. Hindenburg, Hitler or Thälmann – what sort of choice was that?

He gazed out of the window. In the headlights he could make out the grass of Tempelhofer Feld. It was only hours since Weiss had sent him on his way, and now he was clattering across the airstrip. They had told him a Junkers G31 was a highly reliable craft. Luft Hansa had been flying to Königsberg for six years, but it was a mystery how this droning, rattling, old crate would get off the ground, let alone stay airborne. It felt as if it might disintegrate at any moment. His forehead was slick with sweat.

He unfolded Weiss’s letter, but his concentration failed and he soon gave up. A glance out of the window told him they were still on the runway.

His neighbour on the other side of the aisle appeared more at ease, burying his head in a paper as though on a train. Rath gazed at the article and tried to take his mind off things. Polizei überlastet. Die Folgen von Demonstrationsfreiheit. Right to demonstrate leaves police feeling the strain. The topic should have interested him, but the words blurred before his eyes. He was still thinking about all the strange noises the plane was making.

By now they seemed to be accelerating. He was jolted back in his seat, and, all of a sudden, realised they must have taken off, despite not being able to see anything for the darkness outside. Somewhere beyond there appeared a blaze of lights, and he recognised the brightly lit colossus that was Karstadt on Hermannplatz, and the network of streets: a spider’s web of light that took his breath away. They were flying, they were actually flying! The question was, for how long.

The paper on the other side of the aisle rustled gently and Rath stared into the red-cheeked face of a portly man in his mid-forties. ‘Your first time?’ the man asked.

‘Hm?’

‘You realise you don’t have to hold onto the armrests. You’re not going to fall out of the plane.’ The man laughed, but he wasn’t being spiteful.

Rath looked down at his hands on the armrests. His knuckles had gone white. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Trains are fine; and I’ve even done the odd transatlantic crossing. But I don’t like this at all.’

‘Never mind, you can rest easy. As long as you have your parachute, you’re safe.’

‘My parachute?’

‘You mean you don’t have one?’ The man made a horrified face.

‘No!’

‘Well, then…’ The man burst out laughing. ‘Just a little joke. No harm meant.’

Rath tried to smile. ‘What business do you have in Königsberg?’

‘Wood.’ The man leaned across and stretched out a hand. ‘Hillbrich, furniture manufacturer. Yourself? What brings you East?’

‘Crime.’ He shook Hillbrich’s hand. ‘Rath, CID.’

‘Police? I can sleep easy, knowing my pocket watch is safe.’

Rath forced another smile as, somehow, the monotonous drone of the engine calmed him. He looked out of the window, realising he felt no vertigo. All he could see were a few scattered lights like stars on the ground. He had no idea where they were.

‘What do you think?’ he asked. ‘Will we land on time?’

Hillbrich looked at his watch and shrugged. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘As long as those dirty Polacks don’t gun us down.’ There was a moment’s pause before Hillbrich clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Just joking, old boy. I’ve flown to Königsberg hundreds of times, Danzig too, without any problems. You’re better off flying than passing through that accursed Corridor, where the Poles treat you like a criminal.’

This was going to be fun. Rath resolved not to smile for the remainder of the flight.

Shortly afterwards, the steward prepared the sleeping cabins. He wasn’t convinced he’d get any sleep, but accepted the offer, if only to avoid having to listen to any more jokes. The gentle rocking, which had filled him with dread moments before, now achieved the opposite effect. He closed his eyes, thinking of Charly, and soon his thoughts turned to dreams.

29

She stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Goddamn it!

She was in her own bed at Spenerstrasse, even though Gereon had left her both the Buick and the key to his flat. Still, the last thing she had wanted was to stroll past that same porter again, who stood guarding the stairwell in Carmerstrasse like some kind of Cerberus!

God knows, she had pictured tonight differently. How had it ended like this? A consoling arm would have been nice, a degree of sympathy, perhaps even a little pampering after the day she’d had. Even now she still saw onions, nothing but onions, as soon as she closed her eyes. She’d probably dream of them too, assuming she fell asleep at all.

She’d wanted to tell him about her mission on the German onion front, about how she had spoken to someone with information about the Luisenbrand scandal, but Gereon hadn’t been the slightest bit interested in her day. Instead, everything had revolved around him: his encounter with Dettmann and his punishment as a result. When he casually mentioned that he’d confessed to their engagement, she could have slapped him. Given, however, that they were racing up the Tempelhofer Berg on Belle-Alliance-Strasse, she decided not to risk it.

‘You did what?’

‘Charly, please! There was no other way. Buddha cornered me. I’m sorry.’

‘We had an agreement!’

‘He congratulated us. You don’t stand to lose anything. I’m the one he’s sending to East Prussia.’

‘You think I’m happy about my fiancé being dispatched to the middle of nowhere? You didn’t even leave me the dog!’

‘You have to work tomorrow. Erika will look after her.’

‘Does she know we’re engaged?’

‘Of course not.’ He looked at her with his puppy-dog eyes. ‘Come on, Charly. At some stage everyone’s going to know. That’s the point of getting married. So the whole world can see we’re together.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Yes, that’s right!’

After that they’d reverted to silence.

By the time they pushed the luggage trolley towards check-in, her anger had abated. Thinking about what Gereon had done to Dettmann, she took a kind of mischievous pleasure in the image. For once he had done the right thing, damn it, no matter how stupid it might have been. Well, sometimes doing the right thing was stupid. Perhaps, on some level, he had accepted his banishment for her sake, and that was deeply flattering – more so than she cared to admit. She despised male posturing, but even so it was wonderful knowing he had defended her, perhaps even avenged her a little.

Did Gennat really hope to gain anything by this East Prussian operation? Perhaps it was more important that Gereon be removed from the line of fire; that way there was no risk of Inspectors Rath and Dettmann duelling at first light.

Things could certainly have turned out worse. Another disciplinary hearing and Gereon Rath could kiss goodbye to his police career, just when he was on the verge of marrying and starting a family. Now that would be stupid, even though she had a career these days too. She looked up at the ceiling and smiled at the idea of her returning home, exhausted from work, to find her husband in an apron and brandishing a wooden spoon. What a crazy idea! Not to say unrealistic: Gereon’s culinary skills were even more questionable than her own – and that was saying something.

As far as the cooking went, they’d both have been better off finding a new partner…

She heard the apartment door opening and Greta giggling quietly. She seemed to have brought her latest crush home, a lodger with a strict landlady who didn’t allow female visitors. It wasn’t the first time he had stayed over. Would the two of them make it? Would Greta even want them to? She was a permissive sort, so permissive it was sometimes frightening. Charly still hadn’t told her friend that she was engaged. She knew that she wouldn’t be in favour, either of Gereon, whom she’d always given the cold shoulder, or, indeed, the concept of engagement itself.

Still, at some point, she’d have to confess. Admit that she couldn’t stay much longer in Spenerstrasse. Even now, just thinking about it, she felt the wrench of separation. She and Greta had lived here more than four years, with a couple of breaks, and for the most part it had been good. Why did life have to be so complicated?

She closed her eyes, picturing a mound of onions, only this time she fell asleep.

30

Königsberg Police Headquarters bore no comparison with its Berlin counterpart, feeling almost homely in style. If anything, the modern train station on the other side of the road was more monolithic. Despite the strong Luft Hansa coffee, Rath felt tired as he climbed out of the taxi and heaved his case up the stairs.

They had landed at Devau Airport in Königsberg half an hour earlier, but he had been awake since the stopover at Danzig two hours before. Taking off for a second time, he had gazed upon Danzig centre and the mighty Marienkirche, even winding down the window to locate the Crane Gate among the toy houses, and let in a little fresh air. He could get used to this flying business.

At headquarters, he soon found his way to the relevant office. Behind the desk sat a fat, excessively jovial man with thin glasses and thinning hair. The superintendent had clearly been expecting him, for no sooner had he entered than a secretary placed a tray of fresh coffee on the table.

‘Welcome to Königsberg,’ he said, stretching out a hand. ‘Grunert, Superintendent Wilhelm Grunert.’

‘Gereon Rath. Detective Inspector.’

‘Yes, yes, I know. They announced you at reception.’ Grunert gestured towards the visitor’s chair, and Rath sat down.

‘So, you’re off to Treuburg, Superintendent Gennat tells me…’ Grunert poured coffee.

‘Yes, Sir. We have a lead in a homicide case.’

Rath took a sip: a clear dip in quality compared with the plane, but police coffee was supposed to wake you up, not taste good.

‘You’re looking for the killer here?’

‘His victims.’ Rath lit a cigarette. ‘Three men from East Prussia; the killer is most likely in Berlin.’

‘Then let’s hope you catch him soon. A serial killer?’

‘Seems that way.’

‘One who has it in for East Prussians?’

‘Former East Prussians. Treuburgers, who’d been living in West or Central Germany for years.’ Rath smiled. ‘Nothing to fear so long as you stay in East Prussia.’

Grunert’s secretary must have smelled the cigarette smoke, and entered with an ashtray for Rath.

‘Very well,’ Grunert said, rubbing his hands. ‘Then let’s get you on your way. If you set off now, you should be in Treuburg by midday. I’ve taken the liberty of letting the local police know. I thought you could discuss the matter over lunch.’

Rath felt uneasy. How many people knew he was here? All he needed now was a red carpet and brass band. ‘Many thanks, Superintendent.’

‘We’ve arranged a car for your onward journey.’

‘Then I’ll just need a decent map. I’m afraid I don’t know my way around here.’

‘No need. I’ve something better.’ The superintendent picked up the receiver and pushed a white button under the dial. ‘Fräulein Sieger,’ he bellowed into the mouthpiece. ‘Please send Kowalski in.’

Moments later a gaunt young man with straggly blonde hair entered. There was something odd about his appearance. It took Rath a moment to realise there were still bits of toilet tissue clinging to his face and neck from his morning shave.

‘Where culture ends, there Masuria begins,’ Grunert declared and laughed. The youth remained impassive. ‘Assistant Detective Kowalski here is a local, and will serve as your companion.’

This was all he needed! He’d been looking forward to a solo journey through the expanses of East Prussia, but now they’d assigned him a chaperone. Rath took his place next to the dour Kowalski on the narrow front seat of a pitch-black Wanderer W10 which had seen better days. From 1926, he estimated, which made it significantly older than the vehicles belonging to the Berlin motor pool. He’d never have thought he’d find himself longing for a green Opel.

As Assistant Detective Kowalski steered through the dawning city, past the castle and over several bridges, he wondered if it had been Buddha who’d requested his presence, or perhaps Superintendent Grunert. Either way, he wasn’t sure whether the man was there to provide assistance or surveillance, but at least he was a local.

He lit a cigarette and debated whether he should draw Kowalski’s attention to the lingering evidence of his morning shave but decided against. By now most of the tissue had fallen away, save for an isolated wisp that clung stubbornly to the young man’s chin. He blew cigarette smoke through his nose so that Kowalski couldn’t hear him sigh and gazed in the opposite direction. They passed a low city gate and a park, allotments and suburban houses as the city began to fray into the countryside.

He was prepared to endure his driver’s silence up to a point, but as the cigarettes and kilometres mounted his patience began to wear. An hour after they’d set off from Stresemannstrasse neither of them had said a word, which was more than any self-respecting Rhinelander could bear.

‘I’ve worked with East Prussians before,’ he began, after clearing his throat. Kowalski nodded silently while overtaking a horse and cart that sagged under its load. Rath lit his next cigarette and fell silent. It occurred to him that Stephan Jänicke was dead and Helmut Grabowski in prison, making his two East Prussian colleagues unlikely conversation starters. He gazed out of the window onto a sleepy avenue that meandered through the countryside past a still lake surrounded by woodland and wheat fields. ‘It’s pretty here,’ he said. ‘The region, I mean.’ Again Kowalski nodded. ‘So, you’re from Treuburg?’ Another nod. ‘Is it as pretty as here?’

‘Prettier.’

Rath didn’t know if he could chalk Kowalski’s response up as a success, but at least the man had said something. He stubbed out his cigarette. They passed through a little town. Wehlau, Reg. Bez. Königsberg, the sign said. Wehlau, Administrative Region of Königsberg. A pair of storks had built their nest on a telegraph pole near the entrance.

‘So why did you leave, if Treuburg’s so pretty?’

‘I was transferred.’

‘Do you know the Mathée firm? Luisenbrand?’

Kowalski looked at Rath reproachfully, as if he took him for a drinker, nodded and again focused on the road. ‘It’s part of the Luisenhöhe estate,’ he said.

Now it was Rath who turned his head, gazing at Kowalski in astonishment. ‘A proper estate? With a Junker and all that?’

Kowalski shook his head. ‘It used to belong to the von Mathée family, Huguenots ennobled by Old Fritz himself. But they went bankrupt during the great inflation, or something.’

‘How about now?’

‘Mathée’s old managing director took it on.’

‘Wengler? Director Wengler?’

‘That’s the one. Made a truly model company of it, the distillery especially. Mathée Luisenbrand is distributed all over the world. People are very proud of it in the Oletzko district.’

It was Rath’s turn to nod. All it needed was a little patience, and these East Prussians became positively loquacious.

31

The Treuburg marketplace was enormous. So enormous, in fact, that there was a tree-covered hillock in its centre. The church sat regally at the summit, its spire towering above the trees. At the foot of the hillock were a few houses, the town hall, and, next to it, a school and the fire station. ‘The largest marketplace in Germany,’ Kowalski announced, and Rath believed him. It was so large that, at first glance, it appeared to be something else. It was as if time here had stood still: smart, gabled houses lined its four sides, road traffic was still dominated by horse-drawn carriages, and a few sheep must have escaped their pen, or perhaps simply belonged in the centre.

Kowalski braked and, within seconds, the official car of the Königsberg Police was mobbed by children squinting through its windows. No red carpet or brass band, but it wasn’t exactly what Rath would call a discreet entrance. He rolled his eyes. All he needed now was for the local press to take his picture, and invite him to sign the town’s Golden Book.

It was not yet twelve. ‘Shouldn’t they be in school?’ he asked.

‘Summer holidays,’ Kowalski said, stepping on the accelerator. The children jumped aside and grew ever smaller in the rear-view mirror until the W10 left the marketplace. Kowalski continued to a little river and crossed a bridge, passing another church and eventually reaching a large brick building overlooking the shore. Oletzko District Administrative Office, the sign bearing the Prussian eagle read. Rath got out of the car and stretched his aching limbs before following his aide-cum-chaperone inside.

They passed through an anteroom occupied by a bespectacled girl, reaching the office of a portly man who wore an old-fashioned moustache and blue uniform.

‘Our visitor from Berlin,’ the uniformed officer said, after Kowalski made his report. ‘We weren’t expecting you so early. Please, take a seat!’

Rath sat on the visitor’s chair and admired the view from the window behind the desk: lake glistening in the midday sun, boats pitching and tossing, the whitewashed diving platform of the public baths, dark green treetops on the far side of the shore. Feeling as if he were on holiday he lit a cigarette. ‘Did we speak yesterday on the telephone?’ he asked. ‘Chief Constable Grigat?’

‘That’s right. Erich Grigat. Welcome to my humble abode. It isn’t often we have visitors from the capital.’

‘You’re in charge of the Treuburg Police?’

‘De facto, let’s say. De jure, of course, the police chief would be Landrat Wachsmann, the district administrator. But I am his highest-ranking officer.’

‘Nice view you’ve got here. My office looks out onto the suburban railway and district court. There’s soot everywhere because of the trains.’

‘It’s worth making time for our little town. The lake, the new park with the war memorial.’ Local pride was etched all over Grigat’s face. ‘Have you seen our marketplace? The biggest in the whole of Germany! Seven hectares.’

Rath nodded and drew on his cigarette. ‘Very impressive.’

Grigat fetched a file from the drawer. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of doing a little digging and, lo and behold, the three names you passed on yesterday were all registered here in the district at one point.’

‘Two were born here in fact,’ Rath said. ‘Do you have their addresses?’

‘It’s all in here.’ Grigat tapped the file. ‘Let’s discuss it over lunch. I’ve booked us a table at one in the Salzburger Hof.’

‘Don’t put yourself out on my account.’

‘I eat lunch there every day. Besides, it’s also your hotel. I’ve taken the liberty of reserving a room for you.’

The round-the-clock service was starting to get on Rath’s nerves, but in the meantime he bowed to his fate. ‘Many thanks,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘That’s still a bit away. If you don’t mind, I’d like to get to my room and freshen up a little. I spent last night in the plane and still feel a little washed-out.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. ‘We’ll talk at one.’

‘Of course.’

Rath looked at the file. ‘You don’t mind if I take this? That way I can read up a little before lunch.’

Grigat made a face as if he minded very much. Then his smile returned. ‘Of course.’

A little later, Rath and Kowalski stood at the reception of the Salzburger Hof. Kowalski deposited Rath’s suitcase by the counter and made to leave.

‘Where are you staying?’ Rath asked. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the assistant detective had gestured towards the back seat of the car.

‘My uncle lives just around the corner. Goldaper Strasse. I’ll report back at one if I may, Sir.’

‘Of course. Go to your uncle. I won’t need you again till two.’

Shortly afterwards Rath stood gazing out of his first-floor window. They had given him a balcony room overlooking the Treuburg marketplace; it even came with private bathroom and running water, the hotelier had proudly informed him at reception. Despite his suitcase still being unpacked, he flopped down onto the bed, exhausted by Masurian hospitality, and glad at last to be alone. He dozed for a while, before a glance at his alarm clock told him it was time: only half an hour until his lunchtime meeting with Chief Constable Grigat.

He went into the bathroom and shovelled cold water on his face until he felt halfway revived. He sat by the window with Grigat’s file.

The information gathered by the Treuburg Police was sparse but there were no gaps. All three men had indeed lived for a number of years in Treuburg, or Marggrabowa as it was known then. August Simoneit and Hans Wawerka had never left their home town before the summer of 1924, when both packed their things and headed west, the one to Wittenberge, the other to Dortmund.

Herbert Lamkau had come to Marggrabowa a few years after the war and initially registered as living at the Luisenhöhe estate. After that he had lived on Lindenallee, likewise until 1924.

Before the war, Simoneit had lived in a village called Krupinnen, which was also part of the Oletzko district, registering his address at Legasteg in Marggrabowa following his return from battle in 1918. Wawerka, meanwhile, had always lived in the Schmale Gasse, in the town centre.

Rath decided to wait until after lunch to look at the three addresses and the Korn distillery. After that he had to find out what happened in the spring of 1924. What had prompted the three men to leave town in the same year? He felt certain that if he could answer these questions, he’d find the link between them – and, perhaps, the reason they were murdered.

He lit a cigarette, stepped onto the little balcony and gazed down at the square. So, this was Germany’s largest marketplace, as everyone was at pains to tell him. Right now it was the probably its most deserted too. The vast expanse lay desolate in the midday heat. Children would be at home eating lunch with their mothers, and even the sheep had disappeared. A lone group of young men wearing brown uniforms and swastika brassards emerged from the little wood by the church and marched across the square. In Berlin the presence of brownshirts inevitably denoted a threat. On the sunlit Treuburg marketplace, against a backdrop of pretty gable houses, there was something almost idyllic about it, as if a group of SA officers on their way to lunch was just another aspect of small-town life. This impression was reinforced when the blue uniform of Chief Constable Grigat emerged from an alleyway into a cordial exchange that ended when the policeman touched his shako in military salute.

In Berlin it would have been unthinkable for a police officer to greet Nazis in this way. Rath stubbed out his cigarette on the wrought-iron balcony railing and remembered his audience with Bernhard Weiss. Was Erich Grigat a Nazi? Not officially, of course, otherwise he would have had to quit his post. Still, an officer couldn’t be prevented from harbouring political sympathies. Rath reflected that one or two of his Berlin colleagues might pull on the brownshirt as soon they were permitted.

He went inside, took the file from the table and made his way downstairs. Grigat was already seated when he entered the dining room.

‘Afternoon,’ the constable said, looking up from the menu.

He returned the greeting and sat down, placing the file on the lily-white table cloth. ‘So, what can you recommend?’

‘Seeing as we’re in East Prussia, you might want to try the Königsberger Klopse or buttermilk blintzes and caraway meatballs. It’s all there.’ Grigat leaned over the menu as if protecting a secret. ‘I’d take the roast pork and potato dumplings.’

‘I can get that in Berlin.’

‘But not like here.’

Grigat was right. The meat, which was served by a young girl following a starter of beetroot soup, was mouth-watering, and there was plenty of it.

‘Did you manage to get some reading done?’ Grigat asked, pointing at the file.

‘There wasn’t much to read. The most intriguing thing is why all three left Treuburg in the same year.’

‘No idea. There’s no information about that.’

‘Can you remember any of them? Personally, I mean.’

‘Sadly not.’ Grigat swallowed and dabbed at his mouth with a serviette. ‘I only moved here in the autumn of ‘29 but you can always ask around. You’ve got the addresses; perhaps someone here can remember them.’

‘Precisely what I had in mind. I can take a look at your lovely town while I’m at it.’

‘If you need any help, just say. I could place a man at your…’

‘Not necessary, thank you. I have Herr Kowalski.’

‘Of course. Where is he, by the way?’

‘At his uncle’s.’

‘Your companion has relatives here?’

‘Actually, he’s from here himself.’

‘Then you should ask him. Perhaps he knows what happened in ‘24.’

Rath nodded. Not such a bad idea, although he wondered how old Anton Kowalski would have been eight years ago. He was probably still at school.

At last they conquered the mountains of flesh. The blonde girl cleared the plates and, without being asked, served two bowls of a golden yellow mixture topped with raisins.

‘Masurian Glumse,’ Grigat explained.

‘Glumse?’

‘What you’d call Quark. Tastes like cheesecake without the biscuit.’

Erich Grigat was right, it tasted good. Even so, Rath felt as if he’d endured a lengthy meeting with Buddha. Grigat, however, couldn’t get enough. He sat rubbing his hands. ‘You wanted to try something East Prussian? How about a Pillkaller to finish?’

‘I don’t think I’ve got room for anything else.’

‘To help with digestion.’ Grigat grinned, hands already raised. ‘Hella? Can you bring us two Pillkaller, please!’

Moments later the girl returned. She wore long blonde pigtails, the sort of hairstyle that had long since gone out of fashion in Berlin. She balanced two large glasses of Doppelkorn on her tray, a slice of liver sausage on top of each, spread thick with mustard. Rath found the sight alone disgusting.

‘Put the sausage on your tongue, pour the schnapps over it, then swallow,’ Grigat said, and demonstrated.

This ritual was even less appealing. The thought made him decidedly uneasy, but Grigat’s expectant face left him no choice. Time to grit your teeth and get on with it! The result was a horrible sludge that didn’t taste quite as bad as expected.

‘And now we repeat, a dozen or so times.’ Grigat laughed when he saw Rath’s horrified expression. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Pillkaller is more of an evening thing. When you want to get drunk but don’t have much in your stomach.’

Rath resolved to give Chief Constable Grigat a wide berth this evening, if not for the remainder of his stay in Treuburg.

32

The houses on Legasteg were small, with low roofs. Bed sheets lay on the low meadows, bleaching in the afternoon sun. The tired, sluggish river; the crooked little houses – at first glance it appeared idyllic, but poverty was plain to see. Rath knocked on the door of August Simoneit’s former address and waited. There was no bell, neither here nor anywhere else on the street. Probably, most houses had no electricity.

He heard floorboards creaking before the door opened. At first he could hardly make out the man standing in the dark hollow of the entrance hall. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘Please excuse the interruption.’

‘We’re not buying.’

‘I’m not trying to sell.’ Rath showed his identification. ‘CID, Berlin. I have a question.’

‘Berlin?’

The man stepped into the sun to take a closer look at the badge. Rath saw a thin, wrinkled face, with blonde hair that was now mostly white. ‘It concerns August Simoneit,’ he said. ‘He used to live here. Do you remember?’

The man looked at him through suspicious eyes and shook his head before closing the door. It wasn’t rude; he didn’t slam it, just closed it without another word.

Taciturn and lightning-fast. Rath remembered how they used to joke about the odd Westphalian officer who strayed into the Rhineland during his years in Cologne.

He knocked again and waited. After a time, the man opened the door again and looked at him inquiringly. He didn’t have a photograph of Simoneit but took pictures of the other two men from his jacket. The man at the door inspected them thoroughly. ‘Do you recognise either of them?’ Rath asked. ‘They used to live in Treuburg.’

The man shook his head. ‘Don’t know them,’ he said, and promptly closed the door a second time.

Rath gave up. It really wasn’t unfriendliness; the people here were just taciturn. It was how they communicated – or didn’t, as the case might be.

It was the same story in the Schmale Gasse, where Wawerka had lived before moving west, only here a woman came to the door – and she proved even more taciturn than the man at Legasteg. Her contribution consisted entirely of headshakes, nods and suspicious glances. She had never heard of a Johann Wawerka.

Unlike the previous two streets, Lamkau’s address on Lindenallee was perfectly presentable, a neat, solidly middle-class little home with a well-maintained garden. Rath stood at the garden gate and, for a moment, considered entering the grounds. He rejected the notion. He felt himself being watched. The whole neighbourhood was probably just waiting for this stranger in the fancy suit to do something illegal so that they could call the police or, better still, reach for their shotguns.

Assmann, the enamel sign read. Rath noted the name and made his way back to the marketplace. It was gone three, but the sun was still beating down. At least the shadows were starting to lengthen, and a few shops had their awnings down. An advertisement on one of the houses gave him an idea. Fahrschule Emil Hermann. A driving school. He rang the bell and asked the instructor about a certain pupil.

‘Lamkau? When would this be?’ Another suspicious Treuburg resident.

‘A good ten years ago.’

The instructor, a well-fed man in his fifties, scratched his chin in careful consideration, but all it yielded was a regretful shrug, and an isolated sentence. ‘Nope, no idea.’

‘Perhaps you have a telephone book?’

Herr Hermann led him through a kind of classroom into his office at the back. As soon as Rath saw the so-called telephone book, he knew it was no use. The sum total of Treuburg’s telephone subscribers, from Adomeit to Zukowski, fitted on a single page hanging from the wall. He had intended to take a note of any Wawerkas, Simoneits and Lamkaus with a view to tracking down potential relatives, but the only thing he found was the number of a certain Dietrich Assmann, the man who lived at Lamkau’s old address. At least he had a telephone, unlike the Lamkaus, Simoneits and Wawerkas of this town.

After making a solitary entry, he clapped his notebook shut. ‘One more thing,’ he said, once driving instructor Hermann had accompanied him to the door. ‘The Luisenhöhe estate and Mathée Korn distillery… What’s the best way to get there?’

Emil Hermann looked him up and down. ‘It’s about half an hour on foot,’ he said, at length. ‘Or you can take the light railway to Schwentainen. It stops at Luisenhöhe. Doesn’t go too often, mind.’

‘Thank you.’

Rath returned to find his unsolicited colleague and chaperone exactly where he’d left him: in the catacombs of the district administrative office, surrounded by a mound of files and card boxes. ‘Found anything?’

‘You should know that Prussians are slow on the draw,’ Kowalski replied.

Rath had asked him to scour the archives for mention of the three names. ‘You find anything that links them, you let me know right away.’

Kowalski had been unable to recall anything specific that had happened in Treuburg or Marggrabowa in 1924. ‘But that doesn’t mean anything. I was at the village school in Markowsken; it wasn’t easy keeping up with the world outside.’

Perhaps he wasn’t quite so taciturn after all, at least not in comparison with his fellow East Prussians, but his failure didn’t bother Rath particularly, since the main reason he’d left him trawling through the archives was to buy himself a few hours’ peace. ‘Then spend the afternoon looking through the case files from the district court. Maybe you’ll find something there,’ he said. ‘Focus on 1924 again.’

Kowalski nodded, less than thrilled. ‘How about you? Any luck?’

‘I’m certainly getting to know Treuburg.’ Rath lit a cigarette. ‘I’m going to drive out to the Luisenhöhe estate. Could you pass me the keys…’

Kowalski looked reluctant. Evidently his superiors weren’t banking on him handing over the car without a fight. ‘Why don’t I drive you there? I know the way. It’s why I’m here after all.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.’ Rath gestured towards the dusty mound of files. ‘You’re of more use to me here.’

‘You know,’ Kowalski said, ‘I’m not even sure I’m authorised to lend you the car…’

‘It’s a Prussian police vehicle, right?’

‘Right.’

‘What does a Prussian assistant detective say when a Prussian detective inspector requests the use of a vehicle?’

‘He says: “Yes, Sir!”, Detective Inspector, Sir.’

‘There we are.’ Rath gave a satisfied nod and stretched out his right hand for the keys.

The black Wanderer handled well enough, and Rath enjoyed steering through the countryside unaccompanied. The truth was that he preferred working alone; somehow it allowed him to think better. He took the B road to Schwentainen, but quickly realised it was a mistake. A farmer on a hay cart sent him back to Treuburg, where he was to take the road to Lyck. He reached the railway line within ten minutes and, shortly after that, the stop with the lightly rusted sign. LUISENHÖHE. With its high chimneys, the brick distillery appeared more like a factory than an estate building. The name Mathée was printed on the pediment in the same ornate writing as on the Luisenbrand bottles; below, in much smaller, simple block letters was the rubric Brennerei Gut Luisenhöhe. Luisenhöhe Distillery. A low, modern annexe, behind which two large copper storage tanks glistened in the sunlight, marked the boundary of a paved square, upon which two trucks containing barley malt waited to be unloaded.

The quantities that must be produced here! This was no provincial operation distilling cheap schnapps for Treuburg and its outlying villages.

Rath parked the car in the courtyard and spoke to the nearest worker. ‘Where can I find the boss around here?’

‘You mean the operations manager or the managing director?’

‘Director Wengler,’ he said, displaying Lamkau’s driving licence photo. ‘Or anyone who can tell me about this man. Herbert Lamkau.’ The worker looked at the photo briefly and shrugged. ‘He never put in an appearance here? Lamkau was a distributor, a pretty important one too, I might add.’

The worker gestured towards the top of the hill. ‘Director Wengler has his office up there in the estate house.’

‘Many thanks,’ Rath said. ‘Wait a minute… 1924… That was the year Herr Lamkau left town, along with a few other men. I suspect something happened here that forced their hand. Any idea what it might be?’

Again the worker shrugged, but this time Rath sensed he was lying; the man knew exactly what had happened eight years ago.

A shaded avenue led up to the estate house, which wasn’t nearly as ostentatious as he had imagined: more large villa than small castle. He parked in front of a stoop, and no sooner had he got out of the car than a man in a suit descended the steps. Either they were permanently on guard here, or the distillery worker below had telephoned up to the house.

‘Good afternoon,’ the suit said, sounding excessively polite. He had the air of a bookkeeper.

‘Herr Wengler?’

‘I’m afraid Herr Wengler is away on business; we’re not expecting him back before evening.’ The man stretched out a hand. ‘Fischer’s the name. I’m Herr Wengler’s private secretary. With whom do I have the pleasure?’

‘Rath, CID.’

The secretary didn’t look overly surprised. ‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’

Rath showed him the driving licence photo. ‘I need some information about this man,’ he said. ‘Herbert Lamkau. A business associate of Herr Wengler’s.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not responsible for Herr Wengler’s business affairs. But I could make you an appointment to see him.’ Fischer pulled out a little black book and leafed through it. ‘You’re in luck. There’s a small window tomorrow morning at eleven o’clock.’

‘You’re in luck too.’ Rath handed the secretary his card. ‘Tell Herr Wengler I’ll be with him at ten.’

33

The day had begun with a mound of carrots that needed peeling, a doddle in comparison with chopping onions. Then, immediately after lunch, Unger had summoned Charly to his office. The head chef had a pile of correspondence to deal with, and, after dictating various letters, had left her to type them up.

Working quickly, she used the opportunity to rummage through Unger’s drawers. The window glass prevented a systematic search, but she managed an overview as she feigned looking for paperclips or envelopes.

She didn’t strike lucky until the filing shelves, where, right at the top, she stumbled on a folder marked Complaints. After skimming the copies inside, she surmised that they were letters of complaint sent by Unger on behalf of the Kempinski firm. It was unappetising stuff. One was a complaint addressed to Fehling Foods about a venison delivery overrun with maggots, another concerned a pallet of rotten eggs from Friedrichsen Eggs and Poultry.

Hearing the door open behind her she returned the folder to the shelf, and looked around to find Manfred Unger ogling her legs.

‘What is it you’re looking for, Fräulein Ritter?’

‘I’m finished with your correspondence and thought I might file the copies.’ She dismounted her stool.

‘No need to go up there.’

He took a folder from the shelf in front of her. +++ Korrespondenz 1932 +++ the cover said.

‘Another classic case.’ Charly laughed.

‘A classic case of what?’

‘Failing to see the wood for the trees.’

She opened the folder and returned to the desk. Luckily, she really had finished her typing. Unger regarded her benevolently as she reached for the punch and began filing the copies. He didn’t seem to have noticed anything. ‘You just need to sign,’ she said, placing the originals in front of him.

He tore his gaze away and turned to signing correspondence that was perfectly harmless compared to what she had just found. ‘If you could take these to the post office and then call it a night. You’ll find envelopes and stamps in the flat drawer at the top.’

She nodded demurely. She already knew where they were kept, but there was no reason for Unger to find out. ‘Many thanks, Herr Unger.’ At the desk she began folding the letters and placing them in their envelopes.

Unger gazed at her legs for a final time before disappearing inside the kitchen. It seemed like there was a lot going on today; he was everywhere issuing instructions, but still glanced periodically in her direction.

Did he suspect? Surely not but, even so, she didn’t dare reach for the Complaints folder a second time. She had seen enough, even if she hadn’t found anything addressed to Lamkau. Gereon’s hunch appeared to have been borne out. The letters were odd, not so much for their sharpness of tone as their ambiguities. Despite reading no more than two or three, she had noticed straightaway that they weren’t letters of complaint. They were letters of extortion.

34

The lounge was filled with smoke despite the early hour. Two men stood at the bar speaking in hushed tones; three others sat at a table playing skat, noisy only when they revealed their hands. By the window, a solitary old man in hard-wearing corduroy slacks and woollen pullover crouched over a glass of schnapps. A wiry, bespectacled man in his mid-thirties dressed in a coarse linen suit with elbow patches ate a light supper on his own. Rath nursed his beer at the only other table, hoping that Chief Constable Grigat avoided this dive, and that no one else decided to stand him a Pillkaller.

The risk seemed slight as, so far, the patrons had scrupulously ignored him. Only the man in the linen suit had looked up as he entered the lounge, appraising him openly through wire-framed spectacles. The most from anyone else was the occasional stolen glance. He had planned to have a drink at the bar and engage in conversation with the landlord and his locals, but the suspicion he’d met on entry made him plump for the window instead.

Assistant Detective Kowalski had offered to accompany him, but, after releasing him from the district archive, Rath had sent him on a bar crawl of his own, to do a little nosing around his compatriots, and to leave the ‘Herr Inspector’ in peace.

The wall of silence since he’d started asking about Lamkau, Simoneit and Wawerka made him suspicious. This wasn’t simply East Prussian reticence, more like a conspiracy everyone was in on. The contents of Grigat’s police file were sketchy at best, and Kowalski had spent the afternoon trawling through the archives in vain. Rath didn’t know if he should trust him.

There was nothing for it but to keep chivvying the stubborn fools until one of them offered more than a shrug. There was no doubt his mere presence was getting to them. He didn’t have to ask any questions.

He lit a cigarette and raised his by now empty glass. At least the landlord wasn’t ignoring him, and began tapping out a fresh beer. That was the kind of reserve he could deal with. He had taken his evening meal in a pretty little restaurant by the lakeshore, eschewing the Salzburger Hof, and with it Chief Constable Grigat. Kowalski had given him the name of the bar here; ‘Pritzkus’s is where the ordinary folk meet,’ he had said, and it was true. Ordinary folk, who didn’t take kindly to strangers.

He placed the photos of Lamkau and Wawerka on the table as the landlord approached with his beer. ‘Do you recognise either of these men? Herbert Lamkau, Hans Wawerka. Or does the name August Simoneit mean anything to you?’

‘It’s possible they drank here from time to time. Must’ve been a good while ago though.’

‘Eight years.’

‘Back then my father was still in charge.’

Rath dared to hope. ‘Would it be possible to speak to him?’

The landlord shook his head. ‘I’m afraid we buried him two years ago.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ but the landlord had disappeared to take the skat players’ latest order.

He stood up and took the two photos over to the old man, who sat alone with his schnapps and a fat cigar that didn’t seem to get any shorter. The man didn’t look like he was expecting company, let alone conversation. Rath showed him the photos all the same. ‘Good evening. I’m looking for someone who can tell me about this man.’ The old man puffed on his cheroot. ‘Herbert Lamkau. Does the name mean anything to you? Or this man here. Johann Wawerka.’ Silence. ‘They lived here, eight years ago. You’re old enough to remember them. How about August Simoneit? I don’t have a photo of him, unfortunately.’ The man mumbled something incomprehensible without removing the cheroot from his mouth. ‘Pardon me?’

The man removed the cigar and repeated what he’d just said. He spoke loudly and clearly, but Rath didn’t understand a word. Whatever language he was using, it wasn’t German.

‘I’m sorry,’ Rath said, taking his photos and standing up. ‘I didn’t realise you were Polish. I thought you were from here.’

The man glared at him, and conversation at the surrounding tables ceased. Suddenly, he started so violently from his chair that his drink overturned, his eyes sparkling with rage.

‘Ne jem Polak,’ the man said, genuinely outraged, ‘jestem Prußakiem.’

Rath raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture. ‘Easy now, easy! I’m not sure what you thought you heard, but I don’t have anything against Poles.’

The man wouldn’t be appeased. Already alarmingly close, he took another step towards Rath and emitted a Babylonian torrent of words, accompanying the outburst by slamming his fist on the table. Rath took a step back. He’d never have guessed the residents here, whether Polish or German, could say so much in one go.

Some of the patrons were amused, others got to their feet. Rath didn’t imagine they’d be on his side if things turned nasty. He doubted whether they had actually been privy to the exchange; more likely, they were simply spoiling for a fight, glad to show this big-city type what they thought of him.

He should have brought Kowalski after all! In any low dive in Berlin he could resolve this, but here, without a local by his side, he felt helpless. He was debating how identifying himself as a police officer would play when the man in the linen suit and wire-framed spectacles stood up, placed his serviette next to his roast potatoes and said something to the old-timer and the men beside him.

Rath could have sworn that he, too, was speaking in Polish. After his experience with the old man, however, he resolved to keep his counsel, standing with his fists inwardly raised, waiting to see what would happen.

Glasses man seemed to have found the right words, even if Rath hadn’t understood them. The men laughed heartily and clapped the old-timer on the shoulder. He returned to his schnapps, which the landlord refilled, and the men, who moments before had been itching for a fight, did likewise. One of them said something to his neighbour and pointed at Rath, and they burst out laughing again.

He turned to face his saviour, who took him by the arm. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Leave Pritzkus here a few marks for your beer and for Adamek’s Korn, then get your hat and coat. It’s best we go elsewhere. Who knows how long the mood will hold.’

Rath did as bidden, remembering his cigarettes from the table, and the pair exited the lounge. ‘Thanks again,’ he said when they reached the marketplace. ‘Things could have got nasty in there.’ He opened his cigarette case, and offered an Overstolz.

‘No problem,’ the man said, lighting up. ‘Strangers rarely venture inside Pritzkus’s. You have to do your bit to prevent misunderstandings.’

‘No kidding. I don’t have any Polish.’

‘That wasn’t Polish Adamek was speaking.’

‘I still didn’t understand a word.’

‘It was Masurian,’ the man continued. ‘A variant of Polish, maybe, but the people here are proud Prussians. They don’t consider themselves Polish.’

‘I’m Prussian too,’ Rath said. ‘Rhine-Prussian.’

‘A “Booty-Prussian” then. These people are Ur-Prussians. They’ve always been great patriots, even in times when no one spoke German apart from the parish priest and estate owner.’

‘Some of them still don’t seem to have learned any German.’

‘Old Adamek understands everything, believe me. He just feels more at home in his native language, especially after a few schnapps. But he’s a Prussian patriot through and through.’

‘Yes, I realise that.’

‘Forget about it, it’s over now. But you should be more careful about using the word Polish, especially here in Treuburg, where people are proud of the fact that only two votes were cast for Poland in the entire district.’

‘You know your stuff.’

‘It’s my job.’ The man stretched out a hand. ‘Rammoser,’ he said. ‘Karl Rammoser. I’m the teacher over at the village school in Wielitzken. A good place to contemplate the vagaries of the passage of time.’

‘Rath, CID Berlin.’

‘Delighted. But there’s no need for introductions. News here travels fast.’

‘In that case, since we’re already acquainted, let me stand you a beer.’

‘Gladly.’

‘Then you can tell me what kind of Prussian you are. Going by your name, I’d say Alpine-Prussian. But as far as I know, Old Fritz only occupied Silesia, not Tyrol as well.’

Rammoser nodded. ‘Alpine-Prussian,’ he repeated. ‘First time I’ve heard it – but it rings true. Or, at least, true enough.’

A short time later they sat in a more welcoming bar, suggested by Rammoser. ‘A Rhine-Prussian like you won’t stand out quite so much in the Kronprinzen. It’s even open to holidaymakers.’

Indeed, it looked like there were a few eating their supper on the adjoining table. From Berlin, judging by all the big mouths, from father down to youngest daughter. Still, anything was better than the Salzburger Hof, where staff would keep Chief Constable Grigat informed of Rath’s every move. ‘It’s nice here,’ he said. ‘Why would you go to Pritzkus’s?’

‘Because,’ Rammoser raised his glass, ‘it’s cheap and the food’s good. How much do you think a Prussian village schoolmaster earns?’

‘You’re speaking to a fellow comrade-in-suffering,’ Rath said, likewise raising his glass. ‘To Prussia and its destitute officials.’ The men clinked glasses. ‘Rammoser doesn’t sound very Prussian to me. Are you from Bavaria?’

‘Try telling my father he wasn’t Prussian. He’d have challenged you to a duel.’ He set his beer glass down. ‘No, my family came to Prussia from Salzburg two hundred years ago, like many other Protestants who were expelled at that time.’

‘Then you’re a refugee, a kind of Huguenot?’

‘Something like that,’ Rammoser said. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many nationalities have been subject to Prussian rule down the years. Germans, French, Dutch, Silesians, Lithuanians, Jews, and, of course, Poles. And they all consider themselves Prussian. More Prussian, at any rate, than some Rhinelander looted from Napoleon’s bankruptcy assets.’

‘So that’s why the old man reacted so sensitively. I thought he was Polish.’

‘Do you know what bound the Poles across the generations, even when they no longer had a nation to call their own? It wasn’t language, but religion. And do you know why twelve years ago nearly all Masurians voted for Prussia? In spite of the language?’

‘Religion.’ Rath felt as if he were back at school.

‘Correct,’ Rammoser said. ‘The Masurians have lived under Prussian rule for years. They’re Protestant through and through, as well as being Prussian patriots. Ordinary people here have always spoken Polish – or Masurian, which is a Polish dialect, as opposed to a German one. We, the teachers, are responsible for the fact that the younger generation speaks German. But at home, with their grandparents, I’d be willing to bet that most still speak Masurian.’

‘So they are kind of Polish, then?’

‘That’s a delicate subject since the 1920 plebiscite. No one wanted to be suspected of harbouring Polish sympathies, least of all the Masurians.’ He lowered his voice. ‘There were some pretty ugly scenes. Beatings, broken windows, arson attacks and worse. Some people here turned into real Pole-bashers. The relationship’s been poisoned ever since. Not that the newly created Polish state was entirely blameless, of course; if they’d had their way they’d have annexed all of East Prussia. They would still. At least, that’s what people around here think, and they’re wary as a result. You have to understand that old Adamek probably thought you were trying to insult him.’

‘If he really wants to be German, then perhaps he should speak the language.’

‘First, he doesn’t want to be German, but, above all, Prussian. Second, after five or six Doppelkorn Adamek only speaks Masurian – but that doesn’t make him any less German. Any claims to the contrary, and you’ll have me to deal with!’

‘I wouldn’t dare.’ Rath grinned. ‘But tell me one thing. What did you say to Adamek and the other men just now?’

‘You really want to know?’

‘At least why they laughed like that.’

‘Well, now…’ Rammoser cleared his throat. ‘I told them they shouldn’t take you so seriously, that you’re just a poor, stray Zabrak who knows no better.’

‘A poor, stray what?’ Rath asked, before waving the teacher away. ‘Actually, forget I asked. I can work it out for myself.’ He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘So, in other words, you exposed me to ridicule.’

‘It never hurts to be underestimated.’

‘Well, if that’s the case, then thank you.’

‘At your service.’

Rath fetched the photos from his bag. ‘I only wanted to ask Adamek about these men. You don’t happen to know them?’

‘Is that Lamkau?’ Rammoser asked. ‘What’s happened to him?’

Rath felt mildly euphoric. At last, someone who knew who Lamkau was. ‘He’s dead,’ he said.

‘No great loss.’

‘Careful. You’ll make yourself into a suspect.’

‘I knew I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘What have you got against Lamkau?’

‘He was one of Wengler’s thugs. I wouldn’t like to say how many people he put in hospital.’

‘Wengler? Director Wengler?’

‘That’s right. Gustav Wengler. The owner of the Luisenhöhe estate.’

‘He had a band of thugs?’

‘That’s old hat. It was a long time ago.’

‘Doesn’t surprise me, given how he snaffled up the estate during inflation.’

‘Wengler, a profiteer from inflation? Who told you that?’

‘I heard it somewhere,’ Rath said.

Rammoser was thinking about something. ‘Do you have a torch, Inspector?’ he asked suddenly.

‘I think there’s one in the car.’

‘Let’s go.’ Rammoser drained his glass. ‘I have to show you something. Perhaps then you’ll understand that things here aren’t quite so simple.’

‘When are they ever?’ Rath said. Arriving at the car he located the torch and stowed it in his pocket. ‘Where to?’ he asked. ‘Wouldn’t we be better off driving?’

Rammoser shook his head. ‘It isn’t far, five minutes perhaps. Besides, you’re not exactly sober.’

The marketplace was still lit, but when they entered the appropriately named Stille Gasse – Silent Lane – everything went pitch black. A few lights were visible from the windows in the distance, otherwise nothing. Rath switched on the torch. They walked uphill for a time, before the beam of light fell on a circular brick wall.

‘The water tower,’ Rammoser said. ‘We’re almost there.’

Rath now knew roughly where they were. The Treuburg water tower was easier to locate than the church steeple. Rammoser opened a wrought-iron gate, which gave a slight squeak. Somewhere in the dark an owl hooted. Then the light fell upon a gravestone. ‘Are we… is this the…?’

‘Treuburg Cemetery,’ Rammoser said. ‘The Protestant one. The Catholics are buried down by the lake.’

‘I didn’t think there were any Catholics in Treuburg.’

‘Well, there’s you, Inspector.’

‘I hope I don’t wind up in the cemetery. Even if it is by the lake.’

‘I might have prevented it today. But you need to mind your step.’

‘Which is why you’ve dragged me here, in the middle of the night?’

‘Something like that. So that you come to a greater understanding of our region and its people, and don’t put your foot in it again.’ Rammoser came to a halt. ‘So,’ he said. ‘Here we are.’

Rath shone the torch where the teacher pointed to reveal a family grave. Simple, Doric columns flanked a large marble slab with a French inscription: Passant! Souviens-toi que la perfection n’est point sur la terre, si je n’ai pas été le meilleur des hommes. Au moins ne suis-je pas au nombre des méchans!

Rath could make out the name Friedrich von Mathée, as well as those of other family members buried here. ‘The owners of the Luisenhöhe estate,’ he said. He couldn’t help but whisper, as if the deceased family members might be listening from beyond the grave.

‘Correct. But it’s two lives I wanted to draw your attention to. Pass me the light.’

Rath handed over the torch, and Rammoser manoeuvred the beam of light until it rested on the names. Anna von Mathée, Rath read, * 15th August 1902 † 11th July 1920.

‘Is that the daughter?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Rammoser said. ‘His only one.’

‘She died on the day of the plebiscite.’ Rath shook his head. ‘What kind of story is this?’ Suddenly he felt completely sober.

‘A tragic one. Anna von Mathée was Gustav Wengler’s fiancée. She was murdered on the day of the plebiscite.’

‘Murdered?’

Rammoser nodded. ‘It was a doctor of all people, a registrar at the local hospital. He raped her, then drowned her in the lake.’

‘That’s terrible.’

‘Most of the people around here wouldn’t have begrudged Wengler killing the man. Especially given the anti-Polish sentiment at the time.’

‘The killer was Polish?’

Rammoser shrugged. ‘It was hard to say in those days. He was certainly Catholic, and he sympathised with the new Polish state.’

‘So now he’s languishing in a Prussian jail.’

‘Not any more.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Anna’s killer died trying to escape. People around here regard it as a higher form of justice.’

‘And it was this sorry tale that turned Gustav Wengler into a Pole-basher, as you put it?’

‘Wengler could never stand the Poles, even before the murder, but a Pole-basher – that was Herbert Lamkau. He and his men beat the living daylights out of anyone they thought was Polish.’

‘The way you tell it, there aren’t any Poles here. Even the ones who speak Polish.’

‘Back then it was enough just to be Catholic, or favourably disposed towards Poland. If you’re looking for people with a reason to hate Herbert Lamkau, you’ll find plenty here.’

‘Could it be that someone wished him dead? One of his victims perhaps?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far, but there won’t be many shedding a tear. On either side of the border.’

‘Including you?’

‘I got into a tangle with him once, around the time of the plebiscite, when things were pretty heated here. Still, that’s long forgotten now. I was away for a few years training as a teacher, and by the time I returned Lamkau had gone.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t follow,’ Rath said. ‘You excoriate Lamkau, while at the same time standing up for his master, Wengler. Is there a point to this story?’

‘There is no story, and I’m not standing up for anyone. God knows I’m no fan of Gustav Wengler, I just want you to understand what was happening here after the war. The present can only be understood through reference to the past.’

Rammoser was starting to sound like a teacher again. The beam of light drifted back onto the name Rath had just read.

Friedrich von Mathée * 23rd November 1847 † 2nd May 1924

‘Gustav Wengler was the designated heir of the Luisenhöhe estate,’ Rammoser continued. ‘Friedrich von Mathée only had the one daughter, and he wanted her to marry his trustee. His sons all fell in the war.’

‘Gustav Wengler was the estate’s trustee?’

‘He’d have inherited it anyway, but took over from old Mathée prior to his death because of debt issues. That’s where all the local gossip stems from – not least because he’s made a pretty penny since.’

‘No doubt he’d have preferred a living bride.’

‘And no doubt it was her death that made him seek refuge in his work. He made the Mathée name great in memory of his murdered fiancée, whom he never got to lead to the altar.’

Rath realised he was shivering. It had grown cold. ‘Let’s get back to the Kronprinzen,’ he said. ‘I could use a drink after that. As well as some light, and a little company.’

When they returned to the marketplace there was almost no light from the houses, and the street lamps were out. Rath lit the way with the torch. The light caught an advertising pillar on the corner of Bahnhofstrasse, startling two figures armed with a wall brush and bucket who immediately took to their heels.

Rath almost cried ‘Stop! Police!’, but managed to restrain himself. ‘Who was that?’ he asked.

‘I’d wager it was Albrecht and Rosanki.’

‘Who?’

‘Our local Communists. You mustn’t think you only have them in Berlin.’

‘I fear we have more than two.’

Rath approached the advertising pillar and found three election posters arranged neatly alongside each other, still damp with paste. The other posters were untouched, even the Nazi ones: no graffiti moustaches, no torn corners. ‘I thought we’d caught them at sabotage, but they were only putting their posters up.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m wondering why they ran if they weren’t doing anything wrong.’

‘If you were a Communist trying to put up election posters in Treuburg, you’d know,’ Rammoser said. ‘It isn’t much fun running into Wengler’s boys on the job.’

‘Wengler’s boys? Does he still have a band of thugs? I thought the plebiscite settled all that.’

‘The plebiscite didn’t settle anything,’ Rammoser said. ‘It’s just that Wengler’s thugs wear uniform now, and put up posters themselves. The ones with the swastikas.’

35

Rath was awakened by a fearful clamour and hullabaloo, as if a thousand people were cheering a boxing match while the Town Musicians of Bremen performed at maximum volume.

The reality wasn’t so different. Still a little dazed, he padded towards the window and pulled back the curtain to see that the peaceful Treuburg marketplace of yesterday had been transformed into a madhouse. Cows and horses, geese and hens, sheep and pigs; animals were being sold everywhere, their din merging with the cries of the market barkers. East Prussian constraint, it seemed, was just a state of mind.

He sloped into the bathroom and felt his head as, slowly, the memories returned. Rammoser, the village teacher. The night-time excursion to the cemetery. The stories about Herbert Lamkau and Gustav Wengler. The drinking. One beer had turned into two, and before long the first Luisenbrand had been ordered. He had stopped counting after that.

‘This is the stuff Wengler made his fortune on,’ Rammoser said, as they toasted the first schnapps. That was their final word on the subject, though they continued to drink the stuff, ordering round after round to chase their beers.

Rath had thought little of it, since he wasn’t the one who had to cycle six kilometres home. As it transpired, he had greater problems crossing the marketplace and climbing to his room on the first floor than Rammoser did with his trusty bicycle, which he had left against a street lamp. He swung himself onto the saddle without so much as a wobble.

‘Stop by the schoolhouse in Wielitzken sometime,’ he had said.

Thinking back, Rath felt strangely elated. More than being the first decent informant he’d found, Karl Rammoser was also a nice guy. True, he wasn’t technically from Treuburg, but maybe that was an advantage. Maybe it was the fact that he didn’t belong that made him so effusive.

Rath looked at his watch: time for breakfast if he didn’t want to be late for the distillery. He used cold water for his fatigue, and aspirin for his headache. Luckily, he had remembered to pack a tube in Berlin.

Kowalski sat waiting in the lounge, this time minus the shaving tissue. He stood to attention. ‘Good morning, Sir.’

‘Morning, Kowalski. Any luck yesterday evening?’

‘A few witnesses.’

‘Any insights?’

‘Afraid not, Sir. Only that all three worked at the Luisenhöhe distillery.’ Kowalski fumbled in his jacket pocket. ‘Witness addresses. Question them yourself if you like.’

Rath stowed the list in his pocket. No sooner had he sat down than the girl who served him lunch yesterday appeared with the breakfast tray. Hella, if he remembered rightly. She pulled a face as if to say: I’m only doing this because my parents are making me. ‘Thank you,’ he said, savouring the smell of fresh coffee.

‘Would you like anything else, sir?

‘Perhaps some coffee for my colleague.’ Kowalski shook his head. ‘Don’t you want to sit down?’

‘Thank you, Sir. I prefer to stand. What are my orders for today? Can I assist with questioning? Or drive you somewhere?’

‘I can drive myself. Continue with your work in the archive. You’re bound to hit on something.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Take a look at the newspaper archive as well. I assume there’s one here in Treuburg?’

‘Of course.’

Rath placed the lily-white serviette on his lap. ‘Once you’ve finished going through the case records, head over there. Perhaps today will be the day.’

Kowalski appeared slightly offended. He wouldn’t have pictured his days in Treuburg swallowing dust. Indeed, no doubt he already had his instructions, but was too Prussian to defy his senior officer’s command. He gave a smart salute and had already reached the door when Rath thought of something else. ‘One more thing, Kowalski…’

‘Yes, Sir?’

‘Do you speak Masurian?’

‘A little.’ Kowalski appeared embarrassed by the admission. ‘Groska, for example, means grandmother. And Grosek, grandfather. Why do you ask?’

‘Just wondering.’

‘My uncle speaks fluent Masurian, and my grandparents spoke nothing but.’

Rath nodded and dismissed him. After a first cup of coffee he felt ready to take on some solids. The bread rolls here were something else, and the quince jelly must be home-made.

‘Hella?’

Was that her name? Either way she came over. She was a pretty girl, blonde and suntanned, but the braided pigtails made her look like a country cousin. A different haircut, a little make-up, a fashionable dress, and even Berlin men would crane their necks for a glimpse.

‘Would you like anything else, sir?’

‘No, thank you, everything’s fine.’ He pressed a one-mark coin into her hand. ‘Haven’t had a breakfast like this in a long time.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ Her smile knocked him dead, perhaps because it came so unexpectedly. Clearing the table, she brushed against his arm.

‘Lots going on today,’ he said. ‘Outside, I mean.’

‘Friday is market day.’

She curtseyed, disappearing with her tray and her smile into the kitchen. He tore his gaze away from her rear and stood up. It was time to go.

Friday was indeed market day, and it took a long time to crawl through the milling mass of animals and people in the car. Somehow, Rath managed to reach Bahnhofstrasse without running over a pig. In front of the advertising pillar on the street corner, a group of young brownshirts were in the process of tearing down the Communist placards from last night. No one took exception, although Rath debated whether he should intervene. As matters stood, going by the market had cost him ten minutes already. He wouldn’t make the time up now, no matter how fast he drove.

At five minutes past ten he parked outside the Luisenhöhe estate house. With no one to receive him he rang the doorbell. A liveried servant opened and raised an eyebrow. ‘Director Wengler is expecting me,’ Rath said, showing his card.

Director Wengler was in no rush. Rath spent the next five minutes waiting in the hall, until the servant returned and bade him enter the drawing room, where the waiting began again. He felt as though he were at the doctor’s surgery. On the table were journals he recognised from Lamkau’s estate: Alkohol and the Spirit Industry Magazine. He leafed through the pages and smoked, but it wasn’t until after finishing his cigarette that the door opened to reveal, not the arrogant servant this time, but the equally glib Herr Fischer, Wengler’s private secretary.

‘Good morning, Inspector. Director Wengler will see you now.’ Rath looked at his watch. Half past ten.

The office looked down the valley onto the great brick chimney of the distillery and, in the distance, the Treuburg water tower. The furnishings were caught between Prussian Junkerdom and modern office. On the spacious desk was a black telephone next to an old-fashioned inkwell complete with fountain pen and card index boxes. On the wood-panelled wall was an oil painting of hunting scenes. Behind the desk hung two portraits in valuable, old-fashioned frames. One showed a grey-haired man with a stern, aristocratic gaze, and the other, far more elaborately rendered, a young woman. In sharp contrast with these oil paintings was a plain, but no less striking graphic detailing the distillery’s revenue curve since 1920. The curve was on an upward trajectory, particularly in the last few years, despite the economic crisis. Perhaps, even, because of the economic crisis. The worse people felt, the more they drank.

Beneath the graphic, advertising placards for Luisenbrand and Treuburger Bärenfang stood against the wall. Rath recognised the motif from Lamkau’s office in Berlin: the bear with the bottle. It was well done, and it looked as if the Bärenfang was to be the Mathée firm’s next money-spinner.

Gustav Wengler cut a wiry figure, not at all the obese managing director Rath had expected. He stood as his guest entered behind the overzealous private secretary.

‘Inspector. Please come in. My apologies for the delay. Urgent meeting.’

‘I think you’ll find this equally urgent.’

Wengler laughed. ‘Fischer, would you fetch the inspector something to drink. Coffee? Tea? Water? Or perhaps you’d prefer schnapps? There’s no shortage!’

‘Thank you, I’m on duty, but coffee would be nice.’ Private Secretary Fischer disappeared. ‘I’m familiar with your schnapps. It’s available in Berlin, you know.’

‘But that isn’t why you’re here,’ Wengler said. ‘Or has someone used my Korn as a murder weapon?’

‘How do you know there’s been a murder?’

‘I fear I may even know the victim.’ Wengler’s face grew serious. ‘You’re a police inspector from Berlin, where my best salesman has just been killed. I can put two and two together.’

‘So, you know…’

‘Edith Lamkau told me a few days ago. The poor woman!’

‘Yes, Frau Lamkau is having a rough time. She said you were going to help her…’

‘Insofar as I can.’ Wengler looked at him. ‘So, Inspector, what are you doing here?’

‘Looking for answers. Trying to find out why Herbert Lamkau had to die.’

‘You’re hoping the answer will lead you to the killer?’

‘That’s usually how it works.’ Rath gazed pensively out of the window at the thick clouds rising from the chimney; the distillery seemed to be in full swing. ‘Do you know why he had to die?’

Wengler shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there.’

‘Then perhaps you could tell me a little more about Herbert Lamkau the man. Before he moved to Berlin and began distributing Luisenbrand, he was employed here by you.’

‘That’s true. Herbert was my operations manager at the distillery.’

‘Did he perform other tasks for you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Beating up Poles, for instance?’

‘Herbert wasn’t always in control of his temper.’ A deep wrinkle formed at the bridge of Wengler’s nose and his eyes flashed. ‘Have I understood you correctly? You’re implying that he engaged in violence at my behest?’

‘I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.’

‘Then you’ve been talking to the wrong people. You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.’

‘Perhaps I’m talking to the right person now?’

‘Herbert Lamkau was no angel, and he made no secret of the fact that he couldn’t stand the Poles. Yes, there were times twelve years ago when emotions were running high and he became physical. But to imply that he did so at my behest is simply outrageous!’

There was a knock and a girl appeared with the coffee. The private secretary would consider actually serving it beneath his dignity.

‘Is it possible that one of these Poles, one of these people Lamkau manhandled, has sought revenge?’

‘Anything is possible, Inspector, but why wait twelve years?’

‘Lamkau skipped town eight years ago. Do you know why? Things were clearly on an upward trajectory here.’

‘You can say that again!’ Wengler gestured towards the sales curve behind him. ‘Since I took over, we’ve increased production by almost 500 per cent. I wouldn’t like to say how many public officials live off the money we pay in taxes.’

‘You don’t have it so bad yourself. I mean, you’re an estate owner. People say it was inflation that brought it into your possession…’

‘People say?’ Wengler tapped a cigarette out of a silver case and looked at Rath indignantly. ‘Where on earth did you hear that?’ Rath remained silent, having drawn Wengler out of his shell.

‘Friedrich von Mathée,’ Wengler began, lighting a cigarette without offering one to Rath, ‘was an honest soul and a loyal patriot, but he had no idea about money. The dear man invested almost his entire fortune in war bonds, encumbering the Luisenhöhe estate with massive debts.’

‘And you helped him…’

‘I was the superintendent here and worked as managing director of the distillery. Which I took over after the war. I was to inherit the estate.’ Wengler struggled to get the words out. ‘I was Herr von Mathée’s future son-in-law, but sadly my fiancée… Anna… passed… before we could be married.’

‘I see,’ Rath lit an Overstolz. ‘So, you took on the estate before your father-in-law’s death.’

‘Otherwise it would have belonged to the bank.’

‘How did you manage to write off his debts?’

‘I had a little luck.’ Wengler took a deep drag on his cigarette. ‘Inflation certainly played its part.’

‘Your schnapps must have helped too.’

‘It did.’ Wengler gestured out of the window towards the chimney. ‘The distillery didn’t always look like this. I built a new bottling plant and storage tanks. Today Luisenbrand is famous all over the world.’

Rath gave a nod of acknowledgement. ‘Not to say, a licence to print money.’

‘Luisenbrand is a success story, but you mustn’t think it comes with the territory here in East Prussia. Since we were cut off from the Reich, everything has become that much harder. Especially where agriculture is concerned. How much do you think the Prussian state collects in spirit duty when you’re no longer categorised as a small-scale producer?’

‘Which you no longer are.’

‘It isn’t just your salary we’re financing with our taxes, Inspector. You can’t blame us for Prussia’s liquidity problems.’ Wengler sounded more conciliatory now. ‘Why do you need to know all this? It has nothing to do with Herbert, or your murder inquiry.’

‘A man has to pass the time somehow. But let’s get back to Herr Lamkau. How would you assess his character? I need you to be precise.’

‘Herr Lamkau was one of my most capable employees. Operations manager, as I said, and he kept things here shipshape. No idling on his watch. People respected him.’

‘How about on the streets? Was he similarly… respected?’

‘I don’t know why you’re still on about that. Herbert Lamkau was of impeccable character. People always wag their tongues when someone runs up against the law – even if nothing was ever proven.’

‘Runs up against the law?’

‘You don’t know?’ Wengler shook his head as if to say: a fine inspector, you are! ‘I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but you’re bound to find out sooner or later. A few years ago, Herbert Lamkau was accused of selling moonshine as Luisenbrand. To this day, I still don’t know if it was him or one of his employees. Naturally I had no choice but to fire him, to salvage the reputation of our brand.’

‘You assigned him sole distribution rights in Berlin all the same. Wasn’t that reckless?’

‘Oh, I challenged him, believe me, but Herbert swore he had nothing to do with it. I offered him compensation, and he started afresh in Berlin, where no one knew him.’

‘With some success.’

‘With a great deal of success. Thanks to his dedication we’ve achieved market dominance throughout Central Germany.’

‘You’re convinced he was innocent?’

‘Who can look into another person’s mind? Even if he was guilty, I was certain he wouldn’t try again, not after all that fuss. Mistakes like that you don’t repeat.’

‘That’s just it,’ Rath said. ‘Exactly the same thing has occurred in Berlin. Didn’t he pass on Kempinski’s complaint?’

Gustav Wengler was flabbergasted. ‘Kempinski’s complaint? It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

Now Rath was surprised. If Lamkau hadn’t passed on the complaint, there was every reason to suspect he had been making moonshine again. He placed the photo of Hans Wawerka alongside Lamkau’s driving licence.

‘What about this man here? Do you know him?’

‘He looks familiar. Who is he?’

‘Johann Wawerka.’

‘Hänschen! Of course! He’s changed a bit since I knew him. He was a labourer at the distillery.’

‘And August Simoneit?’

‘Simoneit? He was my top fitter. He kept the distillation plants in good nick, let me tell you. You hardly needed to…’ Wengler paused. He seemed to have a premonition. ‘What’s happened to these men?’

‘They’re dead. Perished the same way as Herbert Lamkau. We think their deaths are linked.’ Wengler gazed, deep in thought, at the smoke from his cigarette. ‘Now I know they were colleagues here at the distillery.’

‘I’m afraid I can go one better…’ Rath was all ears. ‘Wawerka and Simoneit were both involved in the moonshining scandal.’

36

The District Office Cellar Archive was deserted when Rath looked in around twelve. On the reading table was a pile of case files bearing the seal of the Marggrabowa District Court. He leafed through them. All docket numbers ended in ‘24’ – probably an entire year’s worth. Had Kowalski got through them already? How many could there be, in a place like this? He examined the pile, wondering whether he should take a closer look when a voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘Herr Rath! How are things?’

Chief Constable Grigat stood in the door with his legs apart, thumbs hooked on his uniform belt, a broad smile under his shako.

‘No cause for complaint.’

‘I’m on my way to the Salzburger Hof, if you’d care to join me? We could talk over lunch.’

‘Thank you, but I have an appointment already.’

‘Well, then, how about tonight? I take supper in the Königlicher Hof. They have a terrace that gets the evening sun.’ Chief Constable Grigat appeared to structure his day around mealtimes, and to choose his restaurants according to their cardinal point.

‘Perhaps it could be arranged… I’m looking for Assistant Detective Kowalski. You haven’t seen him, have you?’

‘If I understood him correctly, he was on his way to the newspaper office.’

‘Because he found something?’

‘I’m afraid he didn’t say.’

At the marketplace a few men were clearing the remnants of the weekly market: cabbage and salad leaves that lay on the pavement, horse droppings and cowpat. Rath had hoped to park outside the offices of the Treuburger Zeitung, but the space was taken by an Adler sedan. Its owner, a businessman, was discussing advertising rates with a female employee. Rath interrupted. ‘Where can I find Assistant Detective Kowalski?’

The woman nodded towards the back without breaking her flow.

Kowalski greeted him with what, by his standards, amounted to euphoria. ‘You were right, Sir! About the paper, I mean. There was nothing in the files, but here…’

Rath drew a headline in the air. ‘Moonshining scandal,’ he said. ‘The good name of the Mathée firm besmirched. Operations manager and two employees arrested.’

Kowalski looked at the papers in confusion. ‘You already know?’

‘Director Wengler was very forthcoming.’

‘Even though the distillery was caught up in the affair?’

‘You’d be amazed what a sound interrogation technique can yield.’ He grinned. ‘The fact that proceedings were discontinued made it easier for Herr Wengler to divulge.’

‘Discontinued,’ Kowalski said. ‘That may be, but it was in the papers for weeks. I’ve gathered all articles related to the case. You can see for yourself.’

For the most part the articles confirmed what Wengler had said. The director himself was quoted on numerous occasions, stressing that the Luisenhöhe distillery had nothing to do with the scandal. In fact, it was a victim, since the bottles containing the tainted schnapps all carried the Luisenbrand label. We will do everything in our power to assist police in their inquiries, he had said.

‘There must be something about this in the files,’ Rath said. ‘Even if proceedings were discontinued, there was still an investigation.’

‘I’ve been through the whole of 1924. Two or three cases involved moonshining, but nothing compared to this, and none mentioned Luisenbrand.’

‘You’re sure you’ve seen them all?’

‘Chief Constable Grigat had everything from 1924 sent over.’

‘Grigat?’ Rath asked.

‘Yes.’

Rath took the pile of newspapers and made for the door. ‘Come with me,’ he said, when Kowalski gave him a questioning look. ‘Come with me!’

Erich Grigat was eating his dessert when they entered the Salzburger Hof dining area. Kowalski stayed by the door while Rath went over. Grigat looked up, making a surprised face. ‘Ah, Inspector! Did you have a change of heart?’ He gestured towards his pudding bowl. ‘You’re a little late. I’m afraid I’m just finishing up.’

‘I’m not here to eat,’ Rath placed a yellowed front page of the Oletzkoer Zeitung on the table. He slammed his fists on the dusty paper. ‘This caused quite a stir in your town eight years ago.’ He read from the report. ‘Marggrabowa. Three men have been taken into custody today for their part in the Luisenbrand moonshining scandal. As has been previously reported, the bootlegged alcohol, the consumption of which has been deemed extremely hazardous, was stowed and marketed in original Mathée Luisenbrand bottles. The men in custody are all distillery employees, and include the operations manager. Police continue to investigate.’

‘What’s this got to do with me?’

‘Police continue to investigate,’ Rath repeated. ‘Lamkau, Simoneit and Wawerka were under investigation in the spring of 1924, and I have to get it from the papers!’

‘Why the fuss? The most important thing is you know now.’

The greedy constable’s composure riled Rath even more than the missing police file. With some effort, he controlled himself.

‘For two days you have known that the Berlin Police is trying to establish a link between these three men,’ he said. ‘You give me a paper-thin file that contains little more than their names and have Kowalski here plough through any number of case files, all of which are irrelevant. But the decisive file concerning the Luisenbrand scandal…’ – He beat down on the paper again. – ‘…is strangely nowhere to be found.’ He took a deep breath and smiled. ‘That’s why the fuss.’

‘I’m sure there’s an explanation,’ Grigat said, dabbing at his mouth with a serviette. ‘Assistant Detective Kowalski requested all case files from the year 1924, and I had them sent over.’

‘Except clearly you didn’t…’ Rath took a deep breath. ‘You’re in charge of the police here…’

‘In the whole Oletzko district!’

‘Which means you ought to be able to supply case files in their entirety!’ Rath shook his head. ‘What a fucking mess!’

‘Moderate your tone, Inspector!’ Grigat placed his serviette on the table and stood up. His moustache twitched. ‘You’re forgetting yourself, and who you’re speaking to. The Oletzko District Police will not stand for it, you are not my superior!’

‘No, you’re right there.’ Rath rummaged for the letter he hadn’t wanted to use. ‘Dr Bernhard Weiss in Berlin is my superior. He’s counting on me to solve a murder, and he’s counting on you to assist me in my inquiries.’

‘What more do you want? I’ve done exactly as your Dr Weiss requested. I had a file put together on the men in question, granted you and your colleague access to our records and prepared a workstation for you complete with telephone. I’ve given you every possible assistance, and even raised the prospect of additional support. It’s you who hasn’t taken advantage of it!’

‘I don’t need support. What I need is a better organised regional police authority and district court.’

‘Now, listen here, Inspector!’ Grigat turned red. ‘We don’t have many police officers in Treuburg and the Oletzko district. Here in town I have a handful at my disposal, as well as two secretarial staff. Outside of Treuburg there are a dozen gendarmerie posts and the Border Commissariat in Gross-Czymochen, and that’s it. When things get tight – if someone’s sick or on holiday – then we call in reinforcements from Goldap or Lyck. We can’t always go by the book, as you can in Berlin. We have to take things as they come: to identify unroadworthy vehicles and conmen alike; attend to registry tasks as well as criminal records. Files relating to an age-old case are the least of our worries. Apart from that, the archiving of case files is the responsibility of the district court and public prosecutor’s office, not the regional police authority.’

Rath decided to backpedal. Warring with the local authorities was no help to anyone. ‘You’re right, Constable. My apologies. I’ve no intention of arguing with you. You cannot be held responsible for every foul-up that occurs in Treuburg. In all likelihood, as you say, the error lies with the court.’

‘I’m glad you see it that way, Inspector.’ The man’s moustache ceased twitching.

‘Now,’ Rath said, managing a smile, ‘let’s find out why that moonshining file was never delivered.’

‘Now?’ Grigat made the sort of horrified face that was the trademark of dyed-in-the-wool public officials everywhere. ‘On a Friday afternoon?’

The district court building was located next to the district office, and most employees seemed to have finished for the weekend. Only the porter remained when Rath looked in with Grigat and Kowalski.

‘Afternoon, Feibler,’ Grigat said.

The dishevelled old man in the porter’s lodge stood to attention. ‘Sir!’

‘Anyone in Registry?’

‘No one, Sir!’

‘We need to look inside. It’s urgent. You have a key, don’t you?’

The porter’s gaze flitted suspiciously between them. As a good Prussian, he was loyal to Grigat, but unsure of his companions.

‘I’m afraid I’m not authorised to give out files, Sir.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Rath interrupted. ‘We are concerned about the whereabouts of a particular document. Once we establish that, we’ll proceed through the proper channels.’

The porter eyed him suspiciously but lifted the wooden barrier and exited his lodge. He led them into a chilly, windowless room secured by a steel door. ‘Year?’ he asked.

‘Twenty-four,’ Rath said.

‘I see. Then we’ll have to check the archive. Right at the back.’

Once inside, the porter switched on the light. ‘Inventory’s here,’ he said, gesturing towards a thick tome, but they didn’t need the inventory to locate the shelf. Two racks above floor level had been cleared. Rath crouched to look. Nothing: neither on nor behind the shelves.

‘Like I told you,’ Grigat said. ‘I had everything sent over.’

‘Then the file must be somewhere else.’ Rath went over to the inventory and traced down the index of cases from 1924 to find: Lamkau. Infringement Against Reich Alcohol Legislation. He took out his notebook and recorded the docket number and archive shelf mark. Soon he was back in front of the empty shelf. ‘The file must have been here,’ he said, looking at Kowalski. ‘Are you sure you haven’t overlooked something?’

‘Believe me, Sir, I looked through everything, page by page.’

Rath turned to the porter. ‘There must be some index documenting which files have been removed?’

‘Of course, but the inventory won’t help you. The withdrawal register’s back the way we came.’

‘Let’s take a look inside then.’

‘I don’t know if I’m authorised…’ the porter began, but Rath cut him off.

‘Listen, I’m not sure if you’ve realised, but the three of us, we’re the good guys. We’re not here to make your life difficult.’

The porter looked at Grigat inquiringly.

‘He’s right, Feibler. Let us look inside.’

No one could accuse the registry office of being disorganised. Under today’s date was a record of one hundred and seven case files, complete with docket number and archive shelf mark. Grigat wasn’t lying. Rath compared the sequences against his notebook but found no match.

‘Someone must have taken the file.’

He leafed back through the withdrawal register, paying attention only to the final two numbers. Most dated from 1930 or later, but then, little by little, older cases began to appear. Rath had already gone back a few pages when his finger alighted on a sequence ending in ‘24’. He checked his notebook. A match!

Case file II Gs 117/24 had been withdrawn almost three years ago.

‘Date of withdrawal, Monday, 30th September 1929,’ Rath read. ‘By a PM Naujoks.’ He looked at the porter. ‘Is it normal for case files to be out this long?’ The man with the uniform cap shrugged. ‘Goddamn it!’ Rath said. ‘Someone must know!’

The porter winced at every word, but Grigat’s thoughts were elsewhere.

‘Naujoks?’ he asked. ‘Polizeimeister Robert Naujoks?’

‘You know the man?’

‘I wouldn’t say “know”. Robert Naujoks was my predecessor here. He took early retirement.’

‘He’s the one stashing these case files?’ Rath was surprised. ‘I don’t know about you, but I picture my retirement differently.’

‘Naujoks was a strange bird.’ Grigat gestured towards the date in the register. ‘The 30th of September must have been his final day on the job. I started exactly one day later.’

37

Robert Naujoks was younger than Rath expected, in his late fifties. The former police constable had chosen to spend his retirement outside the Oletzko region, in a garden settlement in the district capital of Lyck, about thirty kilometres south of Treuburg, and situated, likewise, on a lake. It seemed lakes were a necessary condition of Masurian town life.

The Lycker Lake had a small island that was connected by bridge to the mainland, and it was this island that Naujoks viewed from his study window as he sat smoking his pipe. There are worse fates, Rath thought, as he and Kowalski were shown to their seats.

‘So, you’re interested in the Luisenbrand affair,’ Naujoks said. He wore braces over his shirt, and in his cantankerousness was slightly reminiscent of Wilhelm Böhm – despite being ten years older, white-haired, and without a walrus moustache.

‘We’re interested in Herbert Lamkau, August Simoneit and Johann Wawerka,’ Rath said. ‘A chunk of whose past is contained on your shelves.’

‘The file you mentioned on the telephone? Why these three? Are you investigating them?’

‘I’m investigating whoever is responsible for their deaths.’

Naujoks’s eyebrows gave a twitch. ‘They’re dead?’

‘Yes.’

Excepting his eyebrows, Naujoks remained motionless.

A maid served tea. Robert Naujoks was clearly a bachelor, a status common among police officers. Rath wondered if there might be a reason, realising, in the same moment, that he hadn’t contacted Charly, hadn’t even sent a postcard since arriving in East Prussia.

He took a sip of tea. ‘I used to know a Naujoks in Cologne,’ he said. ‘We were altar boys together, a long time ago. You’re not related?’

Naujoks looked at him blankly. ‘I’m Protestant.’

Like Böhm, the man was impossible to engage in relaxed conversation. ‘Why did you take the file?’ Rath asked, ‘on the day of your retirement?’

Like a stony monument to police investigators of the old school, Robert Naujoks sat on his leather-upholstered armchair and stared blankly out of the window. Only the occasional glow of tobacco from his pipe bowl gave any indication that he was still alive.

Naujoks took the pipe from his mouth and leaned forward. ‘Do you know that feeling? When a case just won’t let go?’

Rath, who knew all too well, nodded his response. ‘They’re the ones you’d do anything to close,’ he said. ‘Damn nuisance for your private life when the work follows you home. It can swallow you up.’

‘That’s just it. My case isn’t closed. Proceedings were discontinued at the behest of the public prosecutor.’

‘You were called off?’

‘If you like.’ Naujoks looked out of the window. ‘Though I’m no dog.’

In some ways he was not unlike a bulldog, albeit one distinguished by years of service. He manoeuvred his body out of the leather chair with surprising ease, and fetched a thick lever arch file with the reference number II Gs 117/24 from the shelf. He placed it on the table. ‘Here it is,’ he said.

Rath opened the cover. Photographs of Lamkau and Wawerka gazed back and, for the first time, Simoneit’s face was there too. The trio might not have inspired confidence but they didn’t look like hardened criminals either. Simoneit appeared almost delicate, unlike Wawerka, who was a great hulk of a man. Only Lamkau’s face had something nasty, something devious, about it.

‘A trio of moonshiners,’ Rath said, looking at Naujoks. ‘Hardly a spectacular case, even if a prominent distillery was implicated. What is it that won’t let you go? The fact that you couldn’t prove anything?’

He knew the investigation had stalled, having read the newspaper articles in the car on the half-hour journey over. It was even alleged that a distilling kettle with Lamkau’s prints had been taken from the evidence room. In other words, not the retired constable’s finest hour.

‘The answer’s in there,’ said Naujoks.

‘And my answer? Why the three men were killed?’

‘I’d need more information about their deaths.’

‘None of them died well. They were paralysed by Indian arrow poison and drowned. We still don’t know the exact cause of death. But…’

‘Indian arrow poison?’ Naujoks raised his eyebrows.

‘Two died in their beds, one in a freight elevator, but what it has to do with moonshining beats me. Apart from the fact that Lamkau was clearly at it again in Berlin, this time with a prominent business.’

‘It wasn’t just moonshining, Inspector,’ Naujoks said, knocking out his pipe. ‘We also investigated a fatality.’ He stood to retrieve a second folder. ‘And I believe the two cases are linked.’

A little later, Rath and Kowalski sat in the car heading north-east. Kowalski steered with the same pensive expression he had maintained in Naujoks’s parlour, but somehow this was different. Rath couldn’t have said just how, but he was starting to understand that Masurian silence was a multifarious beast.

‘Something on your mind?’ he asked.

Kowalski took a moment before he began. ‘I didn’t want to say anything in the presence of Chief Constable Naujoks, Sir.’

‘What didn’t you want to say? Do you think he killed our trio?’

‘No.’ Rath had meant it as a joke, but Kowalski shook his head, deadly serious. ‘There could be someone with a motive.’

‘Who?’

‘Did you see Naujoks’s reaction when you mentioned the Indian arrow poison?’

Rath nodded.

‘Perhaps I should tell you the story of the Radlewski family…’

Martha Radlewski was the fatality Naujoks had touched upon, a notorious drunk found dead in her shanty on the outskirts of town. Next to the body was an almost empty bottle of the tainted Luisenbrand. Naujoks believed she had died from methanol poisoning, but was alone in this view, and somehow the investigations were never merged. Noting the abnormal size of Martha Radlewski’s liver, the pathologist had expressed astonishment that she’d made it to forty-nine, and attributed her death to alcohol abuse in general, rather than the tainted Korn.

Naujoks had said nothing about a Radlewski family, but why would he? The files attested that Martha Radlewski had died alone and destitute, a long-time slave to the bottle.

‘If there’s a story, then why didn’t Naujoks tell it?’

‘Perhaps he doesn’t know,’ Kowalski said. ‘Though he must do – everyone here does. I’d guess his silence is a means of protecting someone. Perhaps he regards these deaths as a kind of belated justice and doesn’t want to voice his suspicions.’

‘You know who he’s trying to protect?’

Kowalski nodded. ‘The Kaubuk.’

‘The what?’

‘The Kaubuk. A kind of bogeyman that generations of Masurian parents have used to scare naughty children. Only, here in the Oletzko district, he’s real.’ It was the first time Rath had heard Kowalski say so much in one go. ‘His name is Artur Radlewski.’

Kowalski didn’t finish until they’d reached the Lyck road and were filtering into Treuburg.

The story was among the strangest Rath had ever heard. An oddball had lived in the forests around Treuburg since at least the outbreak of war. He dressed like an Indian in leather and hides, hunted with a bow and arrow, and lived on whatever nature could provide. He had fled home as an adolescent and was supposedly Martha Radlewski’s son.

‘You think he’s avenging his mother’s death?’

Kowalski shrugged. ‘When you mentioned the Indian arrow poison, I couldn’t help thinking of the Kaubuk. Naujoks too, I’d be willing to bet.’

‘So, which forest do we find him in, this Kaubuk? Or Radlewski, I should say.’

‘I’ve no idea where his hideout is. People say it’s on the moors, somewhere only he and his dog know, though it’s possible he doesn’t live there any more. The story is from my childhood, and I haven’t been in this part of Masuria for years.’ Kowalski shrugged. ‘I don’t know, it was just an idea.’

‘The man would certainly have motive, but why wait this long?’

‘Perhaps because he had to find our trio first, and go west, into the cities. Not easy when you look like an Indian. Who knows how long it’d take to get used to civilisation again after all these years?’

‘Supposing Radlewski junior has left the wilds to avenge his mother. Do you think Naujoks might be holding something back?’

‘Unlikely. He was just as surprised as me when he heard about the arrow poison.’

‘Would Artur Radlewski be capable of making such a thing?’

‘All I know is he’s supposed to live like an Indian. I’ve never seen him myself.’

‘Is there someone who could tell me more?’

‘My uncle perhaps. Or we could ask in Wielitzken, which, to my knowledge, is where the Radlewskis lived. Perhaps there’s someone who knew him as a child.’

‘Let’s head to your uncle’s now.’

Kowalski had just steered the Wanderer onto the Treuburg marketplace when Rath’s gaze alighted on the advertising pillar. Above the sorry-looking remains of the Communist placards, someone had scrawled Rotfront verrecke in red ink. Red Front Die. Most likely someone dressed in brown, thought Rath, cheered on by the good citizens of Treuburg.

Kowalski parked the car on Goldaper Strasse and the two of them got out. F. Kowalski, Shoemaker the sign on the house front said.

‘On you go and ask,’ Rath said.

‘You’re not coming in?’

Rath shook his head. ‘You question your uncle; I’ll try my luck in Wielitzken.’ He gestured towards the front door. ‘Find out what he has to say about the Kaubuk, and submit your report in the morning. And, please, not a word to Grigat. I don’t know how far we can trust him. We’ll talk tomorrow.’

Kowalski nodded, proud to have been taken into Rath’s confidence. ‘Yes, Sir. You know, it’s strange…’

‘What is?’

‘Whenever I misbehaved as a child I was afraid the Kaubuk might come and get me…’ Kowalski grinned. ‘Well, now it’s the Kaubuk’s turn to be afraid.’

38

Rath pulled over by a gas station on Lindenallee, just behind the town mill, and skimmed through Robert Naujoks’s files while the attendant checked the oil level and tyre pressure. The ex-chief constable might not have been entirely honest with them, but he’d gladly parted with both documents he’d swiped on the day of his retirement, the second of which, previously housed at Lyck District Court, concerned the Radlewski investigation, a lead they might otherwise have missed.

At first glance the files were of little use. The pathology report mitigated against Naujoks’s theory that the cases were linked. It was true that he had arranged a chemical analysis of the confiscated hooch, which had yielded potentially fatal levels of methanol, but despite the various bottles in circulation, Martha Radlewski’s death in 1924 was an isolated incident. Perhaps Naujoks had been gripped by an obsession, but if Artur Radlewski had drawn the same conclusions there was no question he’d have motive.

Kowalski’s story about the Kaubuk who lived like an Indian in the forest seemed outlandish – it wasn’t even clear if the man was still alive – but it was something like a lead. They had found someone with a plausible motive for killing the three moonshiners. Rath wondered if the tainted booze might not have claimed other victims whom neither Naujoks nor the deceased trio knew anything about.

Either way, at some point proceedings against Lamkau, Simoneit and Wawerka had been discontinued. Had Gustav Wengler smuggled his employees out west because he feared they could be avenged? By Radlewski? Had he, Radlewski, gone unsighted for so long because he’d been killing people in Berlin, Dortmund and Wittenberge? Or was the Kaubuk long dead himself?

He had to learn more about this strange Masurian Indian. He waited for the attendant to finish cleaning his windscreen, then paid and asked for a receipt. Heading south, signposts informed him that the Polish border was only sixteen kilometres away.

He reached Wielitzken after a few minutes via a ramrod-straight road that took a sharp curve just before the village. The schoolhouse was a low, elongated building near an ancient wooden church that was set back from the road in a slightly elevated position and hidden behind a few old trees.

After first trying his flat, he found the schoolmaster in his spacious classroom. On his desk in front of the blackboard was a fragile mini-laboratory of tubes and bottles. In a large glass vessel a cloudy-brown liquid boiled and bubbled away, while a second, smaller glass vessel collected drop after drop of a glassy distillate.

Rammoser was sniffing at a test tube when Rath entered. He looked up in surprise. ‘Inspector! Good of you to stop by. Finished for the day already?’

‘Sorry to interrupt. Are you preparing a lesson?’

‘More of a hobby. During the holidays I have the run of the classroom.’

‘Looks like you’d have made a good chemist.’

‘I doubt it.’ Rammoser laughed and waved the test tube. ‘Fancy a sniff?’

The scent was extremely familiar.

‘You’re… distilling schnapps.’

‘Correct.’

‘That’s illegal!’

‘Come off it,’ Rammoser said. ‘Where there’s no complaint, there can be no redress. Lots of people are at it around here.’

‘Some of them have died.’

‘Do you think I’m making some cheap rotgut? The recipe is from my father.’

‘Your father was a master distiller?’

‘My father, God rest his soul, was a village schoolmaster, like me. In the same village, in this very school. A man with a thirst for righteousness.’

‘All right. I’ve no intention of impugning your father’s good name, or of locking you up…’

‘That would be a thing, after I saved your skin yesterday.’

‘…although I am here on duty.’

‘Shame. I was about to offer you a taste. You won’t find schnapps like this anywhere on the market.’ Rammoser held the glass towards him. ‘Go on, have a sip. Then you’ll see why I bother.’

‘As long as you guarantee I won’t go blind.’

‘You won’t go blind, that much I can guarantee.’ The teacher grinned. ‘But after that, you’re on your own.’

‘Then perhaps I will take a glass.’

‘I thought you were on duty?’

‘I’ve done too much overtime already. This can just as easily be a private conversation.’

Rammoser switched off the flame and turned a few valves. ‘Come on, let’s go next door. Erna can make us a little something for supper. We can have a drink while we wait.’ He went over to the naughty corner and picked out a bottle from the line of corks.

Moments later they sat in the cosy lounge of the teacher’s apartment, a bottle and two glasses arranged in front of them on the table. Rammoser hadn’t been exaggerating. The pear schnapps was unbelievably mild, imbuing Rath’s body with a pleasant warmth.

‘You need it sometimes,’ Rammoser said. ‘The winters here are long. This is the coldest region in Germany.’

‘Didn’t feel that way today.’

‘It isn’t always so humid. There’s a storm brewing. When it breaks, things will be cooler again, but you didn’t come here to discuss the weather.’

‘I came to discuss Artur Radlewski. Apparently, he’s from here?’

Rammoser shot him a glance that held surprise and suspicion in equal measure. ‘What’s Artur got to do with all this?’

‘It could be related to the death of his mother. Did you know him?’

‘My father taught him, actually, before the war. Highly intelligent, but very reserved.’

‘No wonder, given his family history,’ Rath said. ‘Mother an alcoholic…’

‘His mother wasn’t the issue,’ Rammoser interrupted. ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard, but back when Artur still lived with her, she never touched a drop. It was her husband who drank. Not only that. Friedrich Radlewski was a brutal bastard who beat his wife black and blue whenever the mood took him. Who knows what else he did in front of the child, or how often the boy tried to help his mother and took a beating for his troubles.’

Rammoser took a sip of schnapps.

‘From time to time,’ he went on, ‘my father would appeal to Radlewski senior’s conscience but, next day, little Artur either failed to attend school, or had apparently fallen from the hayloft. As time went on, he grew more reserved, and sought refuge in books about Indians. It was all he cared about, and my father supplied him with what titles he could, starting with Karl May, but soon enough Artur wanted to read other things, travelogues, the truth about the North American Indians.’

‘Even back then he wanted to be an Indian…’

‘He needed an escape, and my father helped him find it. I still remember how he once went all the way to Königsberg to source books for him. Since he couldn’t get him away from his father he wanted at least to encourage him. Perhaps he thought little Artur was planning to emigrate to America. I don’t know.’ Rammoser paused to top up their glasses. ‘Do you have any cigarettes?’

Rath laid his case on the table. ‘Help yourself.’ Rammoser lit an Overstolz, and Rath did likewise.

‘Anyway,’ Rammoser continued, ‘the day came when Father cursed himself for having supplied the boy with so many books: the day they found a bare-skulled, bloodied Friedrich Radlewski dead outside his shanty. Someone had scalped him while he was still alive. His wife lay unconscious inside, covered in bruises. At first, they thought that Martha was dead too, but she was still breathing. There was no sign of Artur. Neither of him, nor his books. He must have been fourteen or fifteen at the time.’

‘My God, what a tragic story.’

‘No one mourned Fritz Radlewski. Most people were glad the bastard was in the ground.’ Rammoser looked at Rath. ‘Old Radlewski was rotten to the core. Some people are pure evil.’

‘You don’t have to tell a police officer that.’

‘As a teacher, you have a duty to see the good in people but, if I’ve learned one thing in all these years, it is this. Most people are capable of good and evil, but there are some who are evil through and through. It doesn’t matter if they’re ten, fifty or a hundred years old.’

Rath nodded pensively. ‘Perhaps you’re right, but you can’t lock people up for being evil through and through.’

‘Friedrich Radlewski beat his wife half to death,’ Rammoser continued. ‘She couldn’t even leave the hospital for his funeral. She needed months to get back on her feet.’

‘And Artur? He became the Kaubuk?’

‘You’ve heard his nickname? I think it’s a poor fit.’ Rammoser took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Artur remained missing. He was under suspicion, and the Landgendarmerie spent several days looking for him in vain. At some point, a travelling salesman claimed to have seen a figure in the forest behind Markowsken, flitting through the trees at supernatural speed. Suddenly other people started describing strange encounters in the forest, over by the border.’

‘Which is where he lives to this day, terrifying women and children?’

‘He doesn’t terrify anyone, he avoids people.’ Rammoser topped them up again. ‘In the beginning, he must’ve slipped into the villages fairly regularly to stock up on essentials. A goose would go missing in Urbanken, the grocer’s in Willkassen might report a paraffin lamp stolen; an entire toolbox vanished from the sawmill. In Markowsken, Kowalski senior had five rabbits pinched from his sheds. The most anyone ever saw was a shadow. That this elusive being could only be a spirit, could only be the Kaubuk, was a given for most people.’

‘Turns out it was no more than a common thief.’

‘Or someone trying to survive in the wilds.’ Evidently Rammoser felt obliged to defend Radlewski. ‘Most people thought as you did. When the thefts continued they threatened the Landgendarmerie, saying if the police couldn’t find him, they’d start looking themselves, but then war broke out, the Russians rolled in and people had other things to worry about. At some point, the thefts ceased.’

‘Perhaps Radlewski didn’t survive the war?’

‘The thefts might have ceased, but there were other mysterious goings-on in the forest. On one occasion a cow elk carcass was found with its hide missing, along with the best bits of meat. And there were any number of traps; primitive certainly, but immaculate in their design.’

‘Radlewski’s handiwork?’

‘No one knows for sure, but there are fewer and fewer who remember the old stories. The last sighting was years ago, and for most people he has become a kind of mythical figure, a ghost. Others claim Radlewski has long since died or emigrated.’

‘You don’t think he’s dead. I can see it in your eyes. You think he’s still out there in the forest.’

Rammoser smiled for the first time since he’d started telling Artur Radlewski’s story. ‘There are no flies on you, Herr Rath.’ He poured another glass of moonshine, and Rath realised he was becoming drunk. A pleasant feeling, it somehow brought him closer to this foreign world. He felt at one with himself, suddenly at home in Masuria, as if he had spent his whole life here.

‘You’re right,’ Rammoser continued. ‘I don’t think Artur is dead. I think he’s become so skilled at concealing himself and covering his tracks that no one’s quick enough to see him.’

‘Like an Indian.’

‘Precisely.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘Let me tell you a different story…’ Rammoser lifted his glass. ‘Here in Treuburg we have a lending library, and every couple of months a few books inexplicably vanish. No one’s ever discovered how, but the fact is they do. Every so often three or four titles will just go missing from the catalogue, as if by magic. Even more strangely, on the same morning these books are marked absent, the librarian will find a different pile on her desk, containing titles stolen in the previous weeks. Books about Indians, every last one.’

Rath couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Well, it is a lending library. You think a person who has withdrawn from civilisation is capable of reading so many books?’

Rammoser shrugged. ‘I’d say he must. If he doesn’t want to die of loneliness.’

39

Lange wore such a look of consternation that Charly felt duty-bound to ask what was wrong. Until she realised it was her.

‘Have you been crying?’ he asked as he stood to greet her.

She couldn’t help but laugh. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Chopping onions.’

In fact, she’d started in the salad kitchen today, which was considerably more enjoyable. Just as she struck up a conversation with the girl on the adjoining table Unger drafted her in for more onion chopping. Apparently, he wasn’t too keen on his employees making small talk.

Lange straightened her chair like a gentleman of the old school, and she sat down. Café Schottenhaml on Kemperplatz was the sort of place they could pass themselves off as an amorous couple if one of her new colleagues should make an unexpected appearance. In truth, it was unlikely: Schottenhaml was modern, tasteful and elegant, no place for kitchen staff.

‘I just thought… your eyes…’

‘You’re right. We look like we’re in the middle of a tearful separation.’

Lange went red. ‘The main thing is that no one thinks we’re police officers.’

Charly opened her cigarette case. ‘What’s the latest from East Prussia?’ she asked, as casually as possible. ‘Has Inspector Rath been in touch?’

Lange shook his head. ‘Not yet, but he’s only been there two days.’

‘But he’s definitely arrived?’

‘The Treuburg Police have confirmed as much. A Chief Constable Grigat seemed curious to know what we were doing. Inspector Rath doesn’t seem to have been especially forthcoming.’

‘Isn’t Böhm expecting a report?’

‘Poor old Rath still doesn’t know Böhm’s taken over the case.’ Lange grinned. ‘Otherwise he might have been a little more conscientious.’

Or not, Charly thought, once he knew Böhm had been parachuted in again. ‘Have you made any progress with the tubocurarine lead?’ she asked.

‘I’d say by now we’ve looked into all known sources of supply in Berlin. Still no luck.’

She couldn’t help feeling reassured that her colleagues hadn’t made much progress either. It meant the fault didn’t lie with her or this business with Dettmann.

‘Perhaps he’s making the tubocurarine himself,’ she said. ‘Perhaps we should ask an expert what you’d need to cook it up.’

‘Precisely what Gräf’s doing tomorrow.’

‘Of course.’ Charly nodded, ashamed of her wiseacring. The waiter appeared, they ordered and Lange changed the subject. ‘So, what do you have for me? Have you seen anything?’

‘Not much. Chopping onions makes it rather tricky.’

‘You poor thing.’

‘I had more luck the day before yesterday. I managed to look inside a folder full of complaint letters. They were pretty harsh. Some of them sounded more like extortion.’

‘You think Rath was onto something?’

‘I still haven’t managed to work out if Riedel and Unger know each other, but Unger seems pretty wary. It’s possible that suppliers are being blackmailed.’ She fetched a note from her pocket. ‘I haven’t found any correspondence with the Lamkau firm yet. If there was anything, it would most likely be in Riedel’s office, but how I’m supposed to get in there beats me…’ She passed the note across. ‘…I do have two addresses. Perhaps you should try and find out what kind of trouble they had with Haus Vaterland – and how they were able to smooth things over.’

Lange pocketed the note. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

‘I’m afraid that’s it. Today I’ve been mostly concentrating on my home-making skills.’

‘How long do you think you’ll be able to continue undetected?’

‘Not too much longer, I hope, otherwise I’ll need a new pair of eyes.’

‘Well, just get through tomorrow, then it’s the weekend.’

‘For you maybe.’ Charly forced a smile. ‘Unger’s already asked if I can work overtime on Sunday.’

Lange nodded as the drinks arrived.

‘There was one more thing,’ Charly said, once the waiter had taken his leave. ‘I’ve met someone who seems to know the ropes.’

‘Go on.’ Lange took out his pencil.

‘He knows Riedel, he says. The spirits man Unger is most likely in cahoots with. I’ve arranged to have a drink with him, tomorrow after work.’

‘With Riedel?’

‘No, with this waiter. A Negro from German East Africa.’

‘A Negro? I hope you’re not taking any unnecessary risks. Should I have someone tail you?’

Charly shook her head. ‘If you really want to help, you could always chop some onions yourself!’

40

Yippee, yoohoo. Run, Julius, run and I’ll catch you! I’ve got you! Julius, I’m faster than you. I’ll run, I’ll race, I’ll zoom. And I’ll catch you all. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, catch a tiger by the toe…

Rath stared at an image of two happy children with satchels playing tag. A textbook, clearly. A primer. He tried to order his thoughts, but only when he sat up and rubbed his eyes did he realise where he was.

Morning sunlight filtered through a small window onto a skeleton hanging beside a desk. But for the rolled-up maps in the corner and a portrait of Hindenburg on the wall, it could have been a doctor’s surgery. The Wielitzken village school staffroom, he remembered now. A woollen blanket slid to the floor as he rose from the sofa.

The primer was open on a side table. He snapped it shut and looked at the cover. Der fröhliche Anfang. Happy Beginnings. He recalled a similar book from childhood and reflected that some things never change. The smell of coffee wafted into the room, and he traced the aroma back to the teacher’s apartment, where Karl Rammoser sat at breakfast, reading the paper. The Treuburger Zeitung. Of course.

‘Morning, Inspector.’ Rammoser was full of beans. ‘Coffee? Erna’s just brewed some fresh.’

Rath nodded. ‘First I need to pee.’

‘You know where.’

He made his way across the yard.

Erna. By the time the housekeeper had served supper last night, he was already experiencing problems with his balance. Their aperitif had stretched to half a bottle, and Rammoser’s pear schnapps packed quite a punch. ‘I don’t think you should drive again tonight, Inspector,’ he had said. ‘Erna can make up the sofa in the staffroom.’

Erna proceeded to do just that, while the pair resumed their discussion. The problem was that Rath couldn’t for the life of him remember what they had discussed. With the reappearance of the bottle, the real drinking had begun. Incredibly he didn’t have a hangover, though the gaps in his memory troubled him. In the outhouse he washed his hands and splashed cold water on his face.

Coffee awaited him on return, and it did him the power of good. He would have liked a cigarette, but, out of consideration for Rammoser, made do with the bread basket. ‘Late one last night…’ he said.

The teacher shrugged. ‘You had a lot of questions.’

‘Occupational hazard.’ A loud gong sounded behind him. He turned and saw a magnificent grandfather clock, then the dial, and hands. ‘Damn it,’ he said. ‘Half past eight already. Is that clock right?’

‘I hope so. We use it to set the school bell.’

‘I need to make a telephone call.’

‘Then you’ll have to go to the post office.’

A little later Rath stood in the small, shadowy post office and waited as an old man conducted an important, or at least lengthy, telephone conversation. The branch had only one booth.

After two minutes it didn’t look as if the conversation would ever end. He returned to the counter and gestured towards the black Bakelite device on the desk. ‘It must be possible to make an outside call on that.’

‘Not without authorisation.’

‘Here’s my authorisation.’ He showed his identification.

The girl from Salzburger Hof came on the line. ‘Hella? Hello!’ he said, not realising how stupid he sounded until it was too late. ‘Inspector Rath from room twenty-one. Is Assistant Detective Kowalski with you?’

‘Herr Kowalski has been here over half an hour. You weren’t in your room this morning.’

‘Take the man a coffee and tell him I’ll be there in a quarter of an hour.’

When he returned to the school Rammoser stood outside the building, a leather bag under his arm. ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘You need to go into town.’

‘I’m sorry. No time for breakfast.’

‘All is forgiven,’ Rammoser said. ‘So long as you take me with you.’

‘How will you get back?’

‘By train.’

Rath opened the car door and cleared the case files from the passenger seat. ‘Take a seat.’

Rammoser gestured towards the folder. ‘Anything on Marta Radlewski’s death in there?’

‘Only the circumstances; nothing on her life, or why she turned to drink.’

Rammoser climbed in with his leather bag. ‘A tragic irony, don’t you think? No sooner is she rid of her drunk of a husband than she takes to the bottle herself.’

‘What a life…’ Rath started the car. ‘I mean, what choice did she have? When you consider how her husband died; and her only son vanishing to live like an animal in the forest.’ He accelerated onto the road.

‘Like an Indian in the forest,’ Rammoser said. ‘You think that Artur Radlewski is avenging his mother’s death? Because he believes she died as a result of the tainted Luisenbrand? Even though it happened years ago?’

‘I don’t think anything, but I’d like to speak to him.’

‘That could prove tricky. I’d be willing to bet Artur hasn’t spoken a word to anyone since vanishing.’

‘Then he’d better start once we find him.’

‘Finding him could prove trickier still.’

‘We’ll see.’ On Bahnhofstrasse in Treuburg, the fire brigade were using ladders to put up black-and-white garlands. ‘What’s going on here?’ Rath asked.

‘Preparations for Monday.’

‘For the marksmen’s festival?’

‘Plebiscite anniversary. The most important celebration of the year.’

‘You mean the plebiscite of 1920.’

‘Yes. You’ll be aware of the result, above all here in the Oletzko district.’

‘Yes, sir. Two votes for Poland.’

‘Very good.’ Rammoser smiled, but it was a pensive smile. ‘Two out of almost thirty thousand counted. The young Polish state did its best to win the Masurians over. It even established an Agitation Bureau here in Marggrabowa, all in vain. The only upshot was that the Heimatdienst knew whose windows to smash at night.’

‘Who?’

‘The Marggrabowa Homeland Service. I told you last night. They campaigned for Prussia.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Rath searched his memory but found nothing. ‘You don’t think much of them?’

‘Don’t get me wrong, I voted for Prussia too, but even then I didn’t like the way the Homeland Service sowed hatred against anything foreign, hatred against anything Polish; hatred and violence.’ Rath pulled over by the Salzburger Hof. The schoolmaster wasn’t finished. ‘For hundreds of years,’ he said, ‘people in Masuria co-existed peacefully alongside one another. Then suddenly, after the war, hatred was all the rage. Not least because of people like Wengler and Lamkau.’

‘Were they part of the Homeland Service?’

‘Stick around until Monday, and you’ll see Gustav Wengler in his element as Homeland Service Chief and acclaimed keynote speaker.’ Rammoser looked around as if someone might be listening. ‘As for Lamkau, you already know what I think. He and a few others did Wengler’s dirty work for him.’

‘By smashing Agitation Bureau windows.’

‘Worse. Countless people were injured. I’ve already mentioned the beatings, but don’t go thinking it stopped there. On one occasion a barn was set alight, over in Kleszöwen. It was a miracle there were no fatalities.’

‘Are you telling me Lamkau waged a systematic campaign of fear and terror against Polish sympathisers here in Oletzko?’

‘I just want you to know what kind of man you’re dealing with.’

‘A Nazi?’

‘There weren’t any Nazis back then, but brutal bastards who thought human life was worthless… they existed all right.’ Rammoser opened the car door. ‘Thanks for the lift, Inspector.’

With that, Karl Rammoser was gone. Rath gazed after him a time before exiting the vehicle himself. Entering the lounge he found Assistant Detective Kowalski sitting dutifully before his coffee. ‘Morning, Sir.’

‘Morning, Kowalski.’ Rath took a seat and waved Hella over. She approached with the coffee pot and poured, even offered a smile as their eyes met. He lit a cigarette.

Kowalski seemed restless. ‘What is it?’ Rath asked. ‘You look like you’ve seen the Kaubuk. Or perhaps you’ve caught him already?’

‘We have a witness, Sir.’

‘A witness?’

‘Someone who knows the Kaubuk.’

‘Personally?’

‘My uncle claims old Adamek saw the Kaubuk last year. Out in the forest somewhere.’

‘A taciturn sort, isn’t he, this Adamek? Does he even speak German?’ Kowalski looked at him blankly. ‘Doesn’t matter. You can always speak Masurian if need be.’

The journey took less than five minutes by car. Old Adamek lived in a small, one-storey building on the edge of town, more shanty than house. They knocked, but no one answered. Rath realised that the door was unlocked, pushed it open and stepped into the dark hall. ‘Herr Adamek,’ he called. No response. ‘Herr Adamek? CID. We’ve a few questions we’d like to ask.’

Wilhelm Adamek wasn’t home. Rath looked around. The decor was spartan. A table, two wooden stools, a pot-bellied stove. The only decoration on the wall was a framed photograph of Hindenburg, upon which an Iron Cross, Second Class was pinned. He opened a door that led to the back.

‘Shouldn’t we be going, Sir?’ Kowalski seemed uncomfortable with his curiosity.

‘I just want to make sure Adamek isn’t lying dead in his bed. Or sleeping off his hangover.’

The bed was empty.

‘Sir, he isn’t here. We’ll come back another time.’

‘Strange bird, this Adamek, isn’t he? Does he live alone?’

‘His wife died a long time ago, my uncle says. During the war, when the Russians were here. They wreaked havoc in our district.’

‘You were a child back then. Do you remember?’

‘The fighting lasted nearly a year. In Markowsken too. For nights we couldn’t sleep for fear; days were punctuated by the rumble of artillery fire.’

Rath was about to heed Kowalski’s advice and leave, when he saw something that roused his curiosity. ‘Just a moment…’ On a stool by the bed was a mound of dirty washing.

‘I thought we wanted to question Adamek. You’re sniffing around like he’s a suspect.’

‘Who knows,’ Rath said, lifting the flannel shirt that had attracted his attention. ‘Perhaps he is.’ He gestured towards the red-brown stain covering almost the entire right side. ‘Unless I’m mistaken, this is dried blood. Lots of it, too.’

The assistant detective opened his mouth to say something when a dark shadow appeared in the door behind him. Rath heard a dull thud as Kowalski hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Seconds later he gazed into the double barrel of a shotgun and the inert, unshaven face of Wilhelm Adamek. The only sound was that of the hammer being cocked.

41

The place smelled of blood. Hardly the ideal start to the day.

An employee in white overalls led Andreas Lange along a cold storage hall, in which bloody, skinned cadavers hung from the ceiling, then through a room in which more white overalls stood at large tables hacking the corpses to pieces. Lange toyed with the idea of choosing a salad at lunch. The office was at the far end of the building. He wondered if there was an alternative access point.

Fehling Foods had its headquarters in Tegel, on the northern outskirts of the city. Franz Fehling was an elderly man with a neat white beard, who appeared more respectable than an evangelical pastor, and spoke just as unctuously. ‘I’m surprised the police are bothering with this. It was over a year ago now. Besides, I thought all disputes between the Fehling firm and Kempinski had been resolved. I am more than surprised that Kempinski think it necessary…’

‘Kempinski don’t think anything,’ Lange interrupted. ‘The Berlin Criminal Police are here of their own accord.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

‘You don’t have to. It’ll be enough to answer my questions.’ It was a line he had from Rath. More often than not it had the desired effect. Clearly, Franz Fehling wasn’t immune. Arrogant and upstanding moments before, almost imperceptibly the man’s shoulders began to drop. ‘How long have you supplied Kempinski?’

‘Almost ten years, and our turnover is constantly increasing. Wild game is becoming ever more popular, at least where fine dining is concerned.’

Lange made a few notes. That, too, could put an interviewee on edge. Especially when you took your time. ‘Did you receive any similar complaints before May 1931? From Kempinski? Or other clients?’

‘Every so often one receives complaints…’

‘Of course.’

‘But not as grievous as these…’ Fehling shook his head vigorously. ‘Twenty kilos of fallow deer, and the whole lot crawling with maggots. To this day I can’t explain how it happened.’

‘I’d think it was the flies laying their eggs.’

‘Oh, knock it off!’ Fehling was shouting now. ‘Have you any idea how strict the regulations are? We take a sample from each batch. There wasn’t the slightest contamination. It wasn’t until Haus Vaterland that the problem showed, and then the sheer scale of it… an absolute catastrophe.’ He shook his head.

‘Did you trace the origin of the fallow deer?’

‘The meat came from a breeding farm near Soldin. In the New March.’

‘A breeding farm? I thought you shot game in the forest.’

Fehling seemed put out. ‘It stands to reason that in a city of four million the demand for game cannot be met by local hunting preserves alone. Besides, it’s easier to treat the meat, and you don’t have to pick out shotgun pellets before you start.’

Lange made several more notes. Fehling squinted nervously at the pad, but unless he was clairvoyant, he might as well give up. No one could read Andreas Lange’s handwriting, sometimes not even Lange himself.

‘Is that how it’s usually done? Keeping game as livestock and then slaughtering, rather than shooting it?’

‘Define “usually”. The end customer shouldn’t necessarily be aware.’

‘What about the intermediate customer?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Kempinski.’

‘The kitchen would know. There are no issues there. Our meat isn’t any worse than wild game. If anything, it’s better.’

‘Except when it’s overrun with maggots.’ Fehling fell silent. The subject clearly made him uncomfortable. ‘How,’ Lange continued, ‘did you manage to persuade the Haus Vaterland kitchen to keep using your firm as a supplier?’

Fehling’s eyes flitted this way and that. ‘Naturally we… Well, naturally the first thing we did was recall the spoiled product. And waive our fee.’

‘I should think so.’

‘Even though we weren’t aware of any fault!’

‘You never considered that the maggots might have got into the meat at Haus Vaterland?’

‘Yes, but… it doesn’t usually happen that fast. They take a while to hatch. Someone would’ve had to deliberately…’ He waved the idea away. ‘They noticed the next day.’ He looked at Lange. ‘So the buck stops with us.’

‘I assume that Kempinski is an important client?’

‘Of course.’

‘A client you wouldn’t want to lose, and no doubt it was important that news of the scandal didn’t reach the public.’

‘I don’t know what you’re driving at.’

‘I’m just trying to work out how important it was for you that this matter be resolved, discreetly…’

‘Of the utmost importance!’

‘…and how much you were willing to invest to make it happen.’

Fehling no longer looked comfortable behind his desk. ‘I don’t know quite what it is you’re insinuating, but I’d like you to leave my office now. I have work to do.’

Lange left his card on the desk. ‘Perhaps you were, how shall I say this, pressured. If you ever want to talk, there’s my number.’

He stood up, turning a final time to see Fehling reading his card. ‘One last thing,’ he said. ‘Experience tells me that blackmail never ends. Once you’ve been squeezed the first time, it just carries on. The threat lingers in the air, and there’s nothing you can do. A nasty feeling.’ He put on his hat. ‘A simple confession often works wonders.’

42

Rath stared into the darkness of the double barrel, not daring to move. He had raised both hands, one of which still held the bloody shirt. Old Adamek didn’t breathe a word. Kowalski groaned from the floor.

He decided to put an end to the silence. ‘We not intruders,’ he said. ‘We police. Myself and colleague.’ He gestured towards Kowalski with his chin. The assistant detective was slowly coming round.

Adamek opened his mouth, and this time didn’t speak Polish, or even broken German. There was a light, sing-song quality to his Masurian accent. ‘What are you doing in my home? Do you have a search warrant?’

Rath forced a smile. ‘We wanted to question you. The door was open and we…’

‘Have you been sniffing around?’

‘I just wanted to check you weren’t in bed.’

‘You’re trespassing.’

He hadn’t expected old Adamek to have such command of the Penal Code, or, for that matter, the German language. ‘I’ve explained why we’re here. Now, perhaps you could explain why you floored my colleague and are holding me at gunpoint.’

‘Because I thought you were intruders.’ The man refused to lower his gun.

‘Well, now you know we aren’t.’

Kowalski sat up and felt his head. He needed a moment to grasp the situation, then said something to Adamek that sounded like Masurian-Polish. The man responded in kind, weapon trained as before. There was a brief back-and-forth until Wilhelm Adamek finally lowered the shotgun. Rath put his hands down.

‘Would you like a tea?’ Adamek asked. Rath nodded, and the old man vanished inside the lounge.

‘What did you say to him?’ he asked.

‘That no one cares if he’s been poaching in the Markowsken forest or anywhere else. We won’t be bringing charges for that, or this little episode here.’ Kowalski pointed towards the blood-encrusted shirt. ‘Why don’t you put it back with the other dirty things, otherwise he’ll think we’re collecting evidence against him.’

‘Adamek’s a poacher?’

‘Any five-year-old will tell you that, but no one’s going to report him. Everyone gets something out of it. He supplies the entire catering trade in Treuburg. Besides, he’s a war hero who fought against the Russians; people don’t forget.’

‘Goddamn it,’ Rath said. ‘The things I’m expected to turn a blind eye to. Two days I’ve been here… it’s worse than Berlin!’

‘Look on it as an exercise in trust-building.’

‘Is that what they teach you at police academy these days?’

‘Sir, don’t make any trouble, otherwise we won’t get anything more out of him. Don’t forget we’re here for the Kaubuk. Besides…’ Kowalski gestured towards the back of his head. ‘I’m the one who’s borne the brunt of our truce.’

‘Let’s have a look.’ Rath inspected the cut, which was still bleeding slightly. ‘That’s going to leave a nasty bump. Make sure you keep it iced.’

Wilhelm Adamek soaked a cloth for Kowalski, which he served with the tea. They sat at the table in the lounge. He didn’t say anything about the bloody shirt, or Kowalski’s bump, or anything that had occurred in the last quarter of an hour. He hadn’t said a single word since his Masurian-Polish exchange with Kowalski.

‘Apologies again for bursting in like that, Herr Adamek,’ Rath began. It took some willpower, but Kowalski was right: they had to win Adamek’s trust if they were to get anything out of him. ‘We were acting in good faith. We’re here because we want to speak to you about Artur Radlewski.’

‘The Kaubuk…’ Adamek nodded, waiting for their questions.

A Rhinelander, Rath thought, would have declared himself satisfied with this conversational gambit and talked a blue streak; he would have positively effervesced with information and told them anything that came to mind, and more besides.

Clearly Masurians were more like Westphalians, which was no doubt why they felt so at home in Dortmund, Bochum or Gelsenkirchen. Rath imagined he was dealing with a Westphalian. An East Westphalian, at that.

‘You know something about the Kaubuk?’ he asked. Adamek nodded, but still said nothing. ‘You’ve seen him?’

Another nod.

‘Where?’

‘In the forest.’

Rath could tell this exchange was going to test the limits of his patience. ‘Can you be a little more precise?’

Adamek nodded again. Rath was about to probe further when the old-timer continued. ‘Out by the border. Less than a year ago.’

‘When, exactly?’

Adamek considered. ‘Before Christmas, I think. There was snow lying.’

‘Can you describe the man?’

‘He had a bow and arrow, as usual. Tanned; long hair, dressed in leather and hides.’

‘Like an Indian,’ Rath said, more to himself than Adamek.

‘Like the Kaubuk.’

‘You’re certain it was Artur Radlewski?’

‘It isn’t the first time I’ve seen the Kaubuk.’

‘You’ve come across him before?’

‘He lives out there. Spend enough time in his forest, and you’ll run into him every once in a while. I’m the only one around here who ventures that deep. Most people don’t like to, because of the moors. They can be treacherous if you don’t know your way around.’

Look at the man go! Rath felt proud at having persuaded him to open up like this. ‘But you. You know your way around?’ Adamek gave him a look of reproach, or contempt, perhaps, it was hard to tell. ‘Could you take us to him?’

Now the man’s gaze held plain suspicion. ‘Why?’

‘We urgently need to speak with him.’

‘He doesn’t speak with anyone.’

‘We’ll see about that. The police have their methods…’

‘You won’t find him. He isn’t there.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Hasn’t been there all winter.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Because there was no smoke from his hut, all winter long.’

‘You know where his hut is?’

‘No.’

‘But you just said…’

‘I said, I didn’t see any pillars of smoke over the moor.’

‘But you know Radlewski lives in a hut, and lights fires.’

‘How else would he survive the winter?’ Adamek looked at Rath as if he had taken leave of his senses.

‘And last winter he wasn’t there.’

‘That’s what I just said.’

Adamek must take him for a real windbag. ‘Could you take us there? To this hut?’

The old-timer looked at Kowalski, who shrugged, then back at Rath. ‘Not right there, but I could take you close.’

‘Fine,’ Rath said. ‘Take us close. We’ll manage the rest by ourselves.’

‘I wouldn’t advise it, the area’s dangerous. Lots of moorland. I wouldn’t advise anyone to go there. Besides, you won’t find him. He isn’t there.’

‘Perhaps he’s returned.’

‘He wasn’t there this morning.’

‘This morning?’

‘Where do you think I’ve just come from?’

‘How do you know he isn’t there? He won’t be lighting any fires in July.’

‘I can feel it.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘I can feel if there’s someone else in the forest. I can’t explain it.’

Rath gave up. ‘It’s some time since you saw Artur Radlewski. Do you think you could still describe him?’

‘I already have. Long hair, tanned, leather and hides…’

‘I mean his face. How he’d look if he cut his hair, or wore a suit.’

For the second time Adamek gazed at Rath as if he were a sandwich short of a picnic. ‘If you think it would help, but I can’t imagine the Kaubuk ever cutting his hair.’

43

The post office was the largest building in the marketplace, diagonally across from an advertising pillar newly covered by Communist posters. Rath didn’t have to wait long for a booth. Grigat had provided him with a desk and telephone in the district administrative office, but he preferred to sacrifice his loose change. Having now dispensed of Kowalski, he had no wish for the company of the meddling police constable.

Overzealous Kowalski had been itching to hunt for the Kaubuk, but Rath ordered him back to his uncle. ‘Go and see to that head of yours. Have a lie-down. You might be concussed; a little rest couldn’t hurt.’

‘Fresh forest air would do just as well.’

‘If Artur Radlewski is behind these murders he’ll be somewhere in Berlin, clean-shaven and freshly coiffed. The one place he won’t be is his forest retreat.’

‘If he’s finished the job, why shouldn’t he have returned?’

‘Old Adamek doesn’t think he’s there, and he was in the forest this morning. Besides, we don’t know that Radlewski has finished the job.’

‘We should still take a look at his hideout.’

‘We will, as agreed with Adamek. All in good time. First I need to call Berlin and submit my report. I won’t forget your contribution, Kowalski. You have a good nose.’

Kowalski was embarrassed by the praise. ‘It was thanks to my uncle, really.’

‘Give him my regards.’

After Kowalski was gone, Rath lit a cigarette and thought things through in peace. He did his best thinking alone; in fact, it was something he could do only when free of distraction.

He fetched the two files from the rear seat and skimmed them again. Martha Radlewski was forty-nine years old when she died, and hadn’t seen her only son in over ten years. Had the Kaubuk still cared about his mother and, if so, how had he learned of her death and the circumstances surrounding it?

At length he snapped the folder shut and crossed to the post office, but his mind was still racing as he waited to be connected with Berlin. The library! The district library. What had Rammoser said about the books that had been stolen at regular intervals, and then returned? An idea started to form as the operator returned him to the present. ‘Caller. Your connection with Berlin.’

‘Thank you.’

A switch flicked and the Berlin exchange came on the line. He asked for Reinhold Gräf’s extension. The connection was astonishingly good. Too good, as it proved.

‘Homicide, Detective Chief Inspector Böhm,’ a voice barked down the receiver.

Rath was so taken aback that, for once, he forgot to identify himself. ‘Isn’t that Detective Gräf’s extension?’

‘Who’s speaking, please?’

‘Rath here, Inspector Rath.’

‘Our man in Masuria.’

‘I was hoping to speak with Detective Gräf. Or someone else from the Vaterland team.’

‘If it’s work-related, and I hope very much that it is, then you’ll have to make do with me.’

‘It’s about the Vaterland case, and I…’

‘Talk to me. I’m leading the investigation.’

‘I’m sorry, you’re what?’

‘Superintendent Gennat asked me to take over. The Bellevue team has been dissolved, and you requested reinforcements.’

He couldn’t believe it. Gennat had parachuted Böhm in again. Böhm, of all people! If this was punishment for spilling ink over Dettmann, he’d sooner have taken his chances with a disciplinary hearing. ‘I’m sorry, Sir, I’m just a little surprised.’

‘You only have yourself to blame, Inspector. If you’d made contact sooner, you’d have been in the picture long ago. But for Chief Constable Grigat’s telephone call, we wouldn’t even have known you’d arrived safely.’

‘With respect, Sir, I didn’t see any reason to make contact until there’d been a breakthrough.’

‘I’m all ears.’

Switchboard cut in. ‘Caller? Your conversation will be terminated in thirty seconds. If you wish to continue, please insert ten pfennigs.’

He wedged the receiver against his shoulder and rummaged in his wallet for change, cursing inwardly. On top of everything else he had to fritter his money away on Böhm.

‘Are you in a public telephone booth?’ Böhm asked.

‘Yes, Sir.’ At last he’d found a few coins.

‘Didn’t Chief Constable Grigat provide you with an office?’

‘He did, Sir, but I’m out in the field. Do you want to hear this or not?’ He knew he was being bold, but didn’t care. Böhm could shove it up his arse.

‘Tell me,’ Böhm said simply.

So Rath told him, in as few words as possible, everything he’d learned about Lamkau and his dead, bootlegging goons. He finished by listing possible murder motives, and saying which theory he thought most likely.

‘What was the man’s name again?’ the Bulldog barked. No doubt he had forgotten his notepad.

‘Radlewski. Artur Radlewski.’

‘Residence?’

‘No fixed abode.’

‘A tramp?’

‘More like a wood sprite. An Indian. Here, they call him the Kaubuk.’

‘An Indian? What do you mean?’

‘Apparently this Radlewski lives like an Indian out in the forest. He’s read just about every book going on Native Americans.’

‘Hmm.’ Böhm seemed pensive. ‘Is it possible that he’s read somewhere how to manufacture tubocurarine? It’s an Indian poison, after all.’

‘Perfectly possible, Sir.’

‘It looks as if the poison is home-grown. We’ve canvassed all sites in Berlin where it can be obtained. There’s none reported missing, nor has any been procured illegally.’

‘Then we need to find out how to make it.’

‘You don’t say, Inspector. Detective Gräf is currently speaking with a university expert on that very subject.’

‘Either way we should put out a warrant for the man…’

‘Inspector,’ Böhm thundered. ‘I’m the one leading this investigation, not you.’

‘Does that mean you’re not going to put out a warrant?’

‘Of course I am. Stop twisting my words. Have you a photo of the man?’

‘Just a description.’ He relayed what Adamek had told him.

‘You think there’s more?’

‘That’s all I have.’

‘I mean, is there anyone else Radlewski could hold responsible for his mother’s death?’

‘Not according to the file.’

‘What about this Luisenbrand business? Could it be that Radlewski has it in for the principal there too?’

‘Director Wengler?’

‘Or others who worked at the distillery in ’24. Get a list together, and listen for rumours connecting anyone else to the scandal. If we know where these people live, we might be able to predict where the killer will strike next.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Rath hung up before having to insert more coins. What the hell was going on? Here he was more than eight hundred kilometres away from Berlin, and Böhm was still ordering him about.

He sifted through his remaining change and asked to be put through to Berlin on two further occasions, once to Carmerstrasse, and once to Spenerstrasse. No one picked up, which was hardly surprising since it was not yet midday. Still, his conscience was eating away at him. Despite meaning to call, something unexpected had come up on both evenings so far. If, that is, you could define ‘something unexpected’ as getting drunk with a village schoolmaster who was on summer holidays and had nothing better to do. Perhaps it was better Charly didn’t find out; at the very least he owed her a decent excuse.

When the time came, he’d have an exciting tale about roaming the forest in search of a Masurian Indian. It might not sound entirely plausible, but the truth rarely did.

Remembering how Charly furrowed her brow when listening, he realised how much he missed her. Yet here he was, holed up in a one-horse town at the arse-end of nowhere; the fringes of civilisation. That was how it was starting to feel, anyway, and not just when people here spoke of their forest, that expanse of woodland that was said to stretch all the way into Russia and beyond.

It was time to clear out. He just had to take care of Böhm’s list and see that he boarded the next train to Berlin.

44

The Oletzko District Library occupied two rooms in the district administrative office: a large room with the bookshelves, and a small room in which a woman of perhaps forty sat behind a desk.

Exactly Rath’s idea of a provincial librarian, she wore glasses and her favourite colour was apparently grey. When she turned her head, he saw that even her dark-blonde hair, combed severely back, was tied in a tight bun. The view from her office window was spoiled by the presence of two massive tenement blocks located on the shore. Rath’s police badge induced a frenzy of activity.

‘Yes, the books… though it’s by no means certain it was Artur who took them…’

‘I’m assuming he did,’ Rath said. ‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t plan to charge Artur Radlewski with larceny. Nor am I interested in why nothing was reported. I just want to know what he’s been reading recently.’

She gave a shrug. ‘Well, recently… nothing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That he… That for around half a year no books… have gone missing.’

‘Since December 1931?’ The librarian nodded. That fitted with Adamek’s statement. ‘Is this sort of thing common?’

‘I’ve been working here more than twelve years. Since then he’s… it’s only happened twice. On both occasions all the books that he… that went missing were returned.’

‘You’re not worried something could have happened to him.’ She shook her head artlessly, blushing when she realised she was giving herself away. ‘And most recently… I mean, last December, he returned everything then, too?’ She nodded. ‘You’ve been a great help, Fräulein Cofalka.’ He smiled and handed her his card. ‘I’m staying in the Salzburger Hof. Please notify me immediately if any more books go missing. If Herr Radlewski is anywhere in the vicinity, I need to be told.’

She took the card and nodded again. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong, Inspector. Artur is a good man.’

‘You know him, don’t you?’

She lowered her head in embarrassment, as if he had extracted her deepest secret. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I knew him when we were children. We went to the same school, over in Wielitzken.’

‘With Rammoser senior…’

‘That’s right.’ She looked at him in astonishment, surprised a detective inspector from Berlin should know old Rammoser.

‘A final request, Fräulein Cofalka. The books Radlewski was interested in – can you arrange them for me?’

The librarian smiled for the first time. He took it as a good sign. ‘That won’t be too hard. They’re all from the same shelf.’

There were around two dozen books in all. Without exception they were concerned with Indians and their culture. To his surprise the shelf contained considerably more non-fiction texts than adventure novels. Equally astonishing was the variety of titles on offer. No need to embarrass Fräulein Cofalka here, he already knew the reason why. Evidently the librarian had a soft spot for Artur Radlewski. Perhaps the forest dweller was the great, unrequited love of her school days, even of her life, and it wasn’t hard to imagine her thoughts turning to him with each new acquisition. The titles alone gave no indication of whether the books might contain poison recipes. Someone would have to take a look inside.

‘I’d like to take these out,’ he said, gesturing towards the shelf.

‘All of them?’

‘All of them.’

‘I’ll have to make out a membership card,’ she said, rummaging in one of the card boxes.

Rath placed his identification on the table. ‘I think this will do.’ She hesitated for a moment, before helping him load the books into a cardboard box.

He was about to leave when he spied a table next to the entrance, on top of which was today’s edition of the Treuburger Zeitung, secured against theft by a long, thin chain. ‘Is this always here?’ he asked, chin pointing towards the front page.

‘Not for loan, but you’re welcome to take a look.’

‘But the paper’s here at night?’

‘Yes. It stays there until morning, when I lay out the new edition.’

‘So it’s possible that during his night-time visits, Artur Radlewski also read the paper?’

‘I wouldn’t put it past him.’

‘Can you remember roughly when in December Artur returned those books?’

She knew the exact date.

Kowalski was astonished to find Rath outside the door. ‘I wasn’t expecting you so soon, Sir.’

‘How’s the head?’

‘Better already.’

‘No concussion?’

‘Luckily for me.’

‘Good,’ Rath said. ‘I have a task for you.’ Kowalski looked at him expectantly. ‘Go to the newspaper’s administrative office, and look at the editions for 9th December 1931, as well as the 8th and 10th to be sure. See if you can find anything that might’ve lured the Kaubuk out of his forest.’ Kowalski’s face fell in disappointment. ‘After that,’ Rath continued, ‘you’ll need to use your local knowledge. Berlin’s asking if there could have been others involved in the moonshining scandal of 1924. Names that don’t appear in the case file or newspapers. Do some asking around, and see what the Treuburg rumour mill churns out.’

‘You think the Kaubuk isn’t finished?’

‘I don’t think anything. Detective Chief Inspector Böhm from Berlin wants us to ask around, so that’s what we’re going to do. Böhm is leading the investigation.’ Kowalski nodded eagerly. ‘When you’ve finished that,’ he pressed the box of books into Kowalski’s hands, ‘you can spend tonight looking through these. Should make for ideal bedtime reading.’

‘What are they?’

‘Books read by Radlewski. I’d like to know if any contain instructions for making poison.’

Kowalski nodded, took the box inside, and returned moments later carrying his hat. Rath dropped him outside the newspaper office and drove onto Luisenhöhe. Regrettably, Herr Director Wengler wasn’t home, the liveried servant informed him, barely a note of apology in his voice. Fischer, the private secretary, was likewise unavailable. The servant couldn’t say where the two men were; couldn’t, or didn’t want to.

Rath tried the distillery. The secretary in the operations manager’s office looked as if she were preparing to go home. ‘I’m afraid Herr Assmann isn’t here,’ she said.

‘Herr Assmann? Doesn’t he live on Lindenallee?’

She arched her eyebrows. ‘Yes, but you won’t find him there. Herr Assmann is away on business. Danzig, then Berlin.’

‘When’s he coming back?’

She looked in her appointments diary. ‘It says here: Berlin until further notice.’

‘Until further notice… What’s he doing in Berlin?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know, but I can give you the name of the hotel he’s staying in.’

‘Not necessary. I just need a list of all employees who worked at the distillery in the spring of 1924.’

‘I think,’ the secretary said, ‘I should call Herr Assmann after all.’

‘You do that,’ he said. ‘Do whatever it takes, but I’ll need the list this afternoon, let’s say by five.’ He smiled at her. ‘If it isn’t ready by then, I’ll be obliged to return for a third time, with a warrant.’

The secretary looked horrified, and began dialling with her index finger. Somehow he felt pleased to have upset her plans. ‘Berlin,’ he heard her say as he exited the office. ‘Südring, seven-four-zero-three.’

A number in Tempelhof. He remained in the hallway listening. The secretary asked for a room number. So, the operations manager was staying in a hotel in Tempelhof, where the Lamkau firm had its headquarters.

‘Herr Assmann,’ she said. Evidently she took no pleasure in disturbing her employer. ‘Please excuse the interruption, but I’ve just had an Inspector Rath here…’

45

It was the sort of dive Charly would never have set foot in unaccompanied. It didn’t even have a name, at least none that was printed above the door or on either of the grime-covered display windows. Not far from Potsdamer Platz, it was a completely different world. Mohamed Husen held the door for her and cleared a path through the drinkers. A number of them looked up briefly when they entered, but she soon realised no one was interested in the white woman with her black companion.

Perhaps that was why Husen had suggested the place. At lunch today he had been smoking on the balcony dressed as a Sarotti Moor. ‘A colleague dropped out at the Turkish Café,’ he explained. She pitied him his fate, but Husen didn’t seem to mind the ever-changing outfits; if anything it gave him pleasure. He took the whole business in good humour.

Now he was dressed like an ordinary European, wearing a grey suit and elegant bowler hat, which he hung on the stand. He led her to a table by the long wall at the back, where they could talk in peace over coffee and cigarettes.

‘Not an ideal spot to take a lady,’ he said, offering her a Muratti, ‘but the coffee’s better than in Vaterland, and no one’s going to shoot their mouth off if we’re seen together.’

‘That’d be the last thing I need.’ She showed her ring. ‘I’m engaged.’

Husen laughed. ‘I’m married, but you’re right. That doesn’t stop people’s imaginations running away with them. Particularly where colleagues are involved.’

There was smoke everywhere, and all sorts of negotiations were being brokered at the tables. She couldn’t vouch for their legality, but Husen was right. No one was looking at them. ‘How are you settling in?’ he asked.

‘I’m afraid I’m not made for kitchen work.’

He looked at her. ‘Stick at it, and you can work your way up to waitress. You’ll earn more money, and there are tips.’

‘I’ve never waited tables.’

‘You learn quickly. If a vacancy pops up somewhere I’ll let you know. Maybe you’ll be lucky and won’t have to dress up.’

Talk about career prospects, she thought, but even so, she was grateful for his concern. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘That’s kind.’

The waiter arrived with their coffee.

‘Waitressing’s pretty easy, you know,’ Husen said, once the man was gone. ‘Set down your plates and cups, pour a few drinks. Then it’s all maths and remembering the right table.’

‘We’ll see,’ she said. ‘My training’s as a stenographer, but I guess these days you have to be flexible. You mentioned recently that you know this spirits buyer…’

‘Chief Red Nose?’

‘Maybe he needs an office hand?’ she asked. ‘He must have more correspondence than a head chef.’

‘Which is why he’ll have one already. I’m afraid you’re too late.’

‘Perhaps you could put in a word for me, if a position became free.’

Husen took a drag on his cigarette. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know him that well. I just know that he enjoys a drink at the Wild West Bar, and that… Goddamn it!’ He broke off mid-sentence and hid behind the menu.

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

‘Speak of the devil…’ Husen spoke so softly she could barely hear him. ‘Riedel’s here.’

‘Who?’

‘Chief Red Nose,’ she heard him whisper behind the menu. ‘He’s just come in. What’s someone like him doing in a place like this?’

‘He won’t have anything against two colleagues having coffee together after work.’

‘If he sees us together, Vaterland will be full of exactly the kind of rumours we want to avoid.’

‘So what?’

‘I need my job. And you don’t want to lose yours either.’

‘Then what do we do?’

‘We leave, but separately. You go first. He won’t know you yet, unless he’s been in the kitchen recently.’

‘Why would he have been?’

‘Because he’s Kempinski’s main buyer. He orders the hard stuff for Unger too.’

‘I’ve never seen him upstairs.’

‘Good. Then off you go. We’ll meet outside.’

She stubbed out her cigarette and stood up. She didn’t want Mohamed Husen losing his job on her account.

She only knew Alfons Riedel from Gereon’s description, but, in a place like this, the red nose and slightly outmoded attire immediately stood out. He hung his hat and coat next to Husen’s bowler, granting her at most a fleeting glance as she retrieved her coat from the stand. Reaching the door she recognised a face through the large window pane, and made a beeline for the telephone booth that stood against the wall.

In the reflective glass of the booth she saw the face look left and right before entering, apparently reluctant to set foot in such a disreputable establishment. The man stood in the dining area, looking around. Manfred Unger, head chef and target of her covert operation in Haus Vaterland.

She took the receiver from the cradle and pretended to make a call. Instead of rummaging in her pockets for change, however, she took out her little make-up mirror and opened it. Yes, Unger was making straight for Riedel’s table. The two men knew one another, Gereon had been right. Rather well, if their cheerful manner was anything to go by.

She watched Husen remove his hat from the hook, nod briefly at Riedel, who barely accorded him a glance, and make for the exit. As he reached the door, two men jostled past him into the smoky lounge. She wouldn’t have noticed them hovering by the entrance with their backs to her were it not for the scarcely perceptible twitch of the chin with which one of them gestured towards Unger and Riedel’s table. She watched as they sat next to the would-be blackmailers. She’d have given anything to eavesdrop, but there was no way she could simply appear at an adjoining table.

Was she actually going to witness a pay-off? The new arrivals had removed their headgear, and now she waited for one of them to discreetly place an envelope under his hat and slide it across the table. Or, perhaps they were accomplices, and this blackmailing business was somehow linked to a Ringverein?

She was wrong on both counts. One of the new men might have been lanky and a little gaunt, but as soon as she saw the pair’s faces she knew they hadn’t come to make a payment. Their eyes brooked no argument; men like this wouldn’t be blackmailed.

Not that Unger and Riedel seemed to have realised. There was a brief argument, during which the spirits buyer affected a manner of superiority, only to pause mid-flow and puff out his cheeks as if gasping for air. He sat at a slight angle, stock-still, not daring to move, his head increasingly the colour of his nose. The man opposite leaned forward slightly and continued speaking, unperturbed. He had one hand under the table, and though she couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, she knew it must be painful. All of a sudden Unger appeared in a rush to get up, but the second man pressed him back in his chair. She almost pitied the blackmailers.

Without warning, Riedel, who had turned a deep shade of purple, began nodding, and now Unger, too, wagged his head eagerly. The synchronised display made for a ridiculous sight, but the two strangers appeared satisfied, put on their hats, and exited the lounge as swiftly as they had entered.

The whole thing had lasted barely five minutes. Among the remaining patrons, it appeared no one had seen anything. Even if they had, this wasn’t the sort of place you got involved.

Unger and Riedel remained at the table. The waiter brought two beers and two schnapps, which must have been ordered sometime before, and Riedel, whose head was still red as a beet, drained the Korn using his left hand. He held his right hand tight to his body as if afraid the fingers might fall off. Unger raised his glass almost as if to propose a toast, only to give a start as Riedel scolded him.

Charly was startled by a knock on the glass. A man wearing his hat at an angle banged a coin against the pane. ‘Are you putting down roots here, woman? If I don’t get on that phone soon, there’ll be hell to pay with my old lady.’

She hung up and left the booth, but before stepping onto the street, she took a final glance at the two men, who appeared completely at a loss, stricken somehow. Unger drank his beer and gazed into thin air, and she couldn’t be sure he wasn’t looking in her direction. She turned her head away and left the café. Now she just had to think of a reason for leaving Mohamed Husen waiting so long. She no longer had so many questions for the African waiter, and, those she did have, were very different from a quarter of an hour before.

46

Rath reacted badly when the servant at the Luisenhöhe estate tried to fob him off again on Sunday morning. ‘Listen here! If you don’t want to be responsible for the Prussian Police carrying out a house search in your esteemed Herr Wengler’s residence, then I suggest you tell me where I can find him. Today!’

Clearly it was the first time the arrogant pizzle had been spoken to like that. He gasped for air. ‘One moment, Sir. I’ll see what I can do.’ The liveried servant vanished behind a door.

Rath was certain he wouldn’t have to make any inquiries as to Gustav Wengler’s whereabouts. Most likely he was simply counting to sixty in his head. As expected, after about a minute the man re-emerged. ‘I’ve been informed that Director Wengler is at the festival site in town.’ He sounded more nasal than a hundred Frenchmen. ‘However, he is very busy…’

‘I thought the plebiscite anniversary was tomorrow?’

‘Preparations.’ The man now spoke exclusively through his nose. ‘Director Wengler is, after all…’

‘I know. Chief of the Homeland Service.’ Rath enjoyed interrupting the smug bastard. ‘So, where’s this festival site of yours?’

The man threw him a glance that implied you had to be a particularly unworthy species of insect not to know where the festival site was. ‘Hindenburg Park, by the district war memorial.’

‘Where is that?’

‘On the road out to Goldap, by the lake.’

Rath headed back towards town. People here were starting to get on his nerves. He longed for Berlin, all the more since finally managing to get hold of Charly yesterday evening in a prosaic exchange during which they had mostly discussed work. Her Cinderella-like existence in the Haus Vaterland kitchen was starting to bear fruit. Messrs Unger and Riedel were indeed involved in blackmail, which had apparently brought them into conflict with the underworld. Perhaps they’d hit upon someone who’d paid his protection money, and was now receiving a service in return. Bagmen didn’t like it when people got in their way. It now seemed increasingly unlikely that the business had to do with Lamkau’s death, but Rath was pleased Charly had a lead which would net her a few points with Gennat, not to say her actual boss, Friederike Wieking.

As for himself, he had at least partially completed Böhm’s list of tasks, having collected the employee names from the distillery yesterday afternoon. Ready on time, as promised, the list was neatly typed and devoid of spelling errors. He’d have gladly had its author accompany him back to Berlin.

The cars lining the road ensured that Hindenburg Park was easy to find. Rath pulled over and strolled across the site, which was a mix of sports grounds and parkland. Flags fluttered on all available poles, black-and-white, and black-white-and-red; but nowhere the red-black-gold of the Republic. Everywhere you looked was a hive of activity; next to the athletics field a marquee was being erected, on the side of which were advertising slogans for Treuburger Bärenfang and Luisenbrand. Next to it was a carousel, and sausage, tombola and gingerbread heart stalls, even a shooting gallery – a veritable funfair stretching across the main path. Meanwhile the ubiquitous slogans for Mathée firm products left visitors in no doubt who was funding – and profiting from – the whole shebang.

The war memorial at the end of the park looked like a church that hadn’t been completed: an apse with no altar or roof, a semi-circle of rubble stone with lancet windows affording wonderful views of the lake. The monument was decked with flowers and garlands, while the platform, which was accessed by a rubble perron, housed a similarly adorned lectern, above which members of the fire brigade were fixing a banner. Prussia and the Reich Semper Fidelis. Rath couldn’t shake the impression that the Oletzko District Fire Department had acquired its ladder truck not so much to extinguish blazes as to help decorate public festivals.

At the foot of the memorial a handful of men were erecting the stage. In the meantime Gustav Wengler had appeared on the plateau, surveying the workers beneath him like a military general. Alongside him was an entourage of three men, one of whom Rath recognised instantly. Chief Constable Grigat stood gazing self-importantly from underneath his shako, moustache combed, uniform ironed, and hands folded behind his back. The other two wore formal dark suits and top hats. Even from afar they looked like senior public officials.

Rath climbed the steps and Wengler extended his arms as if to greet an old friend. ‘Ah! Our visitor from Berlin!’

‘You’re a hard man to pin down, Herr Wengler.’

‘Chief Constable Grigat says the same about you.’ Wengler gestured towards his companions. ‘Might I introduce: District Administrator Wachsmann, Mayor Maeckelburg – Inspector Rath from Berlin.’

He shook their hands, Grigat’s too. All this glad-handing made him feel as if he were attending an official function. ‘Looks like it’s going to be one hell of a party,’ he said.

District Administrator Wachsmann gazed proudly. ‘Few districts in Masuria commemorate the plebiscite on this type of scale.’

‘Might I borrow Herr Wengler a moment?’

‘We were discussing the order of ceremony, Inspector.’

‘It’s all in hand, Gustav!’ Wachsmann clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You deliver the main speech after I’ve said a few words of introduction. Musical society to set the tone… and then the open-air concert, as always.’

‘I’m glad that’s all done and dusted,’ said Rath. ‘It’s urgent.’ He looked at Wengler’s entourage. ‘Perhaps, Herr Director, you know somewhere where we might speak in private…’

‘How about a little stroll in the park?’

Rath agreed and they went on their way. For a moment he was afraid Erich Grigat might feel compelled to join them but, when no invitation was forthcoming, the constable chose to keep the local dignitaries company instead.

‘What’s so urgent?’ Gustav Wengler asked, once they were out of earshot.

‘New developments,’ Rath said, lighting an Overstolz. ‘In our murder inquiry.’

‘I’ve heard you requested a list of employees from the distillery, from 1924.’

‘That’s right. The trail leads into the past.’ He halted and looked at Wengler. ‘Does the name Radlewski mean anything to you?’

‘Paid a visit to old Naujoks, have you? Grigat mentioned something along those lines.’

‘I’m not talking about Martha Radlewski. I’m talking about her son.’ Wengler looked astonished. ‘It’s possible that Artur Radlewski is avenging his mother’s death, and that your former employees…’

‘Revenge? Why? The woman was notorious. She drank herself to death.’

‘Perhaps her son sees it differently. Perhaps he thinks it was the moonshine that killed her.’

‘If he really thinks that…’ Wengler looked Rath in the eye, ‘…then why has he waited this long?’

‘Those are questions that still need answering, but he would have a motive, potential knowledge about the poison used, and he has no alibi.’

‘A savage who lives alone in the forest wouldn’t.’

‘I’m being serious, Herr Wengler. Radlewski hasn’t been seen for almost nine months. He could be responsible for the killings in the west.’ Rath took a deep drag on his Overstolz. ‘We need to know if there are other distillery employees who could’ve been involved in 1924…’

‘So, that’s why you need the list.’ Wengler laughed. ‘Inspector, you do know that proceedings were discontinued? I mean, you have the file. Nobody knows where this rotgut came from, or who sold it as Luisenbrand.’

‘That might be true of the courts, perhaps, but that’s not what we’re talking about here. We’re talking about Artur Radlewski. Herr Wengler, my colleagues in Berlin are concerned that Radlewski’s vendetta, if that’s what this is, might not be over. I share their concern.’ He stared back at Wengler. ‘I would ask you to take a look at the list. Perhaps something will occur when you see the names.’

Suddenly Gustav Wengler became serious. ‘Do you have a cigarette?’ Rath opened his case and Wengler helped himself, inhaling greedily as the lighter’s flame touched the tobacco. The director thought for a time. ‘Inspector,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if this is important, since no charges were ever brought, and there was no mention of it in the paper. But… my brother.’

‘What about your brother?’

‘Siegbert was a police officer here. He… how shall I put this?’ Wengler shook his head, as if pained by the memory. ‘He was accused of being in cahoots with the moonshiners, or at least of having tipped them off about a raid.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘There was nothing in it.’ Wengler threw Rath a hostile glance. ‘They found a hideout in the forest by Markowsken, but by the time police arrived there was no one left to arrest.’

‘And your brother took the fall?’

‘Obviously there was no one there. I’d have been astonished if an operation like that had succeeded. Police uniforms in a forest. That’s about as conspicuous as…’

‘…an Indian in a capital city.’

‘Something like that.’ Wengler managed a smile. ‘At any rate – Siegbert decided to put in for a transfer. With all those rumours swirling around… Sometimes it’s better to make a fresh start.’

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ said Rath. ‘So, where did your brother make his fresh start? He could be in danger. We have to warn him.’

‘It’s a city you’re familiar with, Inspector. My brother has been in Berlin for almost eight years, as a traffic officer.’

47

The hollow space under the board between the bedroom and lounge. That is where you have stowed everything you need in case the police call again. Every day you reach inside, fetch the curare pipe, Veronal solution and needles, head to the train station and await your chance. To be alone with him. A single moment will suffice.

You examine the red cloth, which you now fold and place with the other items, and with the red, the memories return.

A red cloth hangs from the railing of the town mill bridge, easily overlooked among all the colours decorating the town. On each entrance to the marketplace they have erected triumphal arches of fir, swathed in black and white and red. Dieses Land bleibt deutsch, you read on one; on another, Das Land ist unser, unser soll es bleiben. Both proclaim allegiance to the Reich. Polish words are nowhere to be seen. You have emerged from the polling station and are making your way down Deutsche Strasse when you see the red cloth fluttering in the breeze. Your heart pounds; you must fetch your bike from the shed. If you pedal hard, you can make it out to the little lake in half an hour: the place you always meet.

But you don’t reach the lake, you don’t even reach the shed. As if by magic the trio from the distillery plant themselves in front of you. They are wearing Homeland Service brassards, and even at this hour, appear to be drunk.

‘Where’s the fire, you dirty Polack?’ their leader asks, a man who takes pleasure in tormenting other people.

‘Jestem Prußakiem,’ you say. They don’t like people using this language, especially not to say they are Prussian. You won’t tell them how you voted. They will only think their crude propaganda, their threats and their violence have succeeded. They think you are a Polish sympathiser, you don’t know why. Perhaps because you come from Warmia and are Catholic. Perhaps because you once protected Marek, the Pole, when the men from the distillery drunkenly abused him in Pritzkus’s bar. Perhaps, even, because of your name, though there are many here who don’t have German names.

They are drawing closer now, and you realise there was no need to provoke them; they were coming for you anyway.

‘That sort of talk’ll get you a good thrashing,’ the bigmouth says.

‘It’s long overdue,’ the youngest seconds, a giant of a man, a Masurian who ought to know better than to get involved with these thugs, who only spout nationalist rhetoric as a pretext for breaking people’s noses. Still, perhaps that is the Masurian tragedy: its people want to be more German than the Germans themselves.

The little one says nothing, but you see the belligerence in his eyes.

You have no choice. You roll up your sleeves, break off a slat from the shore fence and prepare to defend yourself.

Gradually they approach, there is no escaping them now. Behind you there is only the river.

You strike the Masurian giant first, and the strongest of the trio goes to ground. In the meantime the dogged little man has hurled himself at your legs, and you know that if he succeeds in toppling you, all will be lost.

He clings on, no dislodging him, not even a blow from the slat can knock him loose, and though you struggle, eventually you lose your balance and land on the dusty turf. The Masurian is languishing on the grass, forehead bloodied, but now their leader is upon you, gazing down with boundless contempt in his eyes. He kicks you in the solar plexus and suddenly you can’t breathe. Still the little man clings to your legs, you can’t get up, and now the ringleader is winding up again – when a police whistle pierces the summer air.

48

Up here he issued the commands. He loved the feeling, and it was why he still loved this job, even if it wasn’t what it used to be… but, wasn’t that true of everything? Time was when a whole village had answered to him, then a small town; now it was just an intersection. True, it was the busiest in Europe – assuming the information they provided to tourists on Unter den Linden was correct.

Trams approached from every angle, buses droned impatiently; between them, cars and taxicabs flitted through what spaces they could find, the bicycles gleaming in the milling mass like insects blinded by the sun.

He turned the lever, and the traffic filtering through Potsdamer Strasse came to a halt. At the front of the line was a taxicab, behind it the number five bus, and, drawing up alongside the cab, a blonde cyclist inadvertently displaying too much leg as her balance failed her. When they would move again would be his decision alone. Up here in the traffic tower he ruled the world!

There were regulations concerning how long a carriageway could remain closed, but they were subject to interpretation and who the hell was going to check on him? He knew the police commissioner’s official car as well as that of his deputy; the murder wagon likewise. If he saw any of them in line, or a fellow officer, he’d switch straight to green, obviously. But not now, with a cute blonde in a summer dress making a show of her legs.

Yes, Siegbert Wengler still loved his job, even if it used to provide more thrills. That said, for a man of his age, a blonde in an airy summer dress afforded exactly the right level of thrill to distract from the tedium of his shift, the greatest challenge of which consisted in climbing the ladder that led inside the traffic tower. He looked at his wristwatch. The relief was late. Scholz, the greenhorn! Had he lost track of time in that toilet cubicle at Potsdamer Bahnhof? Or missed his train? He’d give him what for, and it was hardly the first time! If he had to wait any longer than ten minutes, he’d chalk it up to overtime and leave it to the bloody greenhorn to explain.

In Potsdamer Strasse the first cars began tooting their horns. He took a final glance at the girl’s legs before turning the left-hand lever and bringing the traffic on Stresemannstrasse to a standstill. When he switched the lights to green on Potse, the blonde disappeared behind the two gatehouses flanking the carriageway like little temples, pedalling hard into the chaos.

Siegbert Wengler was looking forward to finishing his shift, and stretching his legs. Perhaps he’d take a woman tonight. Only, not at Jette’s on Potsdamer Strasse; he had to make sure he didn’t fall into old habits while the killer was still at large. Thanks to his brother, he could afford one of Jette’s girls more or less whenever the fancy took him. Good food, good drink, a woman every now and then, it was more than most fifty-two-year-olds could manage in this city. More than most people his age could hope for from life.

Soon he’d be retiring. Perhaps he’d return home. The hardest thing would be the girls: there wouldn’t be too many places like Jette’s in Treuburg, or in Masuria – period. He’d have to head out to Königsberg, Danzig, even.

At last a man in blue uniform and white sleeves crossed the intersection. He couldn’t make out the face under the shako but, by the leather case, it had to be Scholz. Only a greenhorn would transport his sandwiches in a huge thing like that. Still, you needed your sandwiches up here, and a thermos full of coffee went a long way too. It could be draining work in the traffic tower.

The uniform cop had disappeared underneath the tower, his steps already audible on the ladder. Siegbert Wengler noted the change of shift, accurate to the minute, in the notebook that hung by a string from the control panel, packed his lunchbox and thermos, and stood, legs apart, ready to give that slowpoke Scholz the welcome he deserved. To his disappointment, it was a different face that emerged in the hatch door.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, in the tone he had reserved to read the greenhorn the riot act.

The uniformed officer put down his bag, stood up straight and saluted. ‘Beg to report: the relief. Standing in for Constable Scholz!’

‘Standing in? First I’ve heard of it.’

‘Constable Scholz sends his apologies. He was taken ill.’

Siegbert Wengler shook his head. So, Scholz was a malingerer too. ‘That doesn’t excuse your tardiness, Constable!’

‘Of course not, Sir. My apologies.’

‘Do you know your way round the control panel?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

Wengler leaned over the notebook to erase the name Scholz and replace it with that of his stand-in. ‘Name and rank?’ he barked.

Behind him there was no response, and suddenly Wengler realised what it was about this new colleague that had thrown him. The huge leather briefcase on the floor was Constable Scholz’s, no doubt about it. Still wondering what it could all mean, he felt the man embrace him from behind, and then a stabbing pain in his neck.

He tried to defend himself but the man was too strong, and when, finally, he was released, his legs gave way underneath him. He sank to the floor as if the strength had been drained from his body. He could barely move, his muscles refused to obey.

The uniform cop opened the large case, which really did belong to Scholz, and pulled out a red cloth. ‘Recognise me?’ he asked, unfolding the cloth and placing it over Wengler’s nose and mouth. Wengler tried to shake it off, but couldn’t move, he had no choice but to submit, as if paralysed. He couldn’t speak, his tongue felt alien in his mouth, like a wet rag. ‘You ought to. Because my face is the last thing you’ll ever see.’

Wengler gazed into the face, but it was no good, he couldn’t place it.

The face disappeared, and when it returned the man held a large bottle of water which he had apparently fetched from the case. Siegbert Wengler started to shake; those muscles, it seemed, functioned still.

Then came the water. At first all he felt was the cloth grow damp and clammy, but then the water penetrated the fabric, into his mouth and nose. It spread everywhere, into his jaws, deeper and deeper. He couldn’t breathe, it was everywhere. He lay motionless, unable to put up a fight. Only the muscles he had no control over seemed still to function: his heart pounded, reflexes stirred in his throat, he was choking; he tried to throw up, to spew out the water, but couldn’t. He thought he was drowning, no, he didn’t just think it, he knew, he was drowning. Now, at this very moment, as his whole body quivered in the throes of death, he had only seconds to live and didn’t know why.

Then the dripping wet towel was removed, and he could breathe again, despite feeling as if he had just died. Breathe, breathe, breathe, was all he could think of.

‘That’s how she felt too,’ the man said, ‘and I couldn’t save her. I want you to know how she died.’ Wengler stared at the dark, dripping wet cloth. ‘Remember now?’ his tormentor asked, replacing the dank cloth over his nose and mouth. ‘You ought to. You helped lock me up. Back in Marggrabowa.’

Siegbert Wengler felt the damp cold of the fabric on his skin, saw the man lift the bottle, and the thought of the water alone filled him with mortal terror. He’d have screamed in panic if he could, but the screams sounded only in his head, piercing as a siren. The eyes of the man glinted under the shako, as the bottle tilted, and then, just before it reached the cloth and drowned him a second time, he remembered. Siegbert Wengler knew why he must die.

49

Just another half-hour in Haus Vaterland. Never before had Charly so looked forward to finishing a shift; she could hardly wait. Any kind of police drudgery would be preferable to this. Just a few hours overtime… it had ruined her day, her whole weekend in fact. She had been hoping to rummage through Unger’s papers undisturbed, but Sundays were the busiest time.

At least she wasn’t peeling vegetables. A dishwasher had cancelled at short notice and they had been unable to find a replacement. She wasn’t sure why they had asked her, perhaps her onion peeling wasn’t up to scratch. She couldn’t say if she was any better at washing-up, but had suffered no breakages so far.

She observed Manfred Unger carefully. There was no sign that he’d been intimidated by the two goons from last night, and certainly not that he’d spied his new kitchen maid-cum-office assistant in the same dive. He treated her as he always did, with relative kindness, being less concerned with chiding her than he was the rest of his staff. So far, they hadn’t exchanged a word, though she felt his eyes on her the whole time. Whenever she turned around, he was looking at her through the glass window.

Washing dishes might have been kinder on her eyes, but it wasn’t a promotion, and she still had her work cut out. The machine had to be fed like a hungry wolf, and, when the dishes emerged, more often than not you had to wash half again by hand. Her apron was soaked through, and in some places the water had penetrated to the skin, where her clothes clung damp to her body.

She’d promised Greta that they’d head out to the Wannsee for a girls’ afternoon, a much-needed distraction after her perfunctory exchange with Gereon yesterday. A few hours in the afternoon sun, swimming and browsing a detective novel would be just the ticket. No doubt they’d have to fob off the advances of the odd man, but Greta was a past master, and the more puffed up, the better.

She felt as if she were being watched again, and squinted to the left, only to find that Unger was gone. The office was empty. Suddenly she heard his voice from the other side of the conveyor belt. ‘Fräulein Ritter, you’ve stood there long enough.’ She turned round and saw the head chef and a stick-thin boy clad in an apron. Unger pointed at the boy. ‘Franzeken here will relieve you.’

She tried not to show her relief. The boy seemed familiar with the machine and got down to work straightaway. Unger was almost smiling, something she had never seen before. He cleared his throat. ‘Fräulein Ritter… They’re short of tomatoes in the salad kitchen. Fetch five crates from the store and then you can finish for the day.’

Finish for the day. How good those words sounded, but she was already thinking like a kitchen maid. It didn’t matter that she’d made no progress on surveillance, it was time to get the hell out of here!

She threw her dripping apron in the large wash basket next to the time clock, debated whether to put on another apron for the tomatoes, and decided against. Her clothes were due a wash anyway.

She knew the way, but the store was big and disorganised and the tomatoes hard to find. There were several shelves full of fresh vegetables, as well as a few tins. Next to the entrance were four huge crates of potatoes. The tomatoes were in a dark corner towards the back. At least two dozen crates. She wondered how many needed shifting here every day. Finding a handcart, she started loading the crates when an echo sounded from the concrete walls. She had left the heavy door open, but now heard it click shut.

Goddamn it, some idiot had closed the door! Whoever it was, perhaps they’d still be on hand to help.

She loaded the next crate and gave a start. Black-and-white shepherd’s check pants. Manfred Unger had arrived as if by magic, watching her go about her work. She put down the crate and stood up straight. ‘Crikey!’ she said, attempting a smile. ‘You gave me quite a fright.’

She didn’t say it was the second time already today. Was he checking up on her? Or did he want to speak to her in private about yesterday?

‘My apologies,’ he said, smiling his strange smile as he drew closer. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you, Fräulein Ritter. I just wanted to tell you – privately – how glad I am to have you on board. And how much I value your work.’

‘Well, thank you very much,’ she said, feeling uneasy.

‘I hope to have some office work for you soon. Then you won’t have to get so dirty. A pretty thing like you.’

‘Office work sounds good, thank you, but please don’t think I consider this sort of thing beneath me.’

‘And you’re wet…’ He looked at her. ‘You need to get that dress dry as soon as possible, otherwise you’ll catch cold.’

‘Lucky I’m about to finish then.’ She fetched the last crate from the shelf.

‘Yes, lucky.’ He stood next to her now, closer than good manners allowed. ‘But we still have a good quarter of an hour.’ She would have taken a step back, but the shelf was in the way.

At that moment Unger pounced, so suddenly that she dropped the crate. Seven, eight tomatoes rolled across the floor, but he was unperturbed. He seized her waist and drew her against him. She felt his erection, and then his lips on hers. He tried to thrust his tongue down her throat, but she managed to turn away.

‘Herr Unger,’ she said in outrage and disgust. ‘What are you doing? You’re forgetting yourself!’

She heard him panting, and her disgust rose further still. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘What’s the big deal? The door’s closed, we won’t be disturbed.’ She tried to free herself from his vice-like grip. ‘I’ve had my eye on you from the start, and when I saw you in Linkstrasse yesterday, in that dive, I knew. That Ritter, I said to myself, she’s a good-time girl.’

‘Herr Unger, please.’

So he had seen her yesterday, and drawn the wrong conclusion. The man seemed to think she was some kind of whore.

‘You drive me wild,’ he panted. ‘The way you wiggle your backside when you know I’m watching.’

‘Herr Unger, I’m afraid your imagination is running away with you. Now let me go!’

It was no good. He held her firm and began groping her. When he laid his right hand on her breasts, she’d had enough, and gave the bastard a good, hard slap.

He gazed at her blankly, holding his cheek and breathing heavily. Then suddenly those eyes that had been so full of lust moments before showed only contempt. ‘So, you’re one of those, are you,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Drive me wild by the dishwasher. For this!’

‘Drive you wild? I was working! No one’s forcing you to stare at my backside.’

‘You mustn’t think you’re irreplaceable. There are plenty of people who’d do anything to work at Haus Vaterland!’

‘Well, not me!’

‘Oh?’ Unger looked as if he were about to spit at her feet. ‘But you put out for a black? You goddamn whore.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You heard me!’

There was such contempt in the gaunt head chef’s voice that she thought he might actually spit. Instead, he turned around and bolted. She heard the door open again, then click shut.

Her hands were shaking. After taking a deep breath she squatted to pick up the tomatoes. Unger had trodden on one, and she threw its pulpy remains into the bin by the door. The crates were stacked, but it was some time before she felt ready to return to the kitchen. She pushed the handcart in front of her, fists inwardly raised, but there was no sign of Unger, neither in the kitchen nor behind the glass wall of his office. Was he gone already, too embarrassed to confront her? She took the tomatoes through to the salad kitchen and returned the handcart to the store. Then she went to the bathroom and washed her hands thoroughly. It was still early, but she didn’t care, she left Haus Vaterland as quickly as she could, praying she wouldn’t run into Unger again.

In the street she inhaled deeply, as if she’d been holding her breath the whole time she’d been inside. Time for a quick shower at Spenerstrasse to wash away the day’s dirt. The U-Bahn steps were on the far side of the building. The Buick was still in Moabit as it didn’t fit her cover story. So far she hadn’t benefited much from Gereon leaving it, meaning she was looking forward to her Wannsee trip all the more. Perhaps she’d take the Avus and vent her anger on the gas pedal. Fucking men.

There was a build-up of traffic on Stresemannstrasse, apparently stretching all the way back to Anhalter Bahnhof. Less patient drivers turned into side streets or made U-turns; others sought refuge in their horns. The cyclists calmly snaked their way past the cars towards the intersection, until they, too, were obliged to stop. The traffic lights at Potsdamer Platz showed red, and red they stayed.

Was the officer in the tower asleep?

Perhaps he was, for just then she saw a traffic cop emerging from Josty and crossing the intersection, where he hastily scaled the ladder leading to the tower. Moments later, the lights on Stresemannstrasse changed to green. An avalanche of metal stirred, and the chorus of horns fell silent.

She was about to make her way to the U-Bahn when she caught sight of a dark-red Horch parked in the shadow of the traffic tower, two of its wheels encroaching on the grass-covered island in the middle of the intersection. A white coat emerged, and as she wondered what Dr Karthaus was doing at Potsdamer Platz, the heavy black murder wagon raced towards her from the direction of Leipziger Strasse, screeching to a halt behind the Horch. Straightaway she knew she wouldn’t be going anywhere near the Wannsee that afternoon.

50

Wilhelm Böhm hated being late. It was ironic, therefore, that he had chosen a profession where he was condemned to appear after the horse had bolted. When, that is, someone had died in unnatural or unexplained circumstances, and an investigation had to be launched. Perhaps it explained his notorious ill temper.

At any rate, it explained his ill temper that Sunday afternoon. He had only agreed to standby duty because Inspector Rath was gadding about in East Prussia and A Division were short of men, which, come to think of it, was also the reason he’d taken on Rath’s latest case. Someone had to do the work around here. To cap it all, he’d been called out straight after lunch, just when he’d laid his head down for a nap.

He still didn’t know exactly what had happened, only that a police officer had died during his shift in the traffic tower. Probably a heart attack, he thought, as he hauled his heavy frame up the narrow ladder, and being no steeplejack here I am running the same risk.

It was no use. When a policeman died in the line of duty you were obliged to investigate.

A helping hand met him as he gained the hatch. Superintendent Kronberg from ED. Böhm pulled himself up and looked around. The narrow room was busier than its architect would have intended. Aside from Kronberg and Dr Karthaus, a uniform cop, wearing the white gloves and sleeves of the Traffic Police, stared nervously out of the window as he operated the lights. On the floor lay a dead man, likewise a traffic cop, though somewhat older and heavier than his colleague. He looked as though he wouldn’t have had long to wait for retirement; just his luck to keel over on duty.

A horn beeped, and the cop at the controls started cursing. ‘They’re still going crazy on Stresemannstrasse, but I can’t keep ’em on green just ’cause they’ve been stuck on red for the last half-hour.’

He appeared helpless, as if awaiting instructions. Böhm felt he was agitated by the traffic chaos, rather than his dead colleague.

Kronberg handed him an identification. ‘Wengler, Siegbert,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Major. Born 1880 in Danzig.’

Böhm took the identification and nodded. ‘Anything else?’

‘Still waiting for reinforcements.’

‘That’ll make things even cosier.’ He climbed over Dr Karthaus, who was leaning over the corpse, and approached the traffic officer.

‘Was it you who found the corpse?’ The man nodded. Operating the lights and answering questions was evidently too much. ‘Did you know the dead man?’ Böhm continued. A shrug. ‘Damn it, man, make your report,’ the DCI barked without warning. ‘Name and rank.’

The cop stood to attention, clicked his heels in fright. ‘Eckert. Constable Eckert, Inspector, Sir.’

‘Detective Chief Inspector.’

‘Detective Chief Inspector. Yes, Sir.’

‘There we go!’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Are you Herr Wengler’s relief?’

‘Beg to report: no, Sir.’

‘Do I have to drag it out of you?’

‘Yes, Sir. I mean: no, Detective Chief Inspector, Sir!’ The cop halted the traffic on Leipziger Strasse and switched the lights on Stresemannstrasse to green. Beads of sweat had formed on his brow. He turned to face Böhm once more. ‘Beg to report: I am not the relief, the shift change was over two hours ago. It should be Constable Scholz on duty, but instead I find Sergeant Major Wengler. Dead.’

‘So you did know the dead man?’

‘Not personally, Sir. I knew his name and rank. Bit of a lone wolf.’

‘Where is Scholz?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know, Sir. Headquarters reported issues at Potsdamer Platz and I was sent to investigate. That’s when I found Sergeant Major Wengler.’

‘And then?’

‘I submitted my report to headquarters, Sir. Then I set things in order.’

‘I hope you didn’t touch anything!’

‘Beg to report, no, Sir. I mean: order on the roads. I didn’t touch anything. Apart from the switch for the traffic light signal…’

‘Well, at least you’re wearing gloves.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

The hatch opened and a prehistoric-looking camera appeared, followed by the head of Andreas Lange. The assistant detective had great difficulty in fitting the camera and tripod stand through the gap.

‘Get someone to take over here,’ Böhm said to the cop. ‘I need to talk to you. Downstairs in the murder wagon.’

‘With respect, Sir, you’ll have to request relief for me.’

‘Can’t you call someone yourself?’

‘Beg to report: I am not permitted to leave my post to make telephone calls.’

‘You don’t have to.’ Böhm gestured towards the telephone attached to the control panel. ‘What do you think that is, an iron?’

‘It’s a telephone, Sir!’

‘Then why don’t you use it, Constable?’ Böhm was about to lose his temper.

‘I had to telephone from Café Josty just now, Sir.’ Constable Eckert pointed at the device. ‘That thing’s as dead as Sergeant Major Wengler.’

It took less than ten minutes for the relief to arrive, and now five officers stood at the intersection regulating traffic the old-fashioned way – by using their arms. Böhm didn’t want anyone touching the controls until further notice.

The murder wagon’s soft leather bench had been designed for heavyweights like Ernst Gennat. Böhm felt decidedly more at ease than in the cramped confines of the traffic tower. Constable Eckert sat opposite and explained what had happened again for the record. Next to Böhm, Christel Temme eagerly noted each word, including at least twenty ‘beg to reports’ and even more ‘Yes, Sirs!’

According to Eckert, it was around half past three when someone noticed that the traffic lights for Stresemannstrasse and Friedrich-Ebert-Strasse had been flashing a continuous red. Traffic Police Headquarters in Magazinstrasse had been informed, and from there they had tried to make contact with the traffic tower. By that stage, however, the line was already dead. Forensics had since confirmed that someone had severed the connection. Headquarters had sent a traffic officer, already on duty in the vicinity, to check that everything was in order – the same Constable Eckert who now sat opposite from Böhm, shako wedged under his arm.

‘I climbed back down to call it in, Sir. After that I began dispersing the traffic on Stresemannstrasse.’

Böhm nodded. ‘Did you mention that your colleague Scholz had failed to appear for duty.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Did headquarters offer an explanation? Is Scholz sick?’

Eckert shook his head. ‘No, Sir. Constable Scholz’s shift began at two. He’s usually very reliable.’

Böhm scratched his chin. ‘Albeit he failed to show today…’

‘Or came and went.’

‘You’re saying that Constable Scholz killed his fellow officer?’

‘Absolutely not!’ Eckert shrugged. ‘Perhaps he made a run for it when he saw the body. Lost his nerve.’ The constable paused. ‘That said…’

‘What do you mean “that said”?’

‘The shift change was at two… but it wasn’t until an hour and a half later that anyone noticed the traffic tower was unmanned. That’s strange.’

‘Strange, indeed.’ Böhm scratched his chin. ‘What happens if the relief doesn’t show? You hold position?’

‘Yes, Sir. Of course.’

‘So it could be that Wengler continued directing traffic after his shift was over.’

‘Beg to report: he’d have contacted headquarters to request relief.’

‘Not if the telephone line was down.’ Böhm looked at Eckert. ‘What would you have done if you were on duty and the relief failed to show? Imagine the line is dead, forget about why.’

The constable hunched his shoulders. ‘The same as just now. I’d have gone across to Josty, or found a telephone booth and informed headquarters from there. Then held position.’

Böhm nodded. ‘Good. That’s all for now. You can go, Constable, but please continue to place yourself at our disposal.’

Eckert appeared relieved. He put on his shako, saluted, and withdrew at remarkable speed.

Böhm stepped out to stretch his legs. Any number of people stood outside Josty gawping across the intersection at the murder wagon, which enjoyed a certain notoriety in the city. Besides which, it was rare to see cars parked at the foot of the traffic tower. The grass-covered island in the middle of the intersection was the one place you were absolutely forbidden to stop. The rubberneckers were focused on the tails of a white coat flapping in the breeze, Dr Karthaus descending the ladder.

‘Well, Doctor?’ Böhm said, as the pathologist arrived. ‘How’s it looking up there?’

‘Do you want the good news or the bad?’

‘Depends what you mean by “good news”.’

Karthaus buttoned his coat. ‘There’s no doubt what happened up there was murder. More than that, we know the killer’s modus operandi.’

‘And the bad news?’

‘The bad news, Detective Chief Inspector, is that the MO fits with a case that remains unsolved.’ He gestured towards the traffic tower. ‘The corpse shows signs of drowning.’

Böhm reclaimed his seat on the murder wagon’s leather bench. ‘And prior to drowning, he was injected…’

‘Correct,’ Karthaus said. ‘Which is why I’m going to ask the lab to look for tubocurarine during the blood analysis. That way, we’ll have the results sooner.’

51

When Charly arrived at the Castle, Böhm and his men were still not back. She asked what was happening in Homicide, but the duty officer wasn’t forthcoming. Michael Steinke was a fellow trainee, a snot-nosed upstart who had come to the Castle from the legal faculty and thought he was a cut above. He seemed to have difficulty passing information to a female colleague. Or perhaps he really didn’t know anything. Neither reflected well on him.

‘Corpse in the traffic tower,’ he had said when asked what was going on at Potsdamer Platz. ‘I saw to it that Böhm and a few others headed out.’

The idiot just had to go playing the big cheese. As if Böhm would let himself be ordered around by a cadet! Did the man have any idea he was speaking to someone with more than three years’ service in Homicide? With a woman, who, while engaged as a stenographer, had contributed to the resolution of no fewer than seven murder investigations?

The telephone rang and Steinke fielded the call with an expression of immense self-importance. He didn’t deign to look at her again.

So, there was a dead man in the traffic tower. She had worked that much out when she saw Böhm emerge from the murder wagon. Even so, Steinke wasn’t about to reveal anything else. He made a show of turning away, speaking so quietly into the device it was as if he were Secret Service, and Charly a kind of Mata Hari.

She looked for a free typewriter. Might as well use the time to start her report on the Haus Vaterland operation. She didn’t admit that she wanted it over as soon as possible, nor did she tell the full story of her encounter with Unger in the vegetable store. That was nobody’s business but her own, although she could hardly wait to put that bastard behind bars, him and his accomplice! Let the pair rot in jail.

Suddenly she felt horrified at herself, at her thirst for revenge. A policewoman should know better than to let her feelings get in the way. She had almost finished the report when the door opened, and Böhm burst in, grumpy as ever. When he recognised his former stenographer his face brightened momentarily. ‘Charly, what are you doing here?’

‘Evening, Sir. I thought I’d stop by after seeing the murder wagon underneath the traffic tower.’

She had toyed with the idea of going over when she saw Böhm emerge from the black Maybach, but decided to head to Moabit first, to cancel her trip with Greta and take a shower. She felt dirty everywhere Unger had touched her. After changing into fresh clothes, she drove to Alex and parked Gereon’s Buick in the shadow of the railway arches, out of sight of Castle workers entering the building.

Böhm told her what had happened, and Steinke, who was still on the telephone, looked on with envy as the detective chief inspector took a female cadet into his confidence.

‘You’re sure it’s our man?’ she asked.

‘The sequence of events is identical. Paralysis followed by drowning.’

‘Has that been confirmed by Pathology?’

‘As good as. The perpetrator even left a red cloth at the scene.’

‘But a police officer! What does he have to do with the other victims?’

‘I don’t know, maybe he saw something a week ago. When Lamkau died in Haus Vaterland. I’ve already requested the duty rotas from the Traffic Police. Perhaps we’ll get a match.’

She wasn’t satisfied with this response – and there was something else that didn’t quite fit. ‘The rhythm’s out,’ she said, and Böhm furrowed his brow.

‘Pardon me?’

‘The rhythm. Until now our killer has struck at intervals of approximately six weeks, but this time only a week has passed.’

‘That suggests it could have been a witness.’ Böhm rubbed his chin. ‘Or a copycat killer. The papers reported everything, even the part about the red cloth.’

She shook her head. Some instinct told her Böhm was mistaken. ‘I don’t think we’re dealing with a typical serial killer here, someone with a psychological disorder.’

‘You can say “madman”, you know.’

‘That’s just it. I don’t think our killer is mad. This is someone who plans his murders carefully. So carefully, in fact, that on one occasion we even ruled murder out.’

‘So?’

‘The first three victims all lived in different cities, which is why he waited six weeks between each one. But now… Haus Vaterland is just a stone’s throw away from Potsdamer Platz and the traffic tower. Lamkau and the dead police officer lived in the same city, meaning he needed less time to prepare.’

‘If Sergeant Wengler fits the pattern, then he must have something to do with the other victims. The three of them are linked by this moonshining scandal.’ Böhm shook his head. ‘Perhaps if Herr Rath would make contact, we’d know more, but it seems he’s having quite the time of it in East Prussia.’

‘Inspector Rath?’ Steinke had thrown the name out there. Charly and Böhm both looked at him. The cadet seemed agitated. ‘Excuse me, Sir, but an Inspector Rath did telephone for you this morning…’

‘And…?’

‘I took down a memo. It’s in your mail tray.’

‘A memo…’ Böhm was beside himself.

‘Yes, Sir!’ Steinke rushed to Böhm’s desk and fished a note from one of the filing trays. ‘Here it is.’

Charly squinted at the note in Böhm’s hands.

DI Rath Telephone call, 11.07 Hotel Salzburger Hof, Treuburg, East Prussia, she read. Further developments in moonshining scandal. 1924: Siegbert Wengler, Sergeant Major in Berlin! DI Rath suggests surveillance operation; possible next victim should suspicion harden against Radlewksi.

Signed Cadet Steinke, Homicide

Böhm placed the note to one side. He breathed heavily, fixing the cadet with his gaze, then exploded. ‘This is a disgrace!’ Steinke ducked as if expecting a beating. ‘When did the call come in, goddamn it?’

‘I noted it at the top of the page.’ Steinke gestured towards the memo. ‘Around eleven.’

‘You thought I shouldn’t see it until tomorrow morning?’ Böhm spoke quietly, but sounded no less threatening than before; quite the opposite, in fact.

‘I thought…’ Steinke broke off. He was starting to realise just how badly he had dropped the ball.

‘Tomorrow morning,’ Böhm continued, ‘is when I would have been back on duty. Were it not for the fatality.’

‘Which is precisely why I didn’t want to disturb you, Sir,’ Steinke stammered, falling silent when he saw Böhm’s face.

‘A fatality that might have been prevented had you relayed the message to me on time.’

‘But, Sir, I thought that since you were back on duty tomorrow…’

‘If that’s the case, then perhaps it’s best you don’t think at all!’ Böhm was shouting again.

The man cut a pitiful figure, but Charly could understand why Böhm had been so harsh. The DCI took the words out of her mouth: ‘If you had managed to relay the message to me, or any one of my team, there is every chance that Sergeant Wengler might still be alive. We might have been able to set a trap for his killer.’

Steinke slumped to his chair and gazed at the floor, as if hoping it would swallow him up. ‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ he said, almost inaudible.

The situation was becoming unbearable. Despite having treated her as though she didn’t exist, Charly felt an urge to comfort the man. Goddamn maternal instinct, she thought, there’s no way the bastard would be helping you in the same situation. She was glad when the door opened and Andreas Lange entered the embarrassed silence, gazing in confusion from one person to the next.

‘What are you doing here,’ Böhm growled. ‘Finished questioning witnesses already?’

‘Not yet, Sir. We have around two dozen uniform cops still out searching. We’ve had most success in Café Josty. The ringside seats, if you like.’

‘Go on.’

‘I think we can more or less reconstruct the sequence of events. It appears that the shift change occurred as normal, at around two o’clock…’

‘How do you know that?’

Lange held a black notebook aloft. ‘The traffic tower duty log,’ he said. ‘One of Sergeant Major Wengler’s final acts was to enter and sign the shift change at seven minutes past two. Constable Scholz’s signature is missing, despite his name being given under relieving officer. In Sergeant Major Wengler’s handwriting.’

‘Which means,’ Böhm said, ‘that Wengler wrote the name when he saw the relief approaching.’

‘But Scholz never signed,’ Charly said. ‘The question is, why?’

Lange nodded. ‘We have a witness in Josty who is certain a uniform cop entered the traffic tower at around two o’clock.’

‘At two?’ Böhm looked at his wristwatch. ‘And the man’s still there now, at nearly seven?’

‘We questioned him around half past five. He’s a writer or something. People like that spend half their lives in cafés. Anyway, the man was clearly watching closely.’

Böhm was sceptical. ‘He was, was he? Then tell us what he saw.’

‘He saw a traffic cop crossing the intersection shortly after two and climbing the ladder. Everything as normal, he says. Only he didn’t see anyone come down. At least not at two, in fact not until…’ Lange referred to his notebook. ‘…around twenty past three. A few minutes before the chorus of horns began on Stresemannstrasse.’

Böhm was still sceptical. ‘Does your witness have nothing better to do than spend the day staring at the traffic tower?’

‘He watches, and he writes, is what he told me. It looks like he watches very closely. According to his statement, the man who left the tower at twenty past three was the same man who entered at two.’

‘You’re saying this man wasn’t Constable Scholz?’

‘We’ll see. My witness is currently waiting on the sketch artist in Interview Room A.’

‘Good.’ Böhm nodded. ‘Let’s get a warrant out for this Scholz all the same. Something here doesn’t add up.’

‘You’re right there.’ Lange nodded. ‘There’s something else. Dr Karthaus is now assuming that Sergeant Major Wengler didn’t die until at least three…’

‘So late!’ Böhm was disbelieving. ‘That can’t be right.’

‘It could be,’ Charly said. The three men looked at her. ‘But it would mean that all the while Wengler was dying, his killer was up there directing traffic.’

52

The night shift was the worst. The urinals and toilet bowls looked as if every passenger at Potsdamer Bahnhof had availed of them – with varying degrees of accuracy – before boarding. It was as if the whole world had conspired against him, knowing it was his task to get this disgusting piss-soaked room clean again. He hated it, hated it. This was no job for a man, but what could he do? At times like these you were lucky to have work at all.

He wasn’t quite finished with the washroom, but wanted to take advantage of the urinals being free. He hated mopping while men peed at the wall, throwing him contemptuous glances if they deigned to look at all. He was about to get started again with his scrubber and bucket when a groan from a cubicle stopped him. No one had entered in the ten minutes or so since he’d begun.

There was another groan. A couple of queers? The thought revolted him. Maybe he should call the police and have Vice lock the dirty bastards up.

Now there was a crash. He crouched; a man was kneeling on the floor. It looked as if he were alone, which was something, at least.

‘Hello?’ he said tentatively. ‘Can I help?’ There was another groan. The man in the cubicle tried to stand up, but his legs gave way underneath him. ‘Hello? What’s the matter? Are you unwell?’ He gave the door a shake. Bolted, of course. ‘Please open up! Otherwise I can’t help you!’ The man could be having a heart attack – but how could he help if he couldn’t open the door?

The man tried to free the bolt but lacked the strength even for that. There was a helpless jerking sound; the slide must have snagged. Suddenly there was a loud scrape and the door swung open. The man collapsed forward, slamming against the floor tiles. He was clad in underwear and socks.

‘What’s wrong with you? Should I call the police?’

‘Bollisse,’ the man slurred. ‘I bollisse!’

‘What happened? Are you hurt?’

The man managed to prop himself up a little. He seemed pretty dazed, but it wasn’t drunkenness. It was almost as if something were paralysing his arm and leg muscles, perhaps even his tongue. He shook his head. ‘Not buurtt.’ With that, his arms gave way once more.

There was something on the floor of the cubicle, next to the toilet bowl. He went over and picked it up gingerly. A Berlin Police identification with a photo of the unconscious man, though here he smiled and wore a shako. Erwin Scholz, it said under the smile, Police Constable. Diagonally above was a stamp bearing the Prussian eagle.

53

In bygone times they’d have called it Kaiserwetter. The sky was almost indecently blue, the breeze gentle, and the air afizz with the excitement of special days. The town was in festive mood. Flags, pennants and garlands quivered on the fronts around the marketplace, the pavement glistened as after a fresh shower, and the flagpoles fluttered black, white and red, billowing like washing on the line.

Rath had been awakened by the brass band and rose late, having failed to set his alarm. He stood in his dressing gown, gazing out on Germany’s largest marketplace. The Treuburgers in their holiday finery lined the square, standing to attention as they listened to the patriotic songs and Prussian marches. A group of youths in brown shirts stood especially straight in their freshly ironed uniforms, resolved to show themselves at their best. Their swastika brassards gleamed as if fresh from the line.

Rath stubbed out his cigarette and went into the bathroom. He felt OK, despite having had far too much to drink last night while attempting to contact Charly. Eschewing the claustrophobic atmosphere of the Salzburger Hof, he had taken dinner in the Kronprinzen, where his fellow patrons, among them the Berlin tourist family, had watched in bafflement as time and again he interrupted his dinner to make a telephone call.

After dessert, he had asked for a Turkish coffee and called Carmerstrasse at one or two cigarette intervals, growing more nervous with each failed attempt. Finishing his coffee, he ordered a cognac. Then a second, and a third. At some point he overcame his reservations and telephoned Spenerstrasse, by then drunk enough to contemplate an exchange with Greta. Temporarily setting aside his dislike he inquired politely as to Charly’s whereabouts.

Greta’s response was curt. ‘On duty,’ she said. ‘No idea when she’ll be back.’

He mumbled his thank yous and hung up.

No idea when she’ll be back.

Did that mean Charly was still living at Spenerstrasse? To think, he had given her his keys in the hope that she might move in and actually be living with him when he returned from East Prussia. Well, think again.

He ordered another cognac and spent the rest of the evening wallowing in self-pity until, finally, he felt numb enough to head back to his hotel.

There had been no need of an aspirin this morning. A cold shower sufficed. He descended the stairs, placed his key on the shiny counter of the deserted reception and stepped into the sunshine.

The musicians were decidedly better at marching than playing. Reaching Bergstrasse, where Rath now stood with a crowd of onlookers, they wheeled left onto Goldaper Strasse and made their way towards the festival site. The crowd trailed after them like children following the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

He let himself be carried forward, calling on Master Shoemaker Kowalski at the midway point, but to no avail. By the time he reached the park, the musicians had their positions onstage and were playing their final march. Upon finishing they sat down, enjoying the applause of the crowd and turning their attentions to the glasses of beer that had been laid out for them in advance. In the open expanse in front of the war memorial, countless rows of beer tables led to the marquee from which waiters and waitresses emerged carrying fully laden trays.

Spying Kowalski, he fought his way through the masses to join his table. Kowalski made room and introduced the man on his right as ‘Uncle Fritz’. Friedrich Kowalski, the cobbler, wasn’t nearly as old as Rath had imagined, in his early forties perhaps. Straightaway he stood Rath a beer. Rath offered cigarettes in return.

Moments later, the beer arrived and the band resumed its playing at a volume that precluded normal conversation. Looking around, Rath recognised the blue uniform of Chief Constable Grigat in the front row. Alongside him were two men who were unmistakably parish priests, Catholic and Protestant seated side by side. The sight of the clerical collar and cassock reassured him; anti-Catholic sentiment couldn’t be so rife here after all. At the same table were the district administrator and mayor. Evidently the town’s dignitaries were gathered, from the grammar school rector to the hospital chief doctor and newspaper editor. Two tables further along was the tourist family from the Kronprinzen, the Berliners with the spoiled children. The mother threw Rath a disapproving glance. His fondness for cognac seemed to have left a lasting impression.

At last the band took a break. He was about to turn to Kowalski when he heard a high-pitched voice from behind. ‘Inspector?’ It was Hella, the waitress from the Salzburger Hof. ‘Please excuse the interruption,’ she said, dropping a curtsey. ‘But I didn’t see you this morning at the hotel, and there was a telephone call for you. From Berlin.’

‘From Berlin? Was it a lady?’

She shook her head. ‘A Detective Chief Inspector Blum? He requested that you call back.’ The music started up again, obliging her to shout.

‘Was it Detective Chief Inspector Böhm? When did he call?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘When?’

She leaned over and spoke loudly in his ear. ‘Yesterday evening. I put a note in your pigeonhole… but then I didn’t see you. Anyway, I thought I’d tell you now. Perhaps it’s important…’

‘Thank you, Hella,’ he said. She stood where she was until he pressed a one-mark coin into her hand. She curtseyed again, flashing him a smile as she returned to her family’s table. He gazed after her. The way she lifted her skirt as she sat down…

So Böhm had called. Well, he’d just have to wait. He focused on his beer; the local brew wasn’t so bad. When the band took another break he leaned over to Kowalski. ‘How did you get on with that list of names?’ he asked.

‘I had my hands full with the reading you gave me.’

‘And?’

‘Zip. Nothing in the paper that might’ve grabbed Radlewski’s attention, and the books you gave me are all about North American Indians. The curare poison comes from South America.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning there are no recipes for poison.’

‘Perhaps the librarian overlooked something.’

‘District library’s closed today.’ Kowalski gestured towards a table in the shadow of the marquee. Maria Cofalka, lady of letters, sat in the company of various men and women, obviously teachers, among whom Rath spotted Karl Rammoser. Rammoser looked over and raised his glass. It seemed the band were taking a longer break; at any rate the musicians’ drinks were being replenished.

‘What about the list?’

‘Give me a few hours.’ Kowalski gazed across the site and lowered his voice. ‘They’re all here, and the tipsier they get, the more likely they are to share.’

‘Then get going. I need to send the names by lunchtime. Detective Chief Inspector Böhm’s requested them already.’

Kowalski nodded and looked towards the front as the district administrator, Wachsmann, buttoned his jacket and climbed the steps to the war memorial to open the official ceremony commemorating the 1920 plebiscite. The whispering at the tables died when the microphone issued its first sound. Wachsmann contented himself with a simple greeting; the majority of his address consisted in listing the names of the local dignitaries present. Rath was pleased that Dr Wachsmann also bid them welcome on behalf of the mayor; there would be no need to submit to this pantomime a second time.

‘I would like, in particular,’ Wachsmann said, having now worked his way through his list, ‘to welcome those here from the west. The Corridor may continue to rupture our Fatherland, but, as your presence demonstrates, we remain very much part of the German Reich, to which we professed our loyalty exactly twelve years ago. Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome those families from Berlin and Pomerania who have holidayed in Masuria for years, unstinting in their solidarity with our beautiful region. I extend an equally warm welcome to all those celebrating the plebiscite anniversary with us today for the first time. May you return, next year, and in ten, in twenty, in fifty years!’ His gaze passed among the rows like an itinerant preacher hailing the newly baptised. ‘Now, please join me in welcoming to the stage a man who, twelve years ago, fought unswervingly to repel the Polish assault on our hometown! Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Gustav Wengler!’

From the far reaches of the memorial ground Director Wengler approached at a measured pace, dressed in formal dark suit and top hat. The effect was more dramatic than rising from a table at the front. Rath couldn’t help but grin at the thought of him waiting behind a tree, speech tucked under one arm. Despite the obvious artificiality, the people hailed the owner of the Luisenhöhe estate like a tribune. Rath dutifully joined the applause, but felt uneasy. He didn’t know what to make of Wachsmann’s gushing national pathos, which also featured heavily in Wengler’s speech, the opening lines of which were peppered with terms such as Heimat, Vaterland and Treue. Homeland, Fatherland, Devotion.

The director was the better speaker, which surprised Rath, who had assumed that oratory was the most important weapon in a politician’s armoury. Perhaps Wengler was the better politician too. It seemed as if the entrepreneur were the secret ruler of this town – or perhaps there was no secret about it.

‘We all know what happened twelve years ago,’ Wengler announced. ‘To many of you today it will seem only natural that Masuria should have remained German. In fact, it was anything but. We had to fight. In trying to wrest our homeland away, the Poles did everything they could to sow hatred and discord among us…’

Rath remembered Rammoser’s words: that it had been Wengler and his thugs sowing the hatred and discord. How many of their number would be dressed in brown today? The Treuburg SA had commandeered an entire table for itself, and, in point of fact, its members listened more attentively to Wengler than the rest. As far as Rath could see, the estate owner wore no swastika, not even the little lapel badge Hitler’s party colleagues were so fond of displaying. Perhaps the man didn’t belong to the party, and simply used it for his own ends. Something like Johann Marlow, who presided over the Berolina Ringverein without ever having been a member. In Rath’s eyes the SA were little more than a gang of criminals, at least in Berlin. Here in Treuburg things were different.

‘Their gamble didn’t pay off,’ Wengler continued. ‘We Treuburgers resisted their cunning and trickery and professed our unswerving devotion to the Reich. We did not yield! Even when Polish propaganda and its lies claimed a human life.’ He made a brief, but effective pause. ‘Most of you know what I am talking about. Who I am talking about. A woman from our midst; a woman who gave her life so that she might profess her allegiance to Prussia and Germany. On the day our fate was sealed, the fate of our town and our district, the fate of the whole of Masuria, so too… was her fate sealed.’ He broke off as if overcome by the memory.

Rath looked around at people gazing in silence towards the front, a few women dabbing their eyes with handkerchiefs. The teachers wore looks of reverence, even Rammoser, though the lines around his mouth suggested he didn’t agree with everything Wengler had said. The librarian’s expression was easier to interpret. Maria Cofalka regarded Gustav Wengler with distaste, if not outright revulsion. Rath could understand. He, too, was repelled by the theatricality of Wengler’s act. He looked at the man’s face, unsure if his feelings were genuine, or simply a means of adding emotional authenticity to his yearly address.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Wengler said now. ‘Please be upstanding so that we may commemorate Anna von Mathée’s death with a minute’s silence.’

Chairs scraped, isolated coughs and whispers died, and an almost religious stillness descended. The only sound was the wind rustling in the trees. Rath gazed into serious faces. Anna von Mathée’s death still touched people twelve years after the event.

‘I think that most of you know Anna’s story,’ Wengler continued. ‘Most of you are aware of how she was killed; that it happened on the day of the plebiscite, at the hands of one of those alien elements that sought to rob us of our homeland. Most of you know that Anna was my fiancée. Her death gives me every reason to hate her killer, but today I do not wish to speak of hatred, only love. Nor do I wish to speak of the past, only the future.’

The love Wengler proclaimed was love for the Fatherland, and the future he conjured was music to the ears of the brownshirts alone. Despite his statement to the contrary, the chief of the Homeland Service did not let the past lie. He spoke instead of ‘wounds that refused to heal’, referring to the Corridor as ‘that wedge which has been driven between Prussian body and soul’. Again, the pause was timed to perfection. ‘They have separated us from the Fatherland, but they will never tear our German hearts from our breasts! One day we will be bound with the Reich once more, and the humiliation of Versailles erased.’

Rath was familiar with this rhetoric. When a speaker pulled out the stops in this way, he could count on the approval of his public, irrespective of politics or class. Even so, he had never heard anything like the primal jubilation that erupted from the Treuburgers when Wengler finished. Gradually he began to understand why the Nazis, who played on people’s feelings in a similar way, had met with such a positive response here, despite the Masurians’ Polish roots mitigating against their place in the Nazi world view.

The open-air concert began, so loud it was impossible to hear yourself think. Rath drained his beer and left Kowalski, tapping on his wristwatch as he went. ‘I need those names for one o’clock.’

Strolling across the festival site, he realised he wasn’t the only one opting to give the musical society’s concert a miss. Mothers waited patiently with their offspring by the merry-go-round, while, a few stands along, a group of lads clouted the high striker to impress the lasses. The puck was sent catapulting towards the bell, and the strong man received a kiss from his sweetheart as a reward. Rath made out Hella’s blonde pigtails and the brown uniform of the SA. Her boyfriend wasn’t the only brownshirt here. The younger members mostly stood before the high striker or shooting gallery, none of them older than twenty. Those at the gallery were likewise surrounded by village beauties. Uniforms were still important in Germany, Rath mused, if only to impress the fair sex. It was the same at the marksmen’s festivals in the Rhineland, youthful sharpshooters prancing in their uniforms to dazzle the girls. Only, the lads here didn’t belong to any gun club, but a political goon squad that until recently had been banned.

Rath thought of the Communist posters. Glued under the cover of darkness, here were the boys who’d torn them down.

The scent of roasted almonds and Lebkuchen drove him towards more rustic pleasures, and he ordered a kielbasa at the stand. Polish sausages were still in demand. He bit inside. Not bad.

‘Bon appétit, Inspector.’ Behind him stood Karl Rammoser.

‘Would you like one too?’ Rath asked. ‘It’s on me.’

‘No, thank you. I already have plans.’

‘Perhaps I can repay your hospitality another time.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’m surprised to see the SA out in uniform.’

‘Klaus Fabeck and his boys? I’d rather they celebrated in uniform than brawled with Communists in plain clothes.’

‘Wouldn’t be much of a fight. There are only two Communists here.’

Rammoser changed topics. ‘Maria mentioned you stopped by the district library?’

‘That’s right. Because of Radlewski.’

‘You still suspect poor Artur?’

‘Not if he could assure me, in person, that he hasn’t set foot outside East Prussia these last few months.’

‘Maria’s worried about Artur; she thinks you have the wrong man. No one knows him better around here.’

‘I can believe that. She was in love with him, wasn’t she?’

‘I’m too young to know the full story. Apparently, she was smitten at school.’

‘Perhaps she still is.’

‘Perhaps.’ Rammoser glanced at the table of dignitaries where Gustav Wengler now took centre stage; planets orbiting his sun. ‘How did you like the speech?’

‘Impressive.’ Rath couldn’t think of a more diplomatic response.

‘Many think Wengler should go into politics.’

‘If politics is about making yourself popular by telling people what they want to hear, there’s no doubt he’d be a success.’

‘The way it looks, he sets greater store by his distillery than his political career.’

‘At least that way he can’t do any damage.’

‘Folks here like what he says.’

‘So much the worse. Shouldn’t you be trying to make peace with Poland? They’re your neighbours.’

‘You’re preaching to the converted but, given Wengler’s story, his hatred is understandable.’

‘Maybe. I just find it pretty tasteless, the way he…’

‘Exploits his personal history for effect?’

‘Something like that,’ Rath agreed. ‘He infects the whole town with his hatred. I think it’s dangerous. It isn’t just the acclaim. It’s the people who acclaim him.’

‘You have to understand they’re afraid of being forgotten, over in the Reich.’

‘People rail against the Corridor in the Reich too. Only in Berlin, the Nazis aren’t part of the village community.’

‘Well, maybe that’s because Berlin’s no village.’

54

Constable Erwin Scholz lay on his sickbed, wan-faced, skin colour scarcely distinguishable from his bed linen, but he didn’t seem to have sustained lasting damage. That was something, at least.

Next step was to discover what had put the poor man out of commission, even if Gräf was certain the blood analysis would point to curare, or some other form of Indian poison. In the meantime he and Lange had become experts in all things South American, though they still hadn’t traced the source of the poison that had killed Lamkau and his fellow East Prussians. This despite the industrious Lange borrowing various academic texts to aid them in their inquiry. Perhaps the mysterious killer had cooked up the poison himself, a would-be Indian prowling noiselessly through Berlin murdering its citizens: a gruesome image.

Erwin Scholz knew nothing about that, but then he knew just as little about what had befallen him at Potsdamer Bahnhof, where a member of cleaning staff had found him slouched in the gentlemen’s toilets in the middle of the night.

‘His body was heavily sedated for hours, and his circulation still hasn’t returned to normal,’ the doctor had said. ‘You need to be patient with him.’

Sadly, patience was the one thing they couldn’t afford. The crazy Indian had struck again, and this time the victim was one of their own. As a result, Gennat had chosen to strengthen the Vaterland team’s reserves. Almost all homicide detectives were now at Böhm’s disposal with the exception of the Phantom troop, which had been left untouched. For whatever reason, Buddha seemed to dote on Dettmann.

Böhm wanted to recall Rath from East Prussia, but so far his efforts to reach him had proved in vain. Gräf could imagine why. Gereon had never been especially good at keeping Böhm in the loop. In fact, he was a past master at avoiding him, mostly because he couldn’t stand the man, but sometimes because he had a lead he didn’t want to share.

Well, yesterday he had shared – and, goddamn it, he had been right. Already the Berlin press had wind of it. A dead man in the middle of Potsdamer Platz couldn’t be kept secret. Too many people had witnessed the gridlock, and the murder wagon parked at the foot of the traffic tower.

The pale constable looked wretched, but this was no time for sympathy. Gräf took out his notepad, ready to begin. ‘How well did you know Sergeant Major Wengler?’

There was a shrug from the bed. ‘He was a colleague. Taught me how to use the controls.’

‘Is there much teaching involved?’

‘Not really. But you know how it is… the older generation aren’t always so good with technology. Knowing how to operate all the buttons and switches was a source of pride.’

‘Were you ever at Wengler’s home?’

‘No.’

‘Do you know where he lives?’

‘In Schöneberg, I think.’

‘He moved. A few weeks ago.’

‘Moved? Where?’

‘I was hoping he might have said something to you.’

Yesterday evening, Gräf had called at Wengler’s registered home address in Feurigstrasse with a team of forensic technicians. The landlady peered suspiciously through the crack in the door. No wonder. Gone nine, and here were five men whose rumpled suits and tired, sullen faces did not inspire confidence. They looked as if they’d spent most of the afternoon crawling on the floor, which, of course, they had.

‘Police? What do you want from me?’

‘From you, nothing. We’re here for one of your tenants. Siegbert Wengler. We need to take a look at his flat.’

‘You have the wrong address. He doesn’t live here any more.’

Siegbert Wengler had moved four weeks before, though no one knew where, neither the landlady, with whom he had lived for almost eight years, nor Wengler’s Traffic Police colleagues. He had no close friends on the force, at least none that Gräf had spoken to, including Constable Scholz.

‘Is it possible he felt threatened?’ Gräf asked. ‘Did he ever hint at something like that? I mean, was there a reason he lived such a secluded life?’

‘I’m sorry, Sir, but Sergeant Major Wengler wasn’t much of a talker. Do you have any idea who might’ve killed him?’

‘The way it looks, the same man who stole your uniform.’ The constable’s face grew paler still. Gräf showed him a sketch commissioned by Lange following a witness statement. It had come out pretty generic; the most eye-catching thing was the shako. ‘Could it have been this man? Perhaps you noticed him at the station beforehand? Someone behaving suspiciously?’

Constable Scholz gave the sketch a good look before shaking his head. ‘I don’t recognise the face.’

‘Pity. We could’ve been onto something there.’

Scholz gestured towards the shako. ‘The uniform he’s wearing is mine, I assume? I’d like to help, but I didn’t see the man. I felt him grip me from behind, there was a sting in my neck, and then everything went black.’

‘But you’re certain it was a man…’

‘Of course… You think a woman would be capable of overpowering me?’ Gräf said nothing. ‘In the men’s toilets, I’d have noticed a woman straightaway.’

‘Do you have any explanation as to why no one realised you’d been attacked?’

‘There was no one else around.’

‘In the station toilets?’

‘It’s where I always go before my shift starts. There are no washing facilities in the traffic tower, no toilet either. You have to plan ahead. No way you can work up there with a weak bladder.’

‘Plan ahead, understood.’ Gräf made a note. ‘And you always use the same washroom…’

Scholz nodded. ‘I take the Wannsee line to work. Seems only natural.’

‘Just so there are no misunderstandings. You use the same washroom facilities at Potsdamer Bahnhof every day?’

‘Yes, for God’s sake. Why’s it so important?’

‘We’ll see,’ Gräf said. He didn’t want to put the man under any more strain, but it looked as if this stranger had spent days, perhaps even weeks, waiting for the opportunity to steal his uniform and gain access to the traffic tower.

55

Goddamn it! Did he have to take care of everything himself? He hung up, ruing the fact that the cabins were equipped with swing doors, but at least now he knew why he hadn’t reached Charly yesterday evening, and why Böhm had wanted to speak with him.

Kowalski waited outside the post office. ‘What news from Berlin?’ he asked, pushing himself up from the wing of the car. ‘Are they happy?’

‘Get in.’ Kowalski obeyed without further comment. Rath sat in the passenger seat. At least here he could slam the door.

Kowalski had provided the names at one on the dot, five more distillery workers who, according to the Treuburg gossip mill, were implicated in the moonshining scandal. Two had moved, but three were still employed by the distillery, among them Dietrich Assmann, the operations manager, currently on business in Berlin.

‘Good work on your list, Kowalski.’ Böhm had noted each name meticulously: Berlin didn’t want any more mistakes. No doubt Warrants were already working flat out.

Rath stared out the window as Kowalski rolled the engine. The Communists had been at it again. Down with Fascism! Join the Communist struggle! Choose List 3! They must have put them up in broad daylight this time; the slogans were still damp from the paste. Today the marketplace was more or less deserted, save for the pile of wood in its centre. It looked as if the townsfolk were still searching for a heretic to burn.

‘If Berlin is happy, why are you in such a bad mood?’

‘Kowalski,’ Rath said. ‘Do you know what a death knock is?’

The assistant detective blanched.

Gustav Wengler, on the other hand, remained composed. More composed, at least, than Rath had dared hope. It was almost as if he had anticipated the news. They had collected him from his employees’ table inside the marquee, where celebrations were in full swing. Only once they were at some remove from the hullabaloo did Rath come out with the news. He conveyed the message as per Gennat’s training: Don’t blurt it out, but don’t wait too long either.

‘Sad news,’ he began. ‘Your brother in Berlin…’ Gustav Wengler reached for the cigarette case in his pocket and fumbled out a cigarette. He had understood. ‘I’m sorry, Herr Wengler, but your brother is dead. He was killed on duty.’

Wengler placed the cigarette between his lips and checked his pockets for a light or matches, finding neither. Rath gave him a light, lit an Overstolz himself, and explained when and where Sergeant Major Siegbert Wengler had died.

Gennat’s next piece of advice was: Don’t quiz them straightaway. Let them talk if they want to. If not, fill in the silence yourself.

Wengler didn’t want to talk.

‘We suspect it’s the same man who has your former employees on his conscience.’

Wengler took a deep drag. ‘Artur Radlewski?’ he asked.

‘That’s how it looks. Only, there’s still no trace of him. Seems the man can make himself invisible.’

‘Killed on duty, you say?’

Rath wanted to spare Wengler the details for now. ‘I’m very sorry to have to break the news at a celebration that already has unhappy associations for you.’

Kowalski kept himself in the background the whole time. Rath could see the situation made him uneasy. No wonder, he had known Siegbert Wengler as a police officer, and even ten years ago his brother Gustav would have been an important town figure.

‘We need to ask you a few questions, Herr Wengler,’ Rath said.

‘I understand. You’re only doing your job.’

‘We have some names here. Men who were also implicated in the moonshining scandal. I’d like you to help us find them. We need to warn them, and, if possible, protect them. So that no one else dies.’

Wengler took the list Kowalski handed him. ‘Assmann is in Berlin,’ he said. ‘As for the others, let me ask around.’

‘Thank you.’ Rath waited until Wengler had pocketed the list before posing his next question. ‘Your brother – is it possible he suspected he was in danger?’

‘We didn’t talk much, at least not in the last few years.’ Wengler shook his head. ‘Damn it. How can someone just cease to exist like that?’

‘Did you know your brother had recently moved?’

‘He’s no longer in Schöneberg?’

‘No. I’d hoped you might be able to provide his new address. Your brother doesn’t appear to have told anyone where he was moving. If I didn’t know better I’d say he was trying to hide – even if he appeared for duty each day as if nothing had happened.’

Wengler drew on his cigarette and gazed thoughtfully into the middle distance, towards the war memorial and the Treuburgers drinking themselves blind on Luisenhöhe Distillery produce. ‘You think he moved because he felt threatened?’

‘He probably felt safer on duty.’

‘Clearly he was wrong.’

‘Can you tell us who your brother was friendly with? People with whom he might have shared his new address.’

‘Siegbert was never one for friends.’ Wengler stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Now if you would please excuse me. I’d like to be alone.’

Rath and Kowalski gazed after him as he made his way down to the shore, alone with himself and his thoughts. Suddenly the great man appeared rather lonely.

56

Manfred Unger sat in his office behind the glass pane, watching Charly wide-eyed as she entered the central kitchen four or five hours late in the company of a lone man. After a moment to process what was happening, he rushed to the door and flung it wide open. ‘Who the hell do you think you are!’ he shouted. ‘Swanning in like this. Do you realise what time it is? Collect your papers, and get out!’

‘We’ll be on our way soon enough, Herr Unger.’ Lange showed his identification, and suddenly the head chef appeared to twig. ‘Only, you’ll be coming with us.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘How about multiple extortion? I would ask you to come quietly. It’s not in your interests to make a scene.’

‘But…’ Unger gestured towards the central kitchen, his realm. ‘The work here…’

‘You needn’t worry on that score, Herr Unger,’ Charly said. ‘There are plenty of people who’d do anything to work at Haus Vaterland.’

He gawped at her, still apparently unaware of her role. He looked at Lange. ‘Did that little bitch report me? Don’t believe a word she says. Fucking Sarotti-sweetheart.’

‘I’d advise you to choose your words more carefully,’ Lange said. ‘Little bitch is an inappropriate way to describe a CID officer.’

‘Pardon me?’ Unger stood open-mouthed, looking unusually stupid.

‘Fräulein Ritter here is a CID cadet,’ Lange explained.

‘What’s the world coming to?’ Unger said, shaking his head. ‘Women police officers!’

‘You’d do well to get used to it. You’ll be seeing rather a lot of Fräulein Ritter in the coming days.’

‘It won’t be long before we have a woman minister. Chancellor, even, knowing these Social Democrats.’

‘Keep this up, Herr Unger, and I’ll have a squad of uniform officers cuff you and turn your office upside down.’ Lange took a couple of official-looking documents from his pocket. ‘These search and arrest warrants give me every right.’ He smiled at the chef. ‘So, how about we tone things down a notch, and wrap this up as discreetly as possible.’

Unger said nothing more. They closed the door and showed him to a chair. Lange took up position while Charly filled two cardboard boxes with files, and the contents of Unger’s desk. The man threw her a venomous glance. Through the glass pane, she could see that just about every kitchen employee had realised that something was up. They carried on as before, but continued to look furtively in Unger’s direction.

Lange took one of the heavy boxes, and gestured for Unger to take the other.

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Very well,’ Lange said. ‘Fräulein Ritter? Put a call through to the 16th precinct and request assistance with a defiant suspect, and with carrying boxes.’

She reached for the receiver and was on the verge of dialling when Unger had second thoughts. He lifted the box sulkily from the desk. She held the door open and they left the office, encountering a fat man at the time clock who was putting on his chef’s hat. Unger stared at him.

‘Fritzsche? What are you doing here?’

The fat man smiled in embarrassment. ‘Director Fleischer called to say I’d be standing in for the day.’

‘I think it’ll be longer than that,’ Lange said.

Carrying his cardboard box in front of him as they left the central kitchen, Manfred Unger looked like an employee who had just been given the sack.

57

By now the atmosphere was far removed from the solemn patriotism of the morning speeches. People were laughing and having a good time, while the first inebriates stared into space or began weaving their way home. Soon a fight would break out, and new couples would form. Devoid of all the nationalist bombast, this was just another run-of-the-mill public festival. Behind the war memorial, on the bridge leading over the light railway platform, the celebrations were no louder than a distant murmur.

Rath tapped an Overstolz against the lid of his cigarette case and gazed over the sports ground towards the lake and public baths. He had sent Kowalski to remind old Adamek of their agreement, and was glad to have a minute to himself. Informing a person that a relative, or friend, had died, sometimes in violent circumstances, was a part of the job he despised – even if that person was as slippery as Gustav Wengler. He threw the match onto the railway tracks.

A voice called out behind him, and he gave a start. ‘Inspector, do you have a moment?’ Maria Cofalka, the librarian, stood looking at him, appearing altogether less shy – and sober – than before. ‘If it suits you, of course…’

‘Absolutely.’ He tried to sound friendly. ‘Is it to do with Artur Radlewski?’

‘You could say that.’ Maria Cofalka smiled and suddenly appeared ten years younger. Probably the same ten years added by her bun. ‘Karl tells me you can be trusted. Herr Rammoser, I mean.’

‘I’m honoured. Is there something you’d like to tell me in confidence?’

‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘What do you make of Herr Wengler?’

‘In my line of work it doesn’t matter what I make of someone. What matters is what they’ve done, and what you can tell me.’

‘You’re probably right. What did Wengler want to speak with you about just now?’

‘You were watching?’

‘I just happened to see the pair of you strolling through the park. Was it something important?’

‘You’ll understand that I can’t go into detail. Only, it wasn’t Wengler who wanted to speak with me. I had bad news for him.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ She seemed surprised. ‘His brother?’

‘How did you know?’

‘You suspect Artur of killing these moonshiners, don’t you? The ones responsible for his mother’s death.’ Rath nodded. ‘That’s not his style, believe me. Artur has always let Wengler’s moonshiners go about their business in peace. Even though they brew and smuggle their rotgut in his forest.’

‘They’re not Wengler’s moonshiners, though, are they? Gustav Wengler has nothing to do with all that.’

‘That’s certainly the impression he likes to convey but, Inspector, you shouldn’t believe everything Gustav Wengler tells you.’

‘You don’t like him very much, do you?’

‘I have my reasons.’

‘Perhaps you should enlighten me.’

‘That’s why I’m here.’ She looked around to check no one was listening. Whatever she had to say, it was costing her a lot of effort. ‘Don’t believe Wengler’s stories, Inspector. About his fiancée and her death. It’s lies, all of it.’

‘Let’s head down to the lake. We can talk in private there.’

‘Apologies, Inspector. I’m not in the habit of speaking ill of people.’ The noise grew ever quieter the nearer they approached the lake. ‘It’s just… I have the feeling no one here can separate good from evil any more.’

‘And Gustav Wengler is evil?’

She agreed without a moment’s hesitation. ‘Gustav Wengler is a hypocrite. He sent an innocent man to jail. The Polack didn’t kill Anna von Mathée.’

‘Who?’

‘The Polack. The great Polish agitator Wengler never tires of mentioning in his speeches.’

‘Polack, eh? Sounds like he might be onto something.’

‘That’s just the name he was given by Wengler and his men. His real name was Polakowski.’

‘Was?’

‘He died trying to escape from Wartenburg Jail. He’s buried in the cemetery over by the lake.’

‘The Catholic cemetery…’

‘Being Catholic was his first mistake – alongside his Polish name. At least in the eyes of the Homeland Service. His second was to want no part in the anti-Polish frenzy of twelve years ago.’

‘He didn’t belong to the Agitation Bureau?’

‘He was a doctor. A young registrar who worked at the hospital over on Graudenzer Strasse.’

‘A doctor who spoke up for the Polish cause…’

‘I’m afraid you’ve let yourself be taken in, Inspector, just like everyone else. Jakub Polakowski didn’t speak up for the Polish cause; he spoke up for Polish people.’

‘I’m sorry. Go on.’

‘Back in those days brawls were a common occurrence. On one occasion alongside a member of the Agitation Bureau, one of Wengler’s goons was hurt. Lamkau.’ Rath nodded. ‘Both men needed treatment, but Polakowski’s mistake was to tend to the Bureau member, Roeska, first, who was unconscious and the more seriously hurt. Suffice it to say, the decision didn’t go down well with Lamkau and Wengler and the others. After that Dr Polakowski became the Polack.’

‘How do you know all this?’

‘The man often came by the library, and I can tell you one thing. He never took out any Polish books, although we had any number back then. Still do, in fact, even today, when Polish is only spoken behind closed doors.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘You’re a police officer. Perhaps you’ll see that justice is served. Jakub Polakowski didn’t kill Anna von Mathée, he was just a convenient scapegoat. Wengler serves up the same old lie each year, and people here are only too happy to believe it. It soothes their conscience about the bad old days. The Poles were much worse, they’ll say, they actually killed someone, when all we did was fight, or smash windows, or set fire to barns.’

She had talked herself into a rage.

‘I’m not sure there’s much I can do for you,’ Rath said. ‘Who benefits if I go digging up these old stories? Not Polakowski. He’s already dead.’

‘It was Siegbert Wengler who arrested him…’

‘So?’

‘He knew that Polakowski was innocent, and Gustav Wengler knew it too. Yet they took him to court, and both made statements against him.’

‘You realise these are pretty enormous accusations you’re making?’

‘I appreciate that, Inspector, but you’re the first person I’ve told.’

‘Karl Rammoser doesn’t know?’

She shook her head. ‘No one here does. No one would believe me. Like I say, you’re the first I’ve told.’

‘Why do you suppose I’ll believe you?’

She took a folder full of papers from her bag, some of which were so curled and yellowed that they must have got very wet once upon a time. ‘Read these, then decide whether you should take another look at the Polakowski file.’ She pressed the folder into his hand. He felt a little ambushed. He had underestimated her. ‘Inspector, you have to promise me something,’ she said. ‘Don’t show this folder to anyone. Don’t tell anyone where you got it. No one, do you hear, not even Karl Rammoser…’

‘I don’t know if…’

‘Look after it.’ She gave him a pleading look. ‘This is… something very private. It isn’t easy for me to part with, but you have to make sacrifices for the truth. Take the time and read it, I beg you.’

He looked at the closely written papers. ‘What is this?’

‘That,’ Maria Cofalka said, ‘is the truth about Anna von Mathée’s death.’

58

The truth about Anna von Mathée’s death wasn’t easy to read, scrawled as it was in tiny letters, and with the ink smudged in various places or grown faded.

Rath began leafing through the papers immediately, taking up position on a bench by the shore and doing his best to decipher a few lines, but it was mostly guesswork. The only thing he could discern with any conviction was the signature that concluded each text, even if the word itself made little sense. Tokala, he read, and, after comparing a few times, he felt certain he was right, since the word appeared over and over again in the documents. Someone was writing about themselves in the third person…

Tokala will never live among humans again, ran one of the opening lines. The letters, if indeed that’s what they were, had no date, no salutation, no sender, just a signature that was always the same.

There was no point carrying on; he’d need a magnifying glass to get anywhere with these. He snapped the folder shut and strolled along the shore towards town, passing the district office and reaching the Catholic cemetery. Noticeably smaller than its Protestant counterpart, it was nevertheless better situated, behind the modest Catholic church by the lake. He didn’t take long to find Jakub Polakowski’s grave. Plain, with a wrought-iron cross, there were no flowers, nor anything to suggest it was looked after.

Why had the man been buried in Treuburg, when he had no relatives or friends here to tend to his grave? Why hadn’t they laid him to rest in the prison cemetery at Wartenburg? Jakub Polakowski was only thirty-five when he died, scarcely older than Rath now. A generation betrayed. He’d probably fought in the war, and, barely two years later, they’d thrown him in jail for a murder he hadn’t committed. If, that is, what Maria Cofalka had said was right.

Jakub Polakowski didn’t kill Anna von Mathée, he was just a convenient scapegoat.

Rath returned to the marketplace, but the stationer was closed, the bookstore likewise. Almost all shops had ceased trading; only the Treuburger Zeitung remained open.

‘A magnifying glass?’ a secretary said from behind the counter. ‘There should be one in the editorial office. I don’t know if I can lend it out, though. Herr Ziegler will be here any moment. His article on the plebiscite anniversary is due in tomorrow’s edition.’

Rath showed his identification. ‘Would it be possible for me to use the magnifying glass here?’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

She smiled and disappeared towards the back. Rath looked around. On a table by the wall was a pile of old newspapers from 1920. Evidently the editor, Ziegler, would be making use of the archive for his latest report. He leafed curiously through the pages, tickled by the Polish Agitation Bureau, which was having difficulty recruiting a female copyist; even the 500 Mk. monthly salary had failed to find any takers.

The hateful atmosphere so prevalent in those days could be inferred from an editorial. We must sow hatred, Rath read, in the same way that we have learned to hate Germany’s external enemies, so must we now punish its internal enemies with our hatred and scorn. Mediation is impossible; it is only through extremes that Germany can recapture what it was before the war.

This chauvinistic crowing had its roots in the Empire, and was still fashionable in the Republic, at least in German National and Nazi circles. He had heard it again during the speeches this morning; the same crowing that had cost one brother his life and driven the other from his homeland.

The secretary returned holding an enormous magnifying glass.

‘That should do it. Many thanks,’ Rath said, sitting at the visitor’s table with Cofalka’s folder. Even now the task was no easier. First he had to get used to the handwriting. Soon, however, he was on his way.

No, Tokala will never live among humans again. Living among humans would signal death, just as it signalled death for his mother. The truth must speak without him. And it will, for Winchinchala will reveal it as she sees fit. She knows the world of humans and how to move within it, Tokala does not.

Winchinchala must understand him. He cannot go back, never again. They will imprison him, no matter what he says, and being imprisoned is worse, even, than death. Tokala has no other choice but to carry on with his life, alone in his solitude and in his guilt.

What happened at the little lake cannot be undone. Niyaha Luta, the woman with the red feathers in her dress, is dead, and nothing can bring her back to life. Tokala fled and returned too late; he will never forgive himself for that. If he knew how he could put things right, he would.

He will never forget how she lay in the shallow water. The wicked man is gone, she is alone again, only her body remains, rocking gently with the waves, eyes looking up at the blue sky, seeing nothing now. Her dress is torn to shreds, between her legs streaks of blood ripple in the water.

Tokala hears the clatter of a bicycle up in the forest, and crawls back inside his hiding place; he sees a man approach the shore, the same man Niyaha Luta had been expecting – when the wicked man came. He looks as if he has been fighting.

And then he spies her in the water. He kneels as he reaches her; her corpse. It is as if someone has sapped the life from his knees. He lifts her head out of the water, gently, as if afraid he might hurt her.

Tokala stays hidden, he doesn’t dare breathe.

The man takes her head in his lap and strokes it, kneeling in the water as he silently mourns her death. His face has turned to stone.

A bell rang as the door opened behind him. Rath looked up. Gustav Wengler entered with one of the men from the dignitaries’ table, a fat, moustachioed type suffering from shortness of breath. Wengler spoke animatedly, apparently no longer grieving for his dead brother. When he saw Rath, he blinked in surprise.

‘Inspector,’ he said, before the fat man could get a word out. ‘What are you doing here?’

Rath shoved the papers back inside the folder. ‘I lent the inspector here a magnifying glass,’ the secretary said.

‘Then I’ll need it back,’ the editor growled.

‘Of course, I’m finished anyway. Many thanks.’ Rath handed the man his magnifying glass and turned towards Wengler. ‘Are you assisting with the article on the plebiscite anniversary?’

‘I don’t need any assistance,’ the editor protested. ‘But tomorrow’s edition will naturally include an interview with the chief of the Homeland Service.’

‘In that case, gentlemen,’ Rath moved towards the door, ‘keep up the good work.’

‘What have you got there?’ Wengler asked, gesturing towards the folder.

‘Just a few papers. Hard to read, very small handwriting.’ He opened the door and the bell rang once more.

‘Did Maria Cofalka give you those?’ Wengler asked.

Goddamn it! The man had seen them together, or it had been one of his many informers. Best to brush it aside.

‘I don’t wish to take up any more of your time. Goodbye, gentlemen, madam.’ Rath tipped his hat and left the offices of the Treuburger Zeitung, folder wedged under his arm. In the street he turned around. Through the glass door Gustav Wengler eyed him with undisguised suspicion.

59

At last they had something to go on. Like all duty officers, Siegbert Wengler had left an emergency contact number with Traffic Police Headquarters. It had been updated four weeks ago, the only indication that his circumstances had changed. It wasn’t a Schöneberg number, but belonged, instead, to a butcher’s near Anhalter Bahnhof, in Kreuzberg.

Gräf stowed whatever photos of Wengler he could find, commandeered a couple of forensic technicians and made his way over. After yesterday’s disaster, when it became clear that not even Wengler’s brother knew the dead man’s address, he had put in another call to Traffic Police. Whether the strike would gain Böhm’s approval was moot, but at least he could feel better about himself.

Approval or not, the DCI had failed to provide any additional officers, leaving him to deal with Forensics alone again. For once Lange or Charly would have sufficed, but they were still occupied with the blackmail case from Haus Vaterland. Today they would pass it, along with the two suspects, onto Arthur Nebe and his colleagues in Robbery, who were responsible for extortion under threat of force. It seemed less and less likely that the case was connected with the dead men, but it was good that someone like Nebe, who had solved several homicides in the past, was involved. If there was a link, he’d be the one to find it.

The butcher’s was in Kleinbeerenstrasse. Despite being close to the Philharmonic, as well as Wilhelmstrasse and the government buildings, the houses became more run-down the further one ventured from Möckernstrasse. Gräf left the ED men in the car and entered to find a red-cheeked woman gazing at him expectantly. The selection in the glass cabinet didn’t inspire much confidence, everything fatty and stringy, bone shards for boiling. Meat for people who couldn’t afford it.

The woman looked disappointed when she realised he wasn’t intending to buy anything.

‘Herr Siegbert Wengler,’ he said, showing her a photo of the deceased without his shako, ‘left your telephone line as his contact number. Can you tell me where he lives?’

‘I’d have to ask my husband,’ she said, suspiciously. ‘Who wants to know?’ He placed his identification next to the photo. ‘I’m a colleague of Herr Wengler’s.’

She studied his identification closely. ‘Are you really a police officer?’

He took out his disc. ‘Any reason to be suspicious?’

‘Herr Wengler said at some point someone might come looking for him. In which case we should say nothing.’

‘He was afraid of someone,’ Gräf said, ‘and rightly so. He was murdered.’

‘Good God!’

‘You can rest assured, my colleagues and I are trying to find out who was responsible. Now, will you please tell me where he lived.’

More than that, the butcher’s wife had a key.

Wengler’s apartment was located in the same block, albeit in the rear building. She led them across the yard and up two flights of stairs until they stood outside a wooden door. The nameplate was blank, and inside was messy. Judging by the newspapers on the floor, Siegbert Wengler had followed the horses. A pair of trousers and a shirt rested casually over the back of a chair. Without further ado the ED officers set about securing fingerprints.

Gräf pulled on a pair of gloves to avoid the technicians’ wrath, before examining the desk by the window. The most interesting items were to be found in the enclosed drawer. Three death notices, one from Dortmund, one from Wittenberge, one from Berlin, confirmed Siegbert Wengler’s links to Lamkau, Wawerka and Simoneit.

He handed the death notices to the ED officers and turned back to the drawer. Something had caught his eye. The plain, black notebook seemed familiar somehow. It wasn’t like those used by CID, but bigger and thicker, a real doorstopper. Soon he was staring at columns of figures.

At that moment he knew where he had seen it before. They had confiscated it from Herbert Lamkau’s office about a week ago. He leafed through and found a pencil mark he’d made himself.

‘Over here,’ he said to one of the forensic technicians, who reluctantly obeyed. He handed him the notebook. ‘See if you can get any fingerprints. The more, the merrier.’

60

Rath realised he’d had too much to drink after all. Before returning to the celebrations, he’d tried to continue reading the letters in his hotel room but, without the aid of a magnifying glass, it proved impossible. No matter how hard he strained, he could decipher no more than two or three words per sentence.

He wanted to speak with Maria Cofalka again, but found her neither at the festival site nor during the evening’s final act: a torchlit procession that included a farewell performance from the musical society and climaxed at the marketplace with the lighting of the great fire.

If what he’d managed to read was true, then the librarian was right: Gustav Wengler’s tale of the wicked Pole who’d murdered an upstanding German girl was built on a lie.

Outside the Kronprinzen he ran into Karl Rammoser, who was celebrating the evening’s final throes with his teaching colleagues. ‘Maria will be sleeping it off somewhere,’ he said. ‘She can’t take her drink.’ In contrast with the group of teachers, with whom Rath sat quaffing into the long, summer night. The rest of the town, on the other hand, seemed to be asleep as he finally started for home.

Reaching the Salzburger Hof well past midnight he caught the owner’s daughter off guard with her SA man. The pair stood in an entranceway next to the hotel; Fabeck was talking insistently. Hella spotted the returning guest and smiled. Rath smiled back just as Fabeck turned around. Seeing Rath, Fabeck pulled Hella towards him and gave her a lingering kiss. Rath couldn’t help but grin: all the while Fabeck’s tongue was working in her mouth she gazed unashamedly in his direction. This Hella was no country cousin.

As he stood in the bathroom brushing his teeth, he thought again of Artur Radlewski, the man who called himself Tokala. The man who had scalped his own father and fled into the woods; who had witnessed a murder and felt guilty for not having prevented it; and who was clearly far removed from the feeble-minded wood sprite everyone took him for.

For a moment he was tempted to retrieve the letters from the drawer, but without the magnifying glass it was hopeless. Besides, he was far too tired, and too drunk. He undressed, lay down and fell asleep as soon as he hit the mattress, where the Masurian Indian haunted his dreams as a noble savage, appearing almost exactly as he’d pictured Winnetou as a child, an honourable Apache who roamed the Masurian forests until he reached a lake, in whose shallows a dead girl lay.

Suddenly it was Rath who stood leaning over the lifeless beauty, recognising her face framed by the black hair floating on the surface, and scaring himself half to death. Charly, it was Charly!

Startled out of sleep, he opened his eyes wide and stared into darkness, heart pounding wildly, breathing heavily as if he, himself, were about to drown. His hand searched for her. He needed a moment to work out where he was. There had been too many grisly stories in the last few days, but… what was that? It was pitch black in the room save for a strip of moonlight that had found its way through the crack between the heavy curtains, and nestled on the wall next to his bed.

He felt for his Walther on the bedside table. Still unable to see anything in the darkness, he was no longer sure the noise was real. But he had sensed it. There was someone in his room. Locating the pistol, he fumbled it out of its holster and released the safety catch. ‘Is anyone there?’ he asked. No response. ‘Who’s there? Show yourself! I’m armed!’

A white shadow flitted to his bed.

‘Sshh.’ A hissing noise, surprisingly loud, and a warm, slender finger on his lips. The strip of moonlight confirmed who it was. Her blonde hair was down, but still wavy from her untied braids. Hella let her finger linger on his lips and drew her face closer. Her big eyes sparkled, gazing at him inscrutably. He could make out her nightshirt and her breasts silhouetted inside.

She pressed her mouth on his and her tongue blazed a trail through his lips. She smelled of toothpaste and raspberry juice. He realised he had kissed her back without meaning to, and pulled away. ‘Hella, this is…’

Her finger returned to his lips. ‘Sshh,’ she whispered, and before he knew what was happening, she lay next to him in bed, snuggling closer as she slipped under the covers. She knew what to touch, and how to touch it.

61

When Rath awakened the next morning, Hella was gone. He had fallen asleep beside her, his night devoid of nightmares, but now her side was empty. It wasn’t even warm. At least she had taken her nightshirt.

It was years since anything like this had happened. Even during those long months when Charly had been in Paris, he had lived like a monk, in spite of the numerous temptations a city like Berlin afforded a man in his early thirties. On one occasion a lustful grass widow had picked him up in Kakadu and they had kissed wildly in the taxi as they tentatively explored each other’s bodies. In her bedroom, with champagne standing ready in its cooler, he remembered Charly and essayed a last-minute about-turn, leaving the woman to bombard him with abuse as she contemplated another night of solitude.

It ought to have been a lesson, but now, no sooner than he was engaged to marry, this!

Idiot. She couldn’t have been older than eighteen or nineteen at most.

But by God, she was exciting.

Is that all you can think of?

He padded into the bathroom and took a shower. The water was so cold he cried out, but he didn’t care about the other residents. Afterwards he felt better, lucid enough to put her out of mind; this girl about whom he knew only that he wasn’t her first man. At least, he thought, he had one over the idiot brownshirt.

He looked at his watch; time to go. Emerging from the bathroom he felt ravenous, but remembered who would be on waitress duty, and resolved to give the ample Salzburger Hof breakfast a miss.

Stealing downstairs he found Hermann Rickert, hotel owner and father of Hella, at reception. He issued a brief greeting, wrestling with the image of the man reaching behind for his shotgun – but Rickert was polite as ever, and he emerged onto the street unscathed. Outside, it smelled as if half the town had burned down with the remains of yesterday’s fire still smouldering.

He strolled to a café next to the newspaper offices, where that morning’s edition hung in a wooden holder by the hall stand. He drank a coffee and ate a ham roll as he skimmed its contents. A special feature was devoted to the celebrations, with a second page recalling the events of twelve years ago. The results of the plebiscite, he read, had been projected onto the wall outside the offices of the Oletzkoer Zeitung, as it was then.

The birth of the Treuburg legend. Now he knew the significance of last night: it was a commemorative burning.

Gustav Wengler would be delighted. Not only was his speech praised, it was captured in three separate photographs, with advertisements for Mathée Luisenbrand and Treuburger Bärenfang appearing on either side of the double spread. There was no sign of an interview, however. Wengler’s quotes were carried almost verbatim from the speech. No doubt he had placed his manuscript at the editor’s disposal.

Rath left his money on the table and set off. He bought a foldable pocket magnifying glass from Dytfeld’s bookshop, and headed back across the marketplace. He still had an hour.

His hotel room was just as he’d left it. He took a deep breath, relieved not to find Hella Rickert making up his bed. After hanging out the Do Not Disturb sign, he locked the door, sat at the desk and flipped open the magnifying glass. Opening the drawer to retrieve the folder he realised it was gone. He looked in the second drawer. Nothing.

Perhaps he had taken it out yesterday after all? He tried to recall, but his memory was blank. Why, oh why, had he drunk so much? Imagine being constantly led astray by a village school teacher.

Led astray…

That bitch!

When he came downstairs Hermann Rickert was still at reception, though there was no sign of his daughter. The sight of Rickert dampened his ardour. Had he seen Hella there alone, he’d have put her across his knee!

‘Is there something I can do for you, Inspector?’ the hotelier asked politely.

He cleared his throat and leaned over the counter. ‘Listen… a black folder hasn’t been handed in since yesterday evening, has it?’

‘Sorry.’ Rickert gave an apologetic shrug.

‘It should be in my room somewhere.’

‘We have a safe for valuable items…’

‘It isn’t valuable, just a plain black folder with papers inside.’

‘If the papers are of value… you should have entrusted them to me.’

‘No, there’s nothing of value, at least material value, but it could be evidence!’

‘Like I said, we have a safe. You ought to have…’

‘Where’s your daughter?’

‘What are you trying to say? My daughter’s no thief!’ Hermann Rickert was indignant. ‘Besides she hasn’t been in your room today.’

Rath resolved to keep his counsel. ‘Tell her to keep her eyes peeled for a black folder when she does her rounds. Perhaps it slipped behind a cupboard. Please inform me immediately if you find it.’

‘Certainly, Inspector.’ The hotelier gave him that look of obsequiousness he so hated.

‘Just to be clear, Herr Rickert. These are important documents. I hope they turn up, otherwise I might find myself obliged to have your premises searched, and your guests submitted to questioning.’

The hotelier blanched. ‘But, Inspector! This is a house of impeccable repute! I’ve no doubt this will soon be resolved.’

‘Then see that it is.’

‘Certainly, Inspector.’

He returned to his room. Knowing it was futile, he searched high and low, behind every cupboard, in each drawer and under the bed. There was no sign. Hella must have taken it. He wondered why, but there wasn’t time to pursue the thought. Today was the day they entered the forest.

At the bottom of the stairs, he saw that both reception and dining room were deserted, the only sound the clattering of pans from the kitchen. He peered through the swing door, but didn’t recognise any of the staff.

He hoped the threat of a police search would be enough to retrieve the folder. Perhaps Hella Rickert was simply a kleptomaniac, and her father was already taking her to task.

He crossed over to Goldaper Strasse and rang the shoemaker’s bell. The Wanderer gleamed outside; Kowalski must have washed it after collecting it from the site.

Uncle Friedrich opened and bade him enter, looking him up and down. ‘You’re not going into the forest dressed like that?’

He shrugged. ‘How else?’

The answer came in the form of Anton Kowalski, who looked as if he were planning an Alpine crossing with full rucksack, knee breeches, checked shirt and coarse knee-length socks. Sturdy hiking boots completed the ensemble. In brogues and grey suit, Rath was his antithesis.

‘You need good shoes,’ the shoemaker said firmly. ‘The forest is swampy; moorland everywhere.’

‘Our guide will take us round any bogholes.’

‘Even so, you need good shoes.’

‘This isn’t the Sauerland Mountaineering Society.’ Both Kowalskis stared blankly. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘My uncle’s right, Sir. If we’re heading into the forest you need something sturdier. We’re not talking about some park. The hut’s out on the moors.’

Rath pointed towards his brogues. ‘That’s the sturdiest pair I own.’

Friedrich Kowalski looked down. ‘Wait a moment,’ he said. ‘I’ll be right back.’

‘What’s going on?’ Rath asked.

Moments later Kowalski’s uncle returned carrying hiking boots that looked brand new. ‘Try these on. Finished working on them two weeks ago. They’re from Studienrat Damerau, the teacher next door.’ Amazingly, they were a fit. ‘Of course, I’ll have to pledge Herr Damerau a small loan fee…’

‘How much?’

‘One mark.’

Rath rummaged for a coin. ‘Give Herr Damerau my thanks.’

With that they set off. Kowalski drove as Rath tied his shoelaces a second time. He hoped they really were all right; the last thing he needed was blisters. They were certainly sturdy enough, and handmade to perfection.

He bade Kowalski stop outside the Salzburger Hof, and took his brogues up to his room. The bed was still unmade. Hella would be in for it tonight, if the folder still hadn’t turned up.

He made no mention of last night’s incident to Kowalski, who had his mind firmly set on the Kaubuk. Rath had never seen him so excited. No doubt it was the thrill of the chase.

On the Lega bridge, halfway towards Adamek’s house, they ran into Erich Grigat. The police constable tipped his shako in greeting, and the two officers saluted in return.

‘Let’s make a little detour to Luisenhöhe,’ Rath said when they were on Lindenallee, on the road out of town. Kowalski furrowed his brow, but did as bidden.

Outside the estate house, Wengler’s servant was loading a suitcase into a maroon-coloured Mercedes. Rath motioned for Kowalski to park behind the gleaming sedan and got out. The servant pretended not to have seen him, and stalked back inside.

Rath debated what he might say to the man, when Wengler appeared, buttoning his coat. ‘Inspector! Good morning.’

‘You’re going somewhere?’ Rath asked.

‘Berlin.’ Wengler cleared his throat. ‘To settle my brother’s estate, and take care of the funeral arrangements.’

‘Of course. My apologies for disturbing you again. You were going to tell me how to reach your former employees. Assmann, and the others on the list.’

‘I’ve had the addresses collated for you. I’ll send for it now.’

‘Not necessary.’ Rath took out a card and wrote a name on the reverse. ‘Since you’re going to be in Berlin, why not report to Detective Chief Inspector Böhm at Police Headquarters, Alexanderplatz.’

Wengler took the card. ‘I’ll do that, Inspector. Many thanks.’

‘One more thing…’ said Rath. Wengler’s eyes were devoid of grief or rage, or indeed of any expression at all. ‘Your brother… how long did he serve as a police officer in Treuburg?’

‘He started during the war. Why?’

‘I’m looking for possible motives. Police officers often make enemies in their job.’

‘You can say that again.’

Rath ignored the allusion. ‘The question is, is it possible there are other cases besides the moonshining scandal that your brother could have been involved in?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Anything that could have created bad blood.’

‘I thought you were looking for this Radlewski?’

‘We are. We’re about to head into the Markowsken forest. They say his hideout’s there somewhere.’

‘Then go and find him – and stop harassing me.’

‘Herr Wengler, I’m sorry if my questions are bothering you, but I’m only doing my job. We want to find your brother’s killer and whoever murdered your former employees.’

‘I realise that. I’m sorry.’

‘They’ll ask you the same thing in Berlin. Perhaps you should use the journey to think about your response.’

Wengler nodded. ‘I’ll do that, Inspector. I promise.’

Rath tipped his hat. ‘Safe trip, anyhow.’

He climbed into the Wanderer and looked back through the rear mirror as Kowalski turned towards the driveway. Wengler stared after them until they’d disappeared around the bend behind the avenue trees.

62

Old Adamek waited on the bench outside his shanty, cheroot dangling from his mouth. In contrast to Kowalski, his outfit was unlikely to meet with Sauerland Mountaineering Society Statutes. It looked as if it hadn’t been washed since Christmas, if, indeed, it had been washed at all. His trousers were more patch than original, his jacket bloodstained, and his shoes were tied with wire. He greeted Rath’s suit with a raised eyebrow and snarl; the coarse hiking boots alone appeared to satisfy him.

He was astonished when asked to get into the car. ‘We’re heading into the forest,’ he said. ‘Crate like that’s no good to us.’

‘It’ll take us as far as Markowsken,’ Kowalski said. ‘We’ll manage the rest on foot.’

Reluctantly, Adamek agreed, and Rath guessed the man had never set foot inside a car. A horse and carriage was probably the only means of transportation he’d ever used; perhaps the railways during the war, out of necessity. Either way he was used to travelling on foot. Huddled on the rear seat, he clung to the shotgun wedged between his thighs. Did he mean to go hunting, or did he never leave the house unarmed?

They reached Markowsken via a pretty mountain road, noticeably higher above sea level than Treuburg and its lake. Shortly before the entrance they passed a little grove, with stone crosses between its young trees. ‘Military cemetery,’ Kowalski explained, without being asked. ‘Russians and Germans at peace together.’

On the rear seat Adamek mumbled something. Rath recalled that the old man had fought the Russians in the war. Perhaps some of his comrades were buried here, along with one or two enemies – or former enemies. Rath was reminded, not for the first time, how much the Masurians had suffered during the war. People had died in the Rhineland of hunger and deprivation, but the actual war had largely played out beyond the border. Here in East Prussia, battles had raged, and whole towns and villages were destroyed before Hindenburg finally drove the Russians out at Tannenberg. No wonder the Masurians worshipped the man.

Kowalski parked at the end of the village. ‘This is where you’re from, isn’t it?’ Rath said. ‘Don’t you want to call in on your parents?’

‘They don’t live here any more. My father is with his fellow soldiers, where we came in.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

‘You don’t have to be sorry, I don’t know any different. I was just a boy when it happened. Five years old when my mother told me Papa was dead. You accept these things as a child, you think it’s normal. First you turn five, then your father dies, then you go to school.’

‘What about your mother?’

‘She remarried a few years after the war and moved to America.’ Kowalski looked at him. ‘I didn’t want to go, so Uncle Fritz looked after me.’

Rath fell silent. He didn’t want to probe any further.

In the meantime Adamek had exited the vehicle and started walking, following the village road until he turned onto a path. ‘We’d best make sure we don’t lose our guide,’ Rath said. The old man set a quick pace, but it wasn’t just his head start that made it hard to keep up. With his long legs he covered the ground quickly, and soon Rath was out of breath. ‘Wait a moment,’ he cried, and, surprisingly, Adamek came to a halt. ‘I need a break. Please.’

Kowalski opened his rucksack and took out a canteen along with several smoked sausages. He offered one to Rath. ‘No, thank you. I’d rather have water.’

Kowalski passed him the canteen, and he took a few sips. Adamek declined. ‘Best keep moving,’ the old man said. ‘It’s a long way.’

‘Fine,’ Rath said. ‘But a little slower, please. You’d almost think you were trying to run off.’

Adamek nodded and started out again, slower than before, but still at a brisk enough clip. At least they were still following a path. Upon reaching a clearing, however, it came to an end, and soon they were moving through the middle of the forest, over sandy, grassy terrain, which shifted underfoot, but was held together here and there by moss. Rath was glad of his new shoes. Suddenly they were moving downhill; behind the tree trunks something glistened brightly. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

Adamek turned around. ‘The little lake. It doesn’t have a name, but beyond is the Kaubuk’s domain.’

The little lake. He couldn’t help thinking of Radlewski’s lines. ‘Is that where Anna von Mathée was found?’

Adamek nodded, apparently astonished.

They continued downhill for a time, soon reaching the shore. The bank was relatively steep, but the water so shallow the sandy bottom could be seen twinkling in the sun.

This was where Anna von Mathée met her death, he thought. This was where she was found. If only he could have seen what Artur Radlewski saw twelve years ago…

‘We need to keep going, Sir!’ Kowalski said, following Adamek along the shore.

‘Just a moment,’ Rath said. ‘I have to take a look at something.’

He’d spotted a tree trunk or, rather, a thick branch, jutting almost horizontally across the lake, illuminated by sunlight. Something was carved in the bark. He took off his shoes, rolled up his trouser legs and waded the few metres across. The water only reached up to his ankles, but was still decidedly cold.

There was a heart carved in the bark, pitted now and bulging, as if it had been carved a hundred years ago – or maybe twelve. Just a run-of-the-mill heart with initials. He tried to decipher the letters. A.M. and J.P., he read, initials artfully entwined. He tried to mirror the effect in his notebook. Anna had eschewed the von in her name.

J.P.

He snapped his notebook shut. Jakub Polakowski and Anna von Mathée were lovers. Did Maria Cofalka know? He’d have a lot of questions for the librarian when they returned later tonight.

‘Sir? What are you doing? We need to keep moving.’

‘Coming.’

He waded back to the shore, put on his socks and shoes and rejoined the others.

‘What were you doing?’

‘I thought I’d seen something, but it was nothing.’

Kowalski raised an eyebrow, but there was no time for discussion, Adamek had already set off. Reaching the other end of the lake they emerged back into the forest, moving through thick undergrowth where the soil was sandy at first, before it became stony and covered in moss. They had been on the move for an hour by the time they reached a clearing at the end of a pinewood.

‘One of us has to stay here,’ Adamek said. ‘Keep watch for Polish border guards.’

‘Polish border guards?’ Rath asked.

Adamek nodded and gestured back the way they came. ‘The pinewood’s still Prussia.’

‘You realise that beyond this border the Prussian Police have no authority?’

‘Not my problem,’ said Adamek. ‘You wanted to see the Kaubuk’s hut. Well, it’s over there. The Kaubuk doesn’t care whether it’s in Poland or Prussia, and neither do I.’

‘So where is it? Poland or Prussia?’

‘Prussia, if I remember rightly, but no one keeps tabs here on the moors.’

‘Then why don’t we stay in Prussia?’

‘If you want to get as close as possible we need to go through Polish woodland. Going by the moors is longer, and more dangerous.’

‘Very well,’ Rath said. ‘Kowalski, you stand guard, but make sure you stay on Prussian territory. We don’t want an international incident. If you see a Polish border officer, discharge your weapon.’

‘Pardon me?’ Kowalski went pale.

‘In the air! To warn us.’

‘Shooting at the border isn’t a good idea,’ Adamek said. ‘Better to call. Like an owl.’ He demonstrated.

‘Can you do that, Kowalski?’ Rath asked.

Kowalski’s attempt sounded halfway authentic. At the very least it was loud.

Adamek put a finger to his lips. ‘We need to be quiet,’ he said, before disappearing with his shotgun. Into Polish woodland. Rath followed, and after no more than ten minutes the old Masurian came to a halt. Having reached the edge, they gazed out over marshland overgrown with weeds, shrubbery and brush. Dead tree trunks jutted out of the ground.

‘Stop,’ Adamek said, raising a hand. ‘This is where the moor begins. Every step is dangerous.’ Rath nodded respectfully. Adamek pointed into the wilderness. ‘His hut’s over there.’

‘Good,’ Rath said. ‘Let’s go.’ The old man looked at him as if he’d made an indecent proposal. ‘You said you’d take me to the Kaubuk’s hut.’

‘I said I’d show you his hut.’ Adamek pointed towards the marshland, behind which, somewhere, the forest began again. ‘Use the tall pine to take your bearings. Keep going in that direction and it’s another five hundred metres or so, not far. Be careful. You’ll need to watch every step.’

‘Then take me. You know your way around.’

‘Not on the moors.’

‘Do you want money? We should have discussed this before. How much do you want? Perhaps we can come to some arrangement.’

The old man shook his head. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘If you’re not brave enough, then get me Kowalski. Get me Prussian CID!’

Adamek was unmoved. He nodded and disappeared back into the woods.

Rath sat on a warm stone and gazed over the moor. Looking in the direction Adamek had shown, he tried to imagine how a hut might appear in the middle of this inhospitable scrub. There was no doubt it was an ideal location for someone wanting to be left in peace. He listened for Kowalski’s warning cry, but none came. The last thing he needed was to be picked up by a Polish border patrol.

It wasn’t just Kowalski’s warning cry that failed to materialise, however. Neither he nor Adamek were anywhere to be seen. Where the hell had they got to? He took the cigarette case from his pocket and lit an Overstolz. Immediately he felt calmer. Not even the thought of Polish border officers could daunt him. Let them come, he’d make his excuses. He was a tourist who’d got lost while taking a stroll. They were sure to believe him, so long as they didn’t find his service pistol and identification.

By the time he stubbed out his cigarette on a stone, there was still no sign. Maybe they were talking and Adamek would take them to the hut after all? Maybe the old man just needed a little persuading in Masurian.

The sun was already low in the west. He headed back into the woods. It wasn’t so far to the clearing where Kowalski was keeping watch. Adamek hadn’t deviated much from the straight and narrow. He trudged on, but needed more than a quarter of an hour to reach a clearing. He wasn’t sure if it was where they’d left Kowalski or not. Either way, neither man was here.

He looked around, recognising the forked trunk where they’d emerged from the pinewood. No doubt about it, it was the same clearing. And those pines were in Prussia, so to hell with the secrecy.

‘Kowalski?’ he cried, as loud as he could. ‘Adamek?’ No response. ‘Kowalski! Adamek? Where are you?’

Nothing. No reaction. No sound. Just a few birds fluttering somewhere nearby.

‘Kowalski! Goddamn it!’

His voice echoed, but the woods issued no response.

The only possible explanation was that Adamek and the assistant detective had taken another route to Radlewski’s hut and they had missed each other. He went back towards the hut, calling their names at regular intervals. No response. By the time he reached the moor, the sun had disappeared behind the trees.

Something wasn’t right. Had they been picked up by Polish guards? Time and again the newspapers were full of border incidents, mostly in Silesia, but why shouldn’t it happen in East Prussia too?

But then he’d have been picked up too, wouldn’t he? The way he’d cried out just now?

There was another possibility, of course: the bastards had stitched him up. Why? Because Kowalski was too much of a coward, and wanted to forestall his command?

It was pointless thinking about it. All that mattered was that they were gone.

He gazed over the moor. Five hundred metres to Radlewski’s hideout, Adamek had said, but that was madness, he was alone here in the wilds. There was no way he was setting foot on that moor, even if the hut was only a stone’s throw distant. Assuming, of course, Adamek was telling the truth. Or was this revenge for their exchange in Pritzkus’s dive?

He returned to the clearing, retracing his steps without difficulty. Arriving at the border he lit an Overstolz, his second-last, and tried to take his bearings. The sun was setting in the west: wasn’t that where he needed to go? If he held slightly north, he’d be fine. North was to the right of west. No problem.

He entered the Prussian pinewood in good spirits, now assuming he was on the right track. At least he was no longer in Poland, and, if he didn’t reach the forest edge or the little lake, so long as he continued in a straight line he was bound to hit upon a path or perhaps even a road at some point.

That was the plan, but after an hour’s strenuous walking he still hadn’t made it out. In the meantime it had grown darker. Soon it would be dusk.

Damn it! He had no torch, nothing – but at least he had good shoes.

He couldn’t help remembering when he and Charly had got lost by the Müggelsee, and gradually his faith in his sense of direction started to evaporate. On that occasion it was actually Kirie who’d led them astray. Without her, his chances were probably greater. A compass would have been good; soon he’d no longer be able to take his bearings by the sun. Even now the diffuse light filtering through the treetops gave little indication of where it was setting, or, indeed, had already set.

He fought his growing sense of panic and yomped on. In the meantime his eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, and he could still discern the tree trunks that stood behind and alongside each other in unrelenting uniformity. There was nothing to suggest the forest was about to end.

‘Kowalski!’ he shouted again, knowing it was futile. ‘Adamek!’

The wood responded with brutal silence.

At last he made out a glimmer of light. The forest edge. Soon he’d be back by the lake, no need to panic, but when he emerged he stood at another clearing. Not, thankfully, his starting point: at least he hadn’t been going round in circles.

Apart from that, he had no idea where he was. Overhead the sky was full of stars, and a crescent moon beamed over the tips of the trees. Grounds for optimism at last. In spite of his disappointment he felt something akin to relief. On this clear evening he’d have enough light. Now, where did the moon rise? Was it in the east like the sun? Or west? Or somewhere else entirely?

He’d given up on finding his way back to Markowsken. By now it’d be enough to hit upon any path leading to civilisation. If, indeed, that’s what Masuria was. Where culture ends, there Masuria begins. In his present state even a peasant’s cottage without electricity or running water would look like paradise, and the prospect of being picked up by a Polish border patrol had lost its edge. At least they’d get him out of here.

The moonlight was so bright that he could see little beasts leaping in all directions to avoid his tread. Grasshoppers, he thought at first, but he wasn’t moving over grass, rather, soft moss, and, bending down, he saw that they were in fact tiny frogs. There was something reassuring about the sight, the place couldn’t be entirely unsuited to life. He yomped gamely on, wondering whether the moon really did rise in the east, when the moss under his feet gave way and he stepped into something damp and soggy. A mudhole!

Again, he recalled his Müggelsee adventure. On that occasion they had also found themselves in marshland, costing him a shoe. Well, not this time. The thought of struggling through this interminable forest in his stockings spurred him on. He just had to make sure he didn’t pull up his foot too fast. He tried, cautiously, but felt it sink deeper. He had to shift his weight somehow, and took a small step with his free right leg, straight into another mudhole. Everything below the layer of moss, on which the frogs had just now been hopping, seemed, suddenly, to swim.

He leaned forward and tried to reach his left foot with his hand. In vain: he felt himself sink deeper.

This wasn’t just some mudhole. How much moorland was there here, goddamn it? For there was no doubting the landscape was more idyllic than the spot Adamek had shown him; with its shrubs and moss carpet it reminded him of the Wahner Heath. There were no dead trees, no indication that the environment was unsuited to life. It couldn’t be Radlewski’s patch.

Don’t panic, he told himself, laying his forearms and hands on the undulating moss as he tried to get a hold, but there was nothing to hold him. The carpet of grass and moss pitched on the water and gave way under his weight. All he had achieved was to make the hole in which he stood larger still, as if he were digging a pond. The more he struggled, the firmer and colder the moor’s grip.

He was afraid of being swallowed entirely when he remembered his natural history. Buoyancy would prevent him from becoming submerged. The only mortal danger lay in not being discovered, as exposure could take hold in a matter of hours.

Already he felt the cold penetrating deeper in his body, even with the heat of the day still in the air. He’d lost feeling in his legs and had difficulty moving them. The midges were out in force and he shooed them away by waving his arms, until realising that this, too, only made him sink deeper. He was completely dependent on outside help, and had the creeping sense that he’d never been so far removed from a human dwelling in all his life.

‘Help!’ he cried, as loud as he could. ‘Help!’

His cry echoed in the moonlit night. He listened, heard the treetops rustling in the wind, heard an owl screech, otherwise nothing. The owl wasn’t Kowalski. ‘Help,’ he cried again, and there was a swishing sound at the edge of the forest. He turned his head so that he could see better. A massive shadow lumbered towards him.

Were there still wolves here? he wondered. Don’t go attracting any beasts of prey! Before he could make out its contours, however, the shadow disappeared.

His face itched everywhere, but by now he’d given up trying to bat away the midges. He felt himself being stung on the upper lip, and realised he was shivering, could even hear his teeth chatter. By God, it was cold!

He closed his eyes and tried to think clearly, but it was growing more and more difficult. Again, he heard a rustling noise, and opened his eyes wide to see a massive form leaning over him, gazing curiously. A head with a huge set of antlers. He couldn’t believe his eyes. An elk. An elk gawped at him, watching him die.

He couldn’t help thinking of Charly’s words at the airport. Perhaps you’ll see an elk.

Charly. Would that botched goodbye at Tempelhof be their final evening together? Would he really die like this, at the very start of their journey? When he’d been unfaithful to her for the first time. He thought of last night with Hella. Suddenly all this felt like a punishment.

No, there was no meaning to any of it. Death was just as meaningless as life. He remembered the military cemetery at Markowsken. Anyone who spoke of death being meaningful, of laying down one’s life for the Fatherland, of dying a hero’s death, was a goddamn liar. It was all nonsense. Meaningless as it was, he wanted to live, damn it, live.

‘Come on,’ he said to the elk, cautiously, so as not to scare it. ‘Just one more step.’

The large head did indeed draw closer; the beast seemed to trust this man jutting out of the ground. Rath had read somewhere that, unlike roe deer or stags, elks were rarely frightened of people. Not this one, anyway. It was now or never.

Quick as a flash he grabbed for the antlers, thought for a moment he could feel soft skin, when the beast jumped back and jerked its head up. He clutched at thin air as it took another step towards the brush before trotting majestically away, illuminated by the moonlight.

He gazed after it until it’d gone.

Idiot! he thought, driving away your only friend out here.

‘Help,’ he cried again, astonished by the frailty of his voice. Could this mercilessly cold moor really have sapped so much strength out of him? Had he lost his mind?

He thought of his pistol, and fumbled the Walther out of its holster. His hands could barely grip the cold steel, but somehow he managed to release the safety catch and fire. The recoil almost threw the pistol out of his frozen hand but at the last moment he caught it and stowed it back in the holster. Perhaps he would need it again if there really were wolves.

Despair crept inside him, worse than the cold. Hopelessness drowned him like heavy, black, rotten ink, a viscous sludge spreading everywhere. At the same time somewhere deep inside was an irrepressible will to live that fought to get near the surface.

In the meantime the midges no longer concerned him; let them devour him, he wouldn’t resist. And then he thought he must be delirious.

Again a beast emerged from the brush, a huge black dog which reminded him of an illustration from his copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles, a huge, great hellhound. Now was the moment to reach for his pistol, but he couldn’t, his muscles no longer obeyed, only shivered.

He closed his eyes, ready to die. If this hellhound wasn’t the product of his imagination, then it would surely eat him. And, if he had imagined it, it would be gone as soon as he opened his eyes.

He kept his eyes closed, sensing his eyelids were the only muscles still capable of obeying, and when, after a time, he opened them again, he saw that he had not been eaten, and that the dog had, indeed, disappeared. In its place was a figure reminiscent of another illustration from his childhood books. Or, rather, two: Robinson Crusoe, and Leatherstocking.

A man stood there with an unbelievably wild full beard and long, shaggy hair, dressed in leather and hides, bow and quiver across his shoulders; on his head a beaver-fur cap.

Rath stared at the vision and then closed his eyes with his mouth relaxing into a peaceful smile. Even his shivering had ceased. He felt a deep sense of peace, and, all of a sudden, a great warmth in spite of the cold. With that he was plunged, once and for all, into darkness. A darkness no longer reached by the crescent moon.