The March Fallen

1

The dead man was propped against a steel pillar in the shadow of the elevated railway line, his chin sunk on his breast as if he were taking a nap. You could be forgiven for thinking he was sleeping it off, huddled as he was in an old, patched soldier’s overcoat, dressed in puttees and holey gloves, a thick woollen hat pulled low over his forehead.

Detective Chief Inspector Wilhelm Böhm clutched his bowler hat to prevent the wind sweeping it off his head. They were directly under the elevated railway at Nollendorfplatz, barely a stone’s throw from the stairway, but no one had noticed the dead man, or, at least, no one who thought it necessary to notify the police. The deceased looked like a tramp, one of the many living rough on Berlin’s streets, whose number swelled with each passing year. Even in this bitter cold, he stank like someone who had been sleeping out for years: stale sweat, urine, alcohol.

Bird droppings covered the lifeless body in a thin, blotchy film, from the shoes up to the woollen hat. Perched on the struts overhead, a colony of pigeons ensured that the surrounding pavement was also soiled. Hardly surprising that most pedestrians passed under the railway line elsewhere.

A uniformed cop on his rounds at Nollendorfplatz had – after how many days? – discovered a pool of blood under the inert body and alerted Homicide at Alex. Sergeant Breitzke’s satisfaction at getting rid of the deceased without having to involve his own precinct was plain to see. No one from the 174th would be scrambling to investigate the death of an unwashed vagrant.

Placing a scarf over his nose and mouth, Böhm examined the corpse. A thin trickle of blood had run from the left nostril onto the pavement, forming a pool that had by now coagulated. Or frozen: at these temperatures it was impossible to say. Blood on the overcoat had seeped into the fabric.

Gingerly, Böhm scoured the dead man’s pockets, finding a ragged old service record, one corner of which was singed, as if its owner had taken a cigarette lighter to it. He unfolded the greasy, worn document. The reservist Heinrich Wosniak, born 20th March 1894 in Hagen/Westfalen, had joined the 1st Guards Reserve Infantry Regiment on the Eastern Front in August 1915, shortly before it was posted to Flanders. He had survived the trenches, only to perish in his soldier’s overcoat.

The majority of Berlin’s beggars wore soldier’s clothing; clothing that the men, often hideously crippled, had kept since the war. Having sacrificed their health for the Fatherland, no one gave a damn. There was little sympathy, and certainly no gratitude, for the men who had risked everything for the patriotism of those left behind…

‘Should I start securing the evidence, Sir?’ Detective Reinhold Gräf blew clouds of breath into the February air.

Böhm hauled himself into a standing position. Away from the dead man he could breathe freely again. ‘Please. Kronberg’s men are still in Wedding, we won’t be seeing them today.’ He gestured towards the evidence kit in Gräf’s hand. ‘We’ll just have to make do with what we have. Take a look around, see if you can’t find something. Cigarette stubs, footprints, that sort of thing. Not much footfall here. Any trace on the pavement could be a clue.’

Gräf put down the case and snapped open the lock. ‘What about fingerprints?’ he asked.

‘Leave that to me, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up. What kind of person leaves the house without gloves in this weather?’ Böhm looked around. ‘Where’s Steinke?’

‘Trying to get the camera out of the boot.’

Gräf took a packet of marking tags and a handful of evidence containers and got down to work; Böhm turned towards the uniformed cop.

‘Heinrich Wosniak. Name mean anything to you?’

‘I don’t know what any of that lot are called.’ The man had a Berlin accent.

‘Then perhaps you’ve seen him before?’

‘Come again?’

‘This is your beat, isn’t it? Maybe you’ve seen him somewhere? Begging, or sleeping on a park bench? Something like that.’

Sergeant Breitzke shrugged. ‘I’d need to take a closer look.’ The dead man’s head was so low on his chest, his matted hair so far over his forehead that his face was barely visible.

‘We can’t move him until the evidence has been secured. You’ll have to wait until then,’ Böhm said.

‘Hold on a minute!’ Breitzke sounded distinctly less bored as he gestured towards the pock-marked skin underneath the dead man’s hat. ‘It could be Kartoffel. He hangs around Nolle, over by the U-Bahn, cadging off passers-by.’

‘I thought you didn’t know what any of that lot were called?’

‘It’s a nickname.’

‘Kartoffel.’ Böhm said. Potato. ‘You don’t know his real name?’

‘Like I just said.’

‘Wait until we’ve finished with the camera. Then see if you’re right.’

Sergeant Breitzke appeared unenthusiastic, but nodded.

Böhm heard someone cursing quietly. Cadet Steinke had an unwieldy camera wedged under his arm, its heavy tripod draped over his shoulder. Böhm doubted whether the law graduate, who had come to the Castle straight from the lecture theatre, would amount to much. After almost nine months he still acted like a novice, except when it came to rank and pay grades. Even so, Steinke had a good chance of passing the year, which would make him a superior of Gräf, who lacked the ambition to sit the inspector’s examination but was a better criminal investigator. Böhm hoped that Steinke would flunk out; there were enough incompetent inspectors at Alex as it was.

‘Steinke, at last!’

‘I feel like a packhorse,’ the cadet said, administering a sharp kick to the dead man.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Checking he’s dead, not just intoxicated.’

‘If he wasn’t dead, we wouldn’t be here,’ Böhm said. ‘Don’t they teach you not to touch anything until the evidence is secured?’

‘Of course, but…’

‘Besides which: how about showing a dead man a little more respect?’

‘Forgive me, Sir, but this is a vagrant, a… down-and-out. I’m wondering why we’re here in the first place.’

‘Are you implying that a man like this doesn’t deserve to have us investigate the circumstances of his death?’

‘I’m just saying.’

‘Well don’t. Concentrate on putting up your camera, and get a move on.’

Steinke opened his mouth to reply just as a train pulled into the station above and drowned him out. He groaned and began unfolding the tripod stand.

Böhm fetched soot powder, brush and adhesive film from the evidence kit, and set about dusting the steel column. He didn’t find any prints near the dead man, but spied three about one and a half metres up, two of them well-preserved and one half-erased. He started transferring the prints onto the film as Steinke clicked the shutter release. The rivets in the steel column reflected the flash, and the garish light made the corpse look wan and dead for the first time, not just drunk.

Böhm took the prints to the murder wagon for labelling. Sitting on the backseat, he glanced through the window at the assiduous Gräf, who was lifting a cigarette stub from the ground with tweezers and marking its position; then at Steinke, who maneuvered the camera as if he still didn’t see why they were here in the first place.

‘A detective inspector in the making,’ he muttered, bagging the first print.

‘These days you need only be in the right party to forge a career.’

Böhm turned around. Next to the murder wagon stood Dr Magnus Schwartz, spruce as ever, in his right hand a black leather doctor’s bag.

‘Careful, Doctor.’ Böhm motioned with his chin towards Steinke. ‘These youngsters hear everything.’

‘The same to you, Böhm, but I won’t be silenced. This madness will pass soon enough. The elections are next week.’

‘Let’s hope so.’

These days people like Steinke, who had been part of the National Socialist Students’ Association at university, were in the ascendant, and it wasn’t only Dr Schwartz who hoped the Reichstag elections would change all that. Germany was still a democracy, however much the Nazis babbled on about a national uprising.

Schwartz set down his bag. ‘You’re not exactly here en masse,’ he said.

‘I’m just glad I didn’t have to cycle out, what with ED’s hands being tied.’

‘What can you do?’ Schwartz said. ‘There’s a lot happening right now. Another round of elections, our nation’s health at an all-time low. I’m telling you, it’s worse than any flu epidemic.’ He gestured towards the corpse. ‘This one hasn’t fallen prey to the new politics, mind.’

‘Nor the flu.’

‘You already know the cause of death? Then what am I doing here?’

‘He didn’t freeze either.’ They approached the corpse, where Steinke was taking close-up shots. ‘I think that’ll do it, Steinke. Let the doctor get on with his work.’

Sergeant Breitzke, who had been waiting patiently, saw his chance. ‘Excuse me, Sir,’ he said to Böhm, ‘but before the doctor… I mean: you said yourself that I should take a closer look at the dead man once he’s been photographed…’

‘I did?’

‘Because…’ Breitzke looked at his pocket watch. ‘It’s about time I got on with my rounds.’

‘Fine,’ Böhm said sternly. He gripped the deceased by the hair and carefully pulled his head up from his breast until Heinrich Wosniak stared at them reproachfully out of dead eyes. Scarring on the right side of his face really did call to mind a shrivelled potato. His right ear scarcely existed, and his right eye was missing its eyebrow. His face looked like odds and ends glued together, and there was no mistaking the bitterness in its features.

‘Yeah, that’s Kartoffel.’ Breitzke said. ‘Just like I said. Can I go now?’

‘The nickname’s apt,’ Böhm said. ‘What happened to him?’

‘A french flamethrower? Search me. He looked like that the first time I chased him off Nollendorfplatz.’

‘Chased him off?’

‘He could be a real pest. You have to do something.’

‘Off you go, Sergeant. Someone has to keep our streets safe.’ Breitzke saluted and was about to turn away when Böhm added: ‘See that you get your written report to me by the end of the day.’ Breitzke saluted a second time and made a swift exit.

Dr Schwartz leaned over the dead man. ‘Nasty burns. Second or third degree.’

‘So, they are a relic from the war?’

‘His scars aren’t as old as that. If you ask me, he sustained these injuries two or three years ago at most.’ Schwartz took a magnifying glass from his bag along with a little flashlight, which he shone inside the dead man’s nose.

Böhm looked on, growing more and more impatient the longer the doctor held his tongue. He shifted from one leg to the other, biting back the question on his lips.

Meantime, Schwartz had placed the flash between his teeth and was muttering to himself. ‘I’m not certain,’ he said, ‘but it wouldn’t surprise me if someone had driven a knitting needle through the poor man’s nose and into his brain.’

‘A knitting needle?’

‘Something like that, a long, sharp object. Simple but effective.’

‘Could it have been an accident? Was he trying to clean his nose with an unsuitable object?’

‘Not to speak ill of the dead, but I don’t think your man here cared much for hygiene. Besides: he’d still be holding the offending weapon. At the very least it would be lying somewhere close by.’

‘What can you say about the time of death?’

Schwartz gazed at the corpse. Frost and pigeon droppings made it seem as if it had been coated with icing sugar. ‘In these temperatures it can be hard to say. He could have been here for days. A frozen corpse doesn’t decompose in the usual way.’

‘Then I should wait for the results of the autopsy?’

‘I can’t see that the post-mortem will provide any more clarity. I could have the meteorological service send me the weather reports from the last few days, but even then, an exact estimate of the time of death is unlikely. The man could have been here a day, or a week.’

Böhm was disappointed.

‘The best thing would be to look for witnesses. Perhaps some passer-by knows how long the poor devil has been lying here dead, or at least unconscious. Damn it…’

One of the pigeons on the steel struts overhead had left a bright-coloured splodge on Schwartz’s dark winter coat. He tried to clean the mess with a lily-white handkerchief, but succeeded only in smearing the stain across his shoulder. ‘If pigeons could talk,’ he said, ‘then perhaps we’d be getting somewhere. Sadly all they do is coo and defecate. I suggest we get the corpse moved now. It’s too dangerous for me here. I’d rather continue in Hannoversche Strasse, where that lot are barred.’

Böhm looked at the corpse, examining the thin layer of faeces that covered it – and wondered if the pigeons couldn’t be of some use after all.

2

Wie kütt die Mösch, die Mösch, die Mösch bei uns in de Küch?

The voice of Willi Ostermann rasped from the loudspeakers, drowning out the babble of people jostling towards the escalators in the atrium of Tietz department store. Some resourceful salesperson had connected an electric turntable to the tannoy, so that even in Cologne’s largest mall there was no escaping the vernacular hit.

Listening to old Ostermann competing against the hum of shoppers, Rath felt as if he had never been away. The peculiar electricity that filled Cologne in the days leading up to Ash Wednesday fetched him home immediately. How many years had he been living in a city where this was alien? Sensing that familiar charge, he realised he had missed carnival fever – even the inevitable strains of the great Willi Ostermann.

The mannequins in the display window were decked out as gypsies, Mexicans, musketeers or clowns; they wore striped trousers and sparkly jackets, false noses and colourful little hats adorned with paper streamers. Stoical of gaze they watched shoppers barge past shelves full of wigs, masks and make-up, past clothes racks with slanted hats, short skirts and factory-made costumes. Everywhere was a sense of panic; only two days until Rosenmontag, and the start of the official parade.

‘It doesn’t have to be anything special,’ Rath said out loud. ‘Or original.’

‘You won’t find anything original at Tietz.’ The blond man next to him looked sceptical. ‘All of this will be worn a thousand times over in the next few days.’

Laughter lines formed under the elegant brim of the man’s felt hat. Paul smiled with his whole face, and looked on the world’s daily madness with a kind of fundamental, ironic detachment. Rath and Paul Wittkamp had been friends since childhood, since the Rath family had moved out to Klettenberg just before the war. Even if they didn’t see much of one another these days, a single glance was all it took to reconnect. For now, in front of a shelf of false noses.

Ostermann was replaced by Die Monacos. Der treue Husar blasted from the loud speakers.

‘The main thing is that no one should recognise me,’ Rath said.

‘Now, now,’ Paul wagged his index finger. ‘Behave yourself. You’ll soon be a married man.’

‘With the emphasis on “soon”,’ Rath said, reaching for the biggest rubber nose he could find. ‘Let’s celebrate Carnival first, like in the old days.’

He didn’t say why he really wanted to remain incognito during the festivities: that he was still afraid of being seen in Cologne by one of LeClerk’s reporters, and that it might all start again. The headlines back then, after the fatal incident in Neusser Strasse, had cut much deeper than he would admit even to Paul. Only in Berlin had he regained his equilibrium.

He examined the rubber nose, a real hooter complete with thick, black glasses and false moustache. Without further ado he held the disguise in front of his face.

‘How do I look?’

‘With a black hat and black frock coat you could be straight out of the pages of Der Stürmer.’

Rath glanced in the nearest mirror. He really did look like an anti-Semitic caricature, like one of the Isidor sketches Der Angriff had used to denigrate former Berlin Deputy Commissioner Bernhard Weiss.

‘You think I’ll cop it from the SA?’

Paul shrugged. ‘More likely from a Jew who thinks you’re making fun of him.’

‘There are thousands of these noses,’ Rath said. ‘Who knows how many people will be wearing them. But if I go for a red-and-white striped hat I’ll just look like an idiot.’

‘Do what you like, Gereon. But one thing’s for sure: with a get-up like that there’s no chance of you turning any heads. At least I won’t have to keep an eye on you.’

‘So, that’s what you had in mind?’

‘What kind of best man would allow his groom to stray from the path of virtue at this late stage?’

‘Do I look like I’m planning to?’

Paul laughed out loud. ‘Not with that nose!’ He clapped Rath on the shoulder. ‘Now for heaven’s sake go and pay for it, then we can head to mine and rummage through the dressing-up box. Or do you still want to go to Cords?’

‘No, I’ve had enough of department stores for one day.’

They had been traipsing through the shops all morning on the look-out for wedding rings, before striking lucky at a jeweller’s in Hohe Strasse, where they commissioned two simple but elegant rings which Paul would collect en route to the wedding in Berlin. There would be no risk of Charly seeing them before the big day.

Rath hadn’t skimped on cost, partly to ease his conscience. Even if he didn’t like to admit it, his trip to Cologne was a kind of escape from Berlin, from everyday life, from Charly. After months of toing and froing they had set a date, and the closer it came the more uncomfortable he felt. Paul’s invitation to spend Carnival together had been heaven-sent, especially with Gennat badgering him to use some of his overtime.

At the Schildergasse exit, Rath thought he spied a familiar face, but it took a moment for the penny to drop: ten years ago, when the Cologne Police was still under the supervision of the British occupying forces, a pickpocket, one of his first arrests. Schürmann, Eduard Schürmann, known as ‘Two-Finger Ede’. Apparently his three-year sentence had done nothing to rehabilitate him – not if his current overfamiliarity with a stout, bowler-hatted gentleman was anything to go by.

‘See you outside.’ Rath pressed his shopping into Paul’s hands and burst onto the street. Despite losing Ede’s brown hat for a time, he kept the fat man in his sights. The victim didn’t seem to have noticed anything, and Rath had no choice but to jostle past him to grab hold of Ede’s shoulder.

‘Aren’t you getting a little old for this?’

Eduard Schürmann froze and turned around. He was hiding something black behind his back.

‘Do we know each other?’

‘I see old habits die hard.’ Rath gave a friendly smile. ‘Still targeting the fatties, then?’

Ede’s face turned a shade paler. ‘Inspector,’ he attempted to smile. ‘Didn’t recognise you there. I heard you’d moved on to better things.’

‘Like you? No jack today, or was I too quick for you?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Jack Crook. You should hand it over. The wallet you just lifted. Unless you want to pay a visit to the big building next to Cords Department Store.’ Rath pointed towards the tower of Police Headquarters, which rose dark and menacing into the grey sky around Schildergasse.

‘That’s all in the past, Inspector. I’m a watchmaker these days.’ Schürmann had a strong Cologne accent.

‘You’re telling me you’ve taken up a trade?’

‘It’s true, Inspector, I was sent down, and I deserved it. But in Klingelpütz I decided to become a better man. I’ve got my own little shop. Here.’ He handed Rath a business card. ‘I’ve gone straight. Just ask my wife.’

Rath looked at the card, momentarily confused.

‘Ede Schürmann,’ he said. ‘The name doesn’t exactly inspire trust. Nor does the address…’

‘Call me Eduard, it sounds more respectable… and people by the railway station need watches, too.’

Meantime Paul had caught up. ‘What’s the matter? Do you need a hand?’

Rath pointed towards the fat man, whose bowler hat was moving further and further away in the milling mass on Schildergasse. ‘Stop that man over there. The fat one with the bowler.’

‘Has he committed a crime?’

‘The opposite. He’s the victim.’

Paul looked from Rath to Ede and back, as if waiting for an explanation. When none came he shrugged his shoulders and set off.

‘My friend will detain the man you robbed,’ Rath said to Ede. ‘And I’ll return his wallet.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Hand me the wallet and all is forgotten. Or how about the two of us stop in at Krebsgasse for a full body search.’

‘I really don’t know what…’ Schürmann hesitated and looked at the ground. ‘You mean this wallet?’

A black wallet lay on the pavement, closer to Rath’s feet than Ede’s. Ede made a move to pick it up but Rath got there first. The leather was still soft and warm, as if someone had been holding it in their hand. Rath opened it, finding a little change, a ten and a twenty-mark note, a few trading stamps, and, in the side pocket, an identification card of the sort the Brits had introduced during the occupation. The fat man had been a few pounds lighter in 1923. Wilhelm Klefisch, it said underneath the photograph.

‘Someone must have lost it. No wonder in this crowd…’

A stern look was enough to stall Ede’s explanation. ‘I’m nobody’s fool,’ Rath said. ‘If it wasn’t for my good nature you’d be dining out of town this evening. Is that clear?’

‘Crystal, Inspector.’ Ede bowed submissively.

‘We’ll be keeping an eye on you, Herr Schürmann. So make sure your fingers don’t go straying into any foreign pockets. Do we understand each other?’

‘Absolutely, Inspector.’

‘Good. Now scram.’

Eduard Schürmann gave a second bow and did as bidden.

Rath found Paul next to the fat man, who was gesticulating wildly. ‘Wilhelm Klefisch?’ he asked. ‘You’ve lost something.’

Klefisch felt in his overcoat before taking the wallet gratefully. ‘Thank you. Where did you find it?’

‘By the entrance to Tietz.’

Klefish opened the black leather wallet and counted the notes and coins. Once, twice, and a third time. ‘There are fifty marks missing,’ he said, looking reproachful.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure. I don’t want to jump to conclusions but…’ He looked to Paul for assistance, perhaps uncertain as to his role. At any rate he seemed to take Rath for a thief, albeit one with an unusually sophisticated trick.

‘You can rest assured…’ Rath took out his police identification, ‘if that money really is gone, then I didn’t take it.’

Klefisch examined the identification, still suspicious. ‘Well, someone must have.’

And I know who! Rath thought. Only, he’s long gone… ‘We can go to police headquarters and report it but, speaking as a police officer, I don’t hold out much hope. Anyone could have taken it in the crowd back there. Just be happy you still have your papers.’

‘Very well. Let’s drop it, but I must insist on taking your name.’

So much for my good nature, Rath thought, folding Ede’s card smaller and smaller in his hand.

3

After almost three hours rummaging through the archive and card-index cabinets, Reinhold Gräf entered the office waving the file in his hand. Böhm looked up from his desk. Steinke pretended not to be interested, but not even that arrogant little upstart could spoil Gräf’s mood, not now that they had Wosniak’s name on file.

The dead bum might have ruined his weekend plans, but at least they had a starting point. Luckily Conny never complained when the job got in the way. Gräf was grateful, of course, but what could he do? Police work and chance operations went hand in hand.

‘Our man from Nollendorfplatz is already on file,’ he said, placing the folder on Böhm’s desk. The detective chief inspector gave a nod of acknowledgement. From Böhm, that was as good as praise.

‘I can’t say I’m surprised, Sir,’ Steinke said with pointed boredom. ‘With an antisocial like that.’

‘If you’re so clever,’ Böhm said, ‘how is it you haven’t made police commissioner?’

‘All I’m saying, Sir, is that rooting through the files isn’t enough. You have to trust your instincts.’ Steinke tapped his chest. ‘I’d have bet any money that bum was known to police. As soon as I saw his face. A mug like that, you just know.’

‘Perhaps those instincts of yours aren’t as trustworthy as you think,’ said Gräf.

‘What do you mean? You said yourself he was on police file…’

‘Heinrich Wosniak does indeed appear on file, but not as a suspect.’

‘Then what?’

‘As a victim.’

Böhm opened the file. ‘Arson,’ he said.

Steinke came over.

‘Heinrich Wosniak was the victim of an arson attack,’ Gräf went on. ‘He survived by the skin of his teeth. Perhaps I could make my report?’

Böhm grunted his approval.

‘Heinrich Wosniak was the victim of an arson attack, which took place on New Year’s Eve ’31. Seven dead, three seriously injured, one of whom succumbed to his injuries five days later. All of them beggars or homeless. The wooden shack where they lived on Bülowplatz went up in flames.’

‘I remember. It was in the press. So one of the survivors is our man… Am I right in thinking it was a child who started it?’ Böhm asked.

‘Hannah Singer. Born 1916.’

‘Was she messing around with fireworks? How did it happen?’

‘It was no accident. Hannah Singer was picked up by colleagues outside the shack. The matches she’d used to spark the flames were by her feet. She had a whole suitcase of them; she sold the things.’

‘Why did she do it?’

‘If only we knew,’ Gräf shrugged. ‘According to our records Hannah Singer was interrogated a total of eleven times after the attack. Each of the transcripts is a page long. There are no answers, just questions. She didn’t utter a word.’

‘No discernible motive?’

‘No motive, but an interesting detail: Hannah Singer is the daughter of one of the victims.’

Böhm looked at Gräf. ‘What did you say?’

‘There was a theory the explanation could lie there, but not even the courts could prise it out of her.’

‘Is it possible her father abused her?’

‘Heinz Singer lost both of his legs in the war. The poor bastard wasn’t in a position to abuse anyone.’

Böhm nodded thoughtfully and leafed through the file. ‘An act of mercy perhaps? A kind of assisted dying for her crippled father.’

‘Death by fire as an act of mercy? What about the six innocents who died with him?’

‘Then hatred. There must be a reason for something like this.’

‘If there is, we haven’t found it. A psychological report certified Hannah Singer as paranoid schizophrenic. It seems life on the streets messed with her head. The judge had her committed to a lunatic asylum.’

‘Psychology!’ Steinke said. ‘Jewish mumbo-jumbo. Murderers belong on the scaffold, not in a lunatic asylum.’

‘She was only fifteen. Even with a full confession she wouldn’t have been executed,’ Böhm said. ‘As a trained lawyer, you ought to know that.’

‘Laws can be rewritten.’

‘Luckily not without a Reichstag majority. Which is something no one has… not even your Nazis.’

‘That could change.’

‘Enough big talk, Steinke. You’re a CID officer, or at least you soon will be. Whether you like it or not, you have to comply with the laws of the land.’

‘Can’t a man say what he’s thinking anymore?’

Böhm glared at him. ‘Our work would be a damn sight easier if you kept your opinions to yourself.’

4

Gereon Rath gazed at Charly with that strange look in his eyes, defiant, withdrawn, and yet above all surprised. He was on duty, suit rumpled, impatiently staring into the camera lens, hands nestled deep inside coat pockets. The photograph had been taken by Reinhold Gräf about two years before, at a crime scene in Tiergarten. Now it stood on her desk for the sake of her female colleagues, who had presented it last summer following her engagement with Gereon. Though given partly to tease the new girl in G, Charly hadn’t wanted to appear unappreciative. Besides, she liked it: Reinhold was a good photographer.

She caught herself thinking back to her time in A Division, when she had often struck out with him, questioning witnesses, even the odd suspect. Wilhelm Böhm didn’t seem to care that she had been hired as a stenographer; he’d recognised her talent. Police work had been enjoyable before she became a candidate for inspector.

Now she was part of the system and what did they have her doing? Investigating childish pranks.

The prints Superintendent Wieking had requested from the lab all bore the same image. A bare brick wall, the like of which could be seen a hundred times over in Wedding, Friedrichshain, Neukölln or any other workers’ district. Daubed across it in white: Deutschland erwache, Juda verrecke! Germany awake, Jew die! The penmanship was expert, as if the culprit had all the time in the world. Someone else had run a red line through the slogan and scrawled hastily underneath: Deutschland, mach die Augen auf, Hitler hat ein Ar(i)schgesicht!

Open your eyes, Germany, but then the “i” in Arisch was crossed out, rendering Hitler’s “Aryan face” Hitler’s “arse-face”. Reading the sentence, Charly couldn’t help but smile. Her colleague Karin van Almsick, meanwhile, studied the photos with deadly seriousness, magnifying glass in hand.

‘I don’t know why we’re only hunting those responsible for the second sentence,’ Charly said. ‘The point is, it’s forbidden to scrawl political slogans, no matter how nice they are to look at.’

‘It also depends on the message!’ There was astonishment in Karin’s voice at having to explain something so obvious. ‘Where would we be if any old lout could get away with besmirching someone else’s property?’

Any old lout. So, that’s why the photos had landed on Charly’s desk. Because the political police suspected the slogan was the work of a wild posse, and dealing with gangs of youths fell firmly within the remit of Women’s CID. The Politicals had enough on their plate with adults whose views were out of sync with the times.

‘I’ll bet you anything it was the Rote Ratten. They were scrawling that sort of thing everywhere last summer.’ Karin brought such zeal to the task that Charly started to feel ill. With her magnifying glass and checked skirt, her desk neighbour looked like a female Sherlock Holmes.

The Rote Ratten, or Red Rats, were teenagers from around Kösliner Strasse, who mostly engaged in harmless skirmishes with other youths, but occasionally angered the SA by daubing slogans across their Sturmlokal or tipping sand into the tanks of their cars. The Rats might not be easily integrated into any party machine, whether that of the Communists – who still held sway in Kösliner Strasse – or the Social Democrats, but they were, most definitely, Red.

Which was precisely why they were a thorn in Friederike Wieking’s flesh. Charly’s section chief made no secret of her delight that the new Reich chancellor was Adolf Hitler, nor that she hoped his cabinet would survive longer than the two months that had become customary in recent times.

Charly was among those who hoped the madness would soon pass, but the approval with which Hitler’s cabinet had been greeted among the WKP, the Women’s CID, sent a shiver down her spine. Not that the WKP was representative of Germany, and certainly not of Berlin. Charly couldn’t believe that the ‘national uprising’, as the Nazis had dubbed Hitler’s appointment, would be sanctioned in any way by a majority of Germans.

‘The Red Rats. Could be.’ She shrugged. ‘What happens if we actually catch them, and succeed in building a case?’

‘They’ll get their just deserts.’

‘Or be beaten black and blue by SA auxiliary officers.’

‘What if they are? A few slaps never hurt anyone. If their parents aren’t going to then…’

Charly stood up. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I need a cigarette break.’

Karin nodded. ‘If you go past the kitchen, can you put some water on? I was about to make us a fresh pot of tea.’

‘Of course.’ Charly attempted a smile.

She was glad not to encounter any colleagues in the kitchen as she filled the battered kettle and set it on the electric stove. Understanding the crimes the WKP handled – youth crime, girl gangs, underage prostitutes – she had quickly made her peace with it, even if she missed working in Homicide and envied Gereon his role with Gennat. But this, now? This was no longer about sitting on her backside in an overheated office, this was about turning innocuous pranks into serious political crimes; about hunting down gangs of youths who rejected the new Reich chancellor and, unlike so many others, were prepared to voice their scorn.

The canteen was equally quiet. She got a coffee and a slice of nutcake from the buffet. Though no great fan of cake, Charly sometimes treated herself to a slice in memory of the old days. Meetings with the portly head of homicide, Ernst Gennat, had almost always meant cake. For Gennat, too, Charly had been more than a stenographer; he had recognised her abilities.

Carrying her tray through the rows of tables, it was as if the memory of A Division somehow conjured the man sitting alone with a cup of coffee. Wilhelm Böhm, keeping his distance behind a pillar. ‘Evening, Sir. Mind if I join you?’

Böhm gave a start, but his expression soon brightened. ‘Charly! Of course, take a seat!’

She set down her tray. ‘Long time no see.’

‘You can say that again.’

The nutcake was far too dry, no comparison with the cake in Gennat’s office. She had to take a sip of coffee before she could continue.

Böhm bridged the silence. ‘How are you? Lots to do in G?’

‘Depends on how you look at it.’ She lit a Juno. ‘Mostly routine. No comparison with Homicide. Right now we’re turning harmless graffiti into serious crime.’

‘Times are changing. Only today I was advised not to expend too much energy investigating the violent death of a homeless man. Apparently the police have more important things to do.’

‘Gennat said that?’

Böhm shook his head. ‘Some jumped-up auxiliary officer. An SA man who was called by an angry citizen, this morning at Nollendorfplatz. Didn’t make any difference that there were only three of us in attendance, or that we were dealing with an unnatural death.’

‘Most civilians don’t understand what we do.’

‘Yes, but, thanks to our friend Herr Göring, this brown ignoramus gets to call himself a police officer. We can do without his sort at a homicide investigation. Auxiliary police!’

‘I’m sure that’s true of plenty of seasoned officers as well.’

‘It’s good to hear your voice, Charly. It reminds me of happier times.’

‘I’d be only too glad to be seconded to Homicide again.’

‘You know your superior doesn’t approve. Superintendent Wieking can be – how shall I put this? – rather forthright.’

‘You’re telling me!’ She stubbed out her cigarette, drank the last of her coffee and made to get up.

‘Actually, Charly, do you have a minute? I… I’d like to hear your opinion on something. It’s about…’ Böhm stirred his coffee cup even though it was empty. ‘It has to do with pigeon droppings and… God! I sound like such an idiot!’ The teaspoon landed on the saucer with a clink. ‘It’s best if I start from the beginning. Sit down, I’ll get us some more coffee.’

Charly thought of her office, her colleague, of the potted plants by the window sill, and the by now lukewarm tea Karin had brewed for her. She nodded, and took out her cigarette case for a second time.

5

Tea cups clinked on Frieda’s tray as she entered the drawing room, and Rath shifted uneasily in his chair. He’d have felt more comfortable at one of his mother’s coffee mornings than in the company of these two men. They looked on in silence as Frieda filled their cups, taking up the thread only when she had closed the door behind her.

‘Thanks for inviting me, Engelbert.’ The man by the window, sitting in the room’s most comfortable chair, stirred his coffee and leaned back.

‘Of course, Konrad. I know how important it is to relax between meetings. Carnival, an election campaign, and the city still needs to be run.’

‘Not for much longer.’ Konrad Adenauer gazed onto Siebengebirgsallee, where a black-painted official car was waiting. The chauffeur stood smoking by the garden fence. ‘I’m afraid I might soon have a little more time on my hands.’

‘How can you say that, Konrad? The Reichstag vote will give the Nazis something to think about, and a week later it will be the local elections. This madness will soon pass, mark my words. They lost millions of supporters in November; they’re on the way out.’

‘If only that were true.’ Their visitor sipped his tea. ‘No, no, Engelbert. My time as mayor is over. Our time is over. The Nazis won’t allow power to be wrested from them. Not now.’

The mayor pronounced the word “Nazi” with a short a, making it sound more like “Nazzi”.

Rath was afraid the conversation would turn to politics; it almost always did with his father, and with this particular visitor it went without saying. Engelbert Rath was proud to be on first-name terms with the mayor of Cologne, a friendship that had proved instrumental to his career as police director down the years.

Rath fished his cigarette case out of his pocket, knowing his father had refrained from his customary afternoon cigar out of consideration for the non-smoking Adenauer. Even so, he lit a cigarette and gazed out of the window. It was cold, and the chauffeur was back inside the sedan.

Engelbert Rath threw his son an angry glance, before answering. ‘Everything is still up for grabs. We’re in the middle of an election campaign, which is precisely the reason you refused to meet Hitler a week ago, a move I wholeheartedly agree with. The man was in Cologne as an electoral candidate, not in his capacity as Reich chancellor. Which is also why you had the swastika flags removed from the Deutzer Bridge.’

‘Correct. Because I want to see out my final days in office with dignity and resolve.’

Adenauer set down his cup and fished a piece of paper out of his pocket, unfolded it and showed it to father and son. A pamphlet. ADENAUER MUST GO, Rath read.

‘It’s the only message that brown rabble are pedalling. I’d like to continue as mayor after 12th March, but I’m not counting on it. Gussie and the children are prepared for defeat.’ Adenauer stirred his tea, his thoughts elsewhere. ‘Hitler should have been countered with force a year ago. It’s too late now.’

‘I refuse to indulge your pessimism, Konrad! Hitler’s cabinet exists only by the grace of Hindenburg. If the brownshirts overstep the mark, the Reich president will clamp down on them. As for the voters…’

‘Politically speaking, Hindenburg’s a fool,’ Adenauer interrupted. ‘Just like that schemer, Papen. Hitler’s working at our behest, he’s supposed to have said in his gentleman’s club. To think, a man like that once belonged to our party, the Westphalian fussbudget!’

‘Our constituents will never give the brownshirts their votes. Catholic voters will stay loyal to the Centre Party!’

‘Maybe, but you’re forgetting the women. This Hitler’s got them all running around after him.’ Adenauer looked out of the window, as if Germany’s entire female population was assembled outside the Rath villa. ‘We never should have given them the vote.’

‘I don’t know about that… my Erika certainly won’t be voting for the Browns. Nor will your Gussie.’

‘The elections won’t change anything. The streets belong to the Nazis, and have done for some time. If need be they’ll get what they want by force.’

‘Politics, eh?’ Engelbert Rath seemed unable to conceive of a future in which he could no longer call upon his links to the Centre Party or Social Democrats, and certainly not enough to get worked up about it. ‘There are more important things in life,’ he said, but Gereon knew he didn’t mean it. For Engelbert Rath there was nothing more important than politics, at least where it served his professional advancement. ‘How are Gussie and the children?’

‘Thank you, they’re in good health. Though the SA are getting more and more brazen since they’ve been allowed to pose as auxiliary police officers. You ask them why they are loitering by the house and they say they’re guarding the street. Can’t you do something?’

‘My hands are tied.’ The great Engelbert Rath appeared suddenly weak, his all-powerful façade crumbling. ‘The SA has a mind of its own. Its commanding officers aren’t easily incorporated into conventional police hierarchy.’

‘That’s what I’m talking about. Our time is up.’ Adenauer set down his tea cup.

Rath gazed out of the window. The chauffeur was outside again, lighting another cigarette. No doubt smoking wasn’t permitted inside the Cologne mayor’s official car.

‘How about you, young man?’ Adenauer asked, and it took Gereon a moment to realise the question was directed at him. The mayor fixed him with his narrow, Indian eyes. Without thinking, he sat up. ‘Can’t resist the pull of the Rhine?’

‘Just a holiday.’ Rath cleared his throat. ‘Chalked up too much overtime.’

‘How do you like Berlin? Settling in OK?’

Rath shrugged.

‘Gereon is soon to be married,’ his father prompted. ‘To a Berliner, born-and-bred.’

‘Well then, congratulations.’

‘Thank you, Mayor.’

‘Where is the marriage taking place? Here in Cologne?’

‘We… uh… we have… first we have to…’

‘Gereon’s bride is Protestant,’ Engelbert Rath said, and it sounded like an apology.

‘What can I say? Berlin.’ Adenauer shook his head, apparently surprised that a place like the German capital even existed. ‘You’re here for Carnival too of course?’

‘Yes, of course. I mean: as well.’ Rath felt as though he were being interrogated. ‘I’m here mainly to visit my parents.’

‘And your lady bride? Is she with you? You must introduce us some time.’

‘I… No. Fräulein Ritter is working. She’s a CID cadet and…’

‘A police officer?’

Rath nodded. ‘Yes. A very good one too.’

‘We’ve already had the pleasure of Fräulein Ritter’s acquaintance,’ Engelbert Rath said. ‘A charming young lady.’ He paused briefly. ‘I’ve mentioned to Gereon that there’ll be a Rosenmontag parade again this year. Thanks to your support, Konrad.’

‘It’s the Cologne business world you have to thank.’

‘Your modesty does you credit. Now, I wanted to ask: tomorrow on the town hall balcony… I should have said something sooner, but my son’s appearance has put me off guard… Would it be too much to ask if…’

‘Of course not. There’s always space for a Rath on the balcony.’ Adenauer’s gaze wandered from Engelbert to Gereon Rath. ‘It would be a great honour if you could join us tomorrow, young man.’

‘Oh, thank you.’ Rath was so dumbfounded he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

‘Think nothing of it.’ Adenauer looked at him with his narrow eyes. ‘Perhaps you’ll consider returning to Cologne one day. We could use men like you in these troubled times.’

‘I’ll think about it, Mayor,’ Rath said, knowing that he wouldn’t. He’d never persuade Charly to move to Cologne, not with Erika and Engelbert Rath so close by. Besides, Berlin was his city now, that strange metropolis that offered so little by way of homeliness, but somehow got under your skin.

Adenauer looked at his silver fob watch. ‘My driver will be getting impatient.’ He stood up and shook both Raths by the hand. ‘A pleasure, Engelbert. Believe me, I appreciate your friendship now more than ever.’

Engelbert Rath escorted the mayor out while Gereon stood at the window, lighting another cigarette. Adenauer’s car started up as Rath senior returned.

‘Box seats on the town hall balcony. To what do I owe the honour?’ Gereon said.

‘You just heard: you’re a Rath.’

‘What makes you think I want a box seat? Perhaps I prefer the worm’s eye view of the common man.’

‘This isn’t about what you want. At times like these it’s our duty as democrats to maintain a presence.’

‘Who says I’m a democrat?’

‘Gereon!’

‘Besides, how are the crowds looking up at us supposed to know? All they’ll see are bobbing heads. You know it’d be the same people on the balcony if we didn’t have a democracy, don’t you?’

‘Konrad Adenauer wouldn’t be there. You’ve heard what the Nazis are saying about him.’

‘It’s all talk. They won’t feel so big after the election. You and your party colleagues will be back on top.’

‘I hope you’re right, but Konrad sees things differently.’

‘Adenauer’s just tired of office. He’s always had a pessimistic streak.’

6

The place reeked of disinfectant, cold floor wax and cigarette smoke. Charly lit a cigarette to distract herself. Outside, in the park, leafless treetops were swinging in the wind. The grounds of the Wittenauer Sanatorium were expansive, but in winter the impression was of desolation. A few years ago it had been The Municipal Insane Asylum, Berlin-Dalldorf, a name that was far more familiar to Charly. Did you bust out of Dalldorf? children on the street would shout, or: mind you don’t get sent to Dalldorf!

Now here she was.

‘A Division want you to go to Reinickendorf and interrogate a girl,’ Friederike Wieking had said, ‘an insane Jewish arsonist.’

Charly hadn’t told her superintendent that she’d already discussed the case with Wilhelm Böhm and even briefly looked at the file. Wieking didn’t enjoy parting with her officers, but was loath to turn down a request from Homicide Chief Ernst Gennat. The reputation of the newly formed Women’s CID was greatly enhanced by having its officers seconded to other departments.

Charly had used Gereon’s Buick for the trip to Berlin North, knowing the S-Bahn would take too long. ‘You have a car?’ Karin van Almsick had asked in astonishment. Superintendent Wieking had insisted that Charly take her colleague, probably more as chaperone than aid. Charly had driven while Karin cowered silently on the passenger seat, pale-faced, one hand on the door handle, the other on her hat. Sitting in the room assigned to them by the asylum’s management – a visitors’ room with a vase of flowers on the table – her complexion was waxy-green.

Charly opened the Singer patient file, consisting mostly of the psychological report Böhm had already shown her. Hannah Singer had been interrogated on a total of eleven occasions in the weeks following the attack but hadn’t uttered a word. At some point a colleague from the WKP had also tried, with no better results than her male counterparts, a fact which neither surprised nor disheartened Charly. She leafed through the report.

What kind of girl were they dealing with?

Karin, whose face was slowly regaining its colour, had other things on her mind. ‘I still don’t know what we’re doing here,’ she said, sounding like a stroppy adolescent.

‘I thought Wieking had already explained. We’re questioning a juvenile arsonist. Gently. It’s possible there’s a link to an ongoing investigation.’

‘I got that – but what are we supposed to ask her? The girl’s a lunatic. How’s she supposed to help us?’

‘Why don’t you let me do it?’ Charly tried to sound maternal. ‘Do you know short-hand?’

‘Of course.’

‘Take some notes. I’ll do the talking.’

Karin didn’t appear to take umbrage at her demotion. On the contrary, she appeared relieved as she rummaged in her handbag, eventually producing a shorthand pad.

Charly returned to the patient file, finding an envelope at the back which contained a photograph: a soldier from the World War, in the uniform of a reserve corporal, gazing out with solemn pride, confident the war would be won. It was how they all looked before being called to fight. When they returned their eyes were haunted. It was true of Charly’s father and many more besides, assuming, of course, they’d made it home in the first place.

Heinz Singer, too, had looked different on his return. Charly had found his photo in the police file, among the victims from the Bülowplatz attack. The fire brigade had been on hand to douse the blaze, ensuring most of those who had suffocated in their sleep suffered no burns. Even so, the photo of the deceased Heinz Singer was shocking. The man was missing his legs, both high amputations.

Hannah’s father before and after being broken by war.

All of a sudden even Karin’s interest was piqued. The date and address of the studio were marked on the reverse of the photo. 26th August 1914. Photographie J. Neumann, Usedomer Strasse 5, Berlin N 31.

Charly took down the address and, as she was about to return the photo to the envelope, noticed a slip of paper with a paperclip still inside. Heinz Singer als Uffz. der Reserve, someone had scrawled, and underneath, the uniformed officer’s birth and death dates. 7.3.1890 – 1.1.1932.

‘Her father?’ Karin asked.

‘He was one of the victims.’

‘An army corporal? Among all those vagrants and tramps?’

‘He wasn’t a corporal after the war, but a cripple. A grenade caught him, he had to have both his legs amputated. He…’

The door opened with a slight creak. A nurse in starched whites stood in the doorframe, a female version of the boxer, Max Schmeling, holding the hand of a dark-haired girl in a light green nightshirt. The girl stared at the highly-polished asylum floor without lifting her gaze.

Charly returned the photograph and note to the envelope. The sister grasped the patient’s shoulders and shunted her into the room. ‘Hannah Singer,’ she said. ‘You wanted to speak with her.’ She thrust the girl onto the free chair and stood behind her.

Hannah Singer’s eyes remained stubbornly glued to the floor.

‘Many thanks, Sister…’ Charly said.

‘Charge Sister. Charge Sister Ingeborg.’ The sister glanced at her patient with disdain. ‘Don’t get your hopes up. Hannah has been with us thirteenth months and hasn’t spoken a word in that time.’

‘Is she mute?’ Karin asked, speaking of Hannah as if she were absent or hard of hearing. Clearly, she wasn’t: her hands, which lay flat on her lap, had twitched when Sister Ingeborg mentioned her name, her eyes likewise, pupils darting left then right, and back to the middle.

‘According to the doctor there’s nothing wrong with her. We assume she’s just chosen not to speak anymore. I wouldn’t either, if I’d done something like that. What is there left to say?’

‘Could I ask you to stop talking? So we can make a start.’ Charly addressed Charge Sister Ingeborg, but meant Karin too. Why couldn’t she just shut up for a change? Karin raised her eyebrows, reached for her pad and leaned back. She took the huff easily but was usually keen to make friends again. Charge Sister Ingeborg was more like a boxer limbering up before a fight. Perhaps she really was related to Max Schmeling.

Charly cleared her throat before beginning. ‘Can I call you Hannah?’ As Charly expected, Hannah Singer gave no response. She needed to be patient, see how the girl reacted. ‘A man died,’ she continued. ‘We think you knew him and that you can help us.’

She pushed the photograph of Heinrich Wosniak across the table. It had been taken at the morgue after the corpse had been washed. The lack of blood made it just about bearable to look at. The worst thing was the burns, but Charly couldn’t spare the girl those.

Hannah’s dark brown eyes remained fixed on the ground.

‘Don’t you want to look?’ No reaction. ‘Heinrich Wosniak.’

The eyes flitted briefly to the photo and back. Then to the photo again, disbelieving.

‘Do you recognise him? He survived the fire.’ Hannah’s gaze had returned to the floor. ‘And now he’s been killed, on the street.’ Silence. ‘They’re nearly all dead now. The men who stayed on Bülowplatz, in the Crow’s Nest.’ Crow’s Nest was the name given to the wooden shack by its residents, the Crows, a band of beggars and wastrels. ‘Now there are only two left. Gerhard Krumbiegel and you.’

A wrinkle appeared on the bridge of Hannah’s nose.

‘Do you know where we can find Krumbiegel?’

Hannah’s face gave little away, but the name Krumbiegel might have triggered something. The second survivor of the fire hadn’t had a fixed address in years. CID were only able to question him and Heinrich Wosniak when they were laid up in hospital in the immediate aftermath of the blaze. There was no getting hold of him now. They didn’t even know if he was still in Berlin, and they didn’t have a photo either.

‘Perhaps he can tell us something about Wosniak, if you don’t want to.’ Silence. ‘You were one of the Crows, weren’t you?’

Hannah’s eyes flashed with suppressed rage and protest, though against what, Charly couldn’t say.

‘You weren’t?’ Charly tried to catch the girl’s eye, succeeding for a brief moment. ‘But you lived with them. With your father.’ It was gone, Hannah’s gaze returned to the floor. ‘They didn’t treat you well, did they, the Crows? You had to beg for them…’ Silence. ‘Together with your father…’

Charly paused here, too. She didn’t want to insist, or put the girl under too much pressure, but provoking a reaction or two gave her hope. Hannah certainly wasn’t deaf.

‘Why did you start the fire? Did you really mean to kill the men? Or did you just want to give them a fright? Before it all went so terribly wrong…’ Charly opened the envelope in the patient file. ‘Your father died in the blaze. You can’t have wanted that. Tell me why you did it.’ She took the photo of Heinz Singer and pushed it across the table to lie alongside that of Heinrich Wosniak. ‘Or perhaps it’s precisely what you wanted? To… deliver him from his pain – because you couldn’t bear to see him that way?’

For the second time, Hannah lifted her face, staring at the wall, the ceiling, the tabletop and the vase of flowers, but never at the three other women in the room. Again and again her gaze returned to the photo on the table and the image of the dapper soldier until, finally, it rested there.

Charly thought she saw her trembling slightly, almost imperceptibly, like trees quivering in a breeze, until two dark-green blotches appeared on the pale green of her nightshirt and grew steadily larger. Tears. Hannah Singer was crying silently, releasing everything that had built up in the last fourteen months, and her trembling became more pronounced. Concealed within that tiny body it seemed there lay an unsuspected strength which was now ready to explode.

All at once, so suddenly that no one in the room was prepared for it, Hannah’s hand shot forward, grabbed the photo of her father and pressed it to her chest.

‘Is that your picture?’ Charly asked.

‘It was recovered from her father’s possessions,’ the sister said.

‘So it does belong to her.’

‘You’ve read the file, haven’t you? This little wretch torched her own father alive. Do you think she deserves a photograph of him?’ She planted herself in front of Hannah. ‘Give it back,’ she said. ‘This instant! It’s not yours.’ The girl cowered on the chair. ‘Let go, give it back!’

Before Charly could say anything or intervene, Charge Sister Ingeborg grabbed Hannah’s right hand and tried to prise the photo out of it.

Hannah folded her body inwards and pressed the image tighter against her chest.

For God’s sake let the girl go, Charly was about to say, but suddenly there came a cry so shrill that she had to cover her ears. Hannah was screaming at the furious charge sister, screaming right into her ear, as she scratched the fingernails of her left hand across her face.

Charge Sister Ingeborg touched her bloodied features and, before any of them could move, Hannah was on her feet and running as if her life depended on it. Just before she reached the door, Charge Sister Ingeborg sounded her whistle, ran two or three steps and dived like a goalkeeper saving a penalty, bringing the fragile girl flailing to the floor.

Charly stood up, unsure what to do. She ought to have helped bring the fugitive under control, but her instincts told her to tear Charge Sister Ingeborg away, to help Hannah. Suddenly, the door flew open and two men in white uniforms swooped on the screaming girl. One pressed Hannah’s arms behind her back while the other threw his weight on her flailing legs. Charge Sister Ingeborg plucked the photo out of her hand.

The wartime image of Heinz Singer was badly creased but still intact. Charge Sister Ingeborg lifted it like a trophy before placing it back inside the envelope.

The two men secured poor Hannah Singer in a straitjacket, apparently enjoying themselves, and dragged her from the room. Hannah would most likely be placed in a padded cell, or whatever they did with obstreperous prisoners, Charly didn’t like to think about it.

She couldn’t be sure, but for some reason she couldn’t help thinking that Charge Sister Ingeborg had been waiting for a chance to show this disturbed girl who was in charge. As for the police, who had dared disturb the tried and tested routine of the Wittenauer Sanatorium… Perhaps ‘insane asylum’ was the more appropriate term.

‘I fear your interview is over,’ Sister Ingeborg said. ‘I did say you wouldn’t get anything out of her.’ Her gaze said more still: if you hadn’t come here none of this would have happened. Why did you have to get the poor child so worked up?

‘What… what will happen to her now?’ Charly asked.

‘First she needs to be sedated. After that the ward doctor will decide.’

No doubt she hoped the ward doctor would plump for the most painful treatment he could find.

7

From the back of the town hall balcony, Rath looked over the heads of Cologne’s ruling class, seeing little but the gable end of the building opposite. He felt he didn’t belong, but neither would he wish to, unlike his father who had already moved two rows forward.

Still, not even Engelbert Rath could get next to Konrad Adenauer, who stood at the railing looking down on the Alter Markt and the crowd assembled for the Rosenmontag parade. That place of honour was reserved for the so-called Dreigestirn, the mad triad of virgin, peasant and prince.

Prince Franz’s long peacock feathers bobbed in time with the music as he thanked Adenauer for allowing the parade to be staged in this economic climate. When the voice of Willi Ostermann rasped inevitably from the loudspeaker, the tightly packed crowd linked arms and swayed from side to side, leaving Rath no choice but to join in. He had nothing against Carnival, only those for whom the event was an extended exercise in mutual back scratching. To his left a garishly made-up woman with yellow straw plaits, a red-and-white patterned blouse and blue dress; to his right a man with oversleeves who looked as if he’d prefer to link arms with Rath’s buxom neighbour.

No, his place was with Paul and their old friends by the cathedral.

It was time for the parade; the prince’s chariot awaited. Men in black suits and fool’s caps escorted prince, virgin and peasant into a room behind the balcony. Rath mumbled an apology and joined them. After descending a set of stairs they found themselves on the Alter Markt, where the triad was given a warm welcome. There was still time to join Paul and the others, perhaps even to get rid of the stupid fool’s cap given to him by his father, and find a proper disguise.

‘What are you supposed to be? A short-sighted Jew?’ Engelbert had asked as they were getting ready in Klettenberg. After a brief set-to, Rath had returned the rubber nose to his coat pocket and reluctantly donned the fool’s cap.

Floats were lined up on the Alter Markt, but it was apparent that money was scarce. None was higher than three metres, none ostentatious, and the whole thing felt as if it had been cobbled together at the last minute – which it more or less had. Carnival of yore, the slogan ran, but there was nothing historical about it. More as if the people were recalling a time when the Cologne Carnival was run by them and not the city’s festival committee.

Rath pushed close to the balcony and looked up. Konrad Adenauer stood impassively by the railing, and for a brief moment their eyes met. Rath wasn’t sure if Adenauer recognised him, but felt caught out and looked away. He hoped his father hadn’t seen him make his escape.

The parade began to cries of ‘Alaaf’ and children squealed for presents and sweets from the floats until a different, harsher, set of cries cut through the joy. A dozen brownshirts, forcing their way through the crowd towards the town hall, looked serious, out to provoke. The cries of ‘Alaaf’ fell to a series of whispers.

‘Adenauer an die Mauer!’ Adenauer for the firing squad. At first Rath thought he had misheard, but the brownshirts shouted again. ‘Adenauer an die Mauer!’

Adenauer was inscrutable, as ever. He pretended not to hear them, as if their language were not the language of his generation; as if it were beneath his dignity to respond. Engelbert Rath was near him now, looking nervous. Two uniformed cops accepted the kisses of girls in fancy dress, but otherwise followed the mayor’s lead, seemingly oblivious to what was going on.

Revellers began to look intimidated and parents shielded their children. No one condoned this, but no one dared react.

Rath was no great believer in Adenauer, but would not stand by and watch. Before he could cut in, however, men in the red uniforms of the Cologne Carnival Association encircled the brownshirts. The Rote Funken. The Red Sparks. There was a brief and intense exchange and the SA men left to the jeers of the crowd.

‘Three cheers for the Carnival Association. Kölle…!’

‘Alaaf!’ the crowd responded.

Rath looked up at the balcony. It was the Carnival stick-in-the-mud Adenauer who had initiated the chant.

‘The police have it good here,’ Rath said to one of the cops. ‘You have the Rote Funken as auxiliary officers. In Berlin it’s left to the SA and Stahlhelm.’

‘What do you want, man?’

‘What do you want, Inspector,’ Rath said, flashing his identification. ‘CID, Berlin.’

‘Enjoy yourself, Sir.’

‘You too,’ Rath replied, without meaning it.

8

Wrapped in a blanket against the cold February night, Berthold Weinert sat in his attic room on Schumannstrasse, staring at a blank page in his typewriter. He spent all his free time on his manuscript, and right now he had plenty to spare. Many of his stories weren’t picked up, and when they were the news desks paid less than before. Forced to give up his furnished room in Charlottenburg, he had moved into this shabby garret around mid-summer, not anticipating how cold it would get in winter. Times were hard.

His novel, started about a year ago after completing his never-to-be-filmed screenplay and his middling though nevertheless published account of the Graf Zeppelin, was a way of pretending to himself and his landlady that he was gainfully employed. The stupid thing was, of course, that there was no money in novel-writing, and no publisher would give him an advance.

Hearing fire brigade sirens, he reached for the telephone. The fire station was on Linienstrasse, just by Oranienburger Tor, barely a kilometre from his apartment. By their sound, the first tenders must be approaching Karlstrasse.

‘Hello, Siggi! Berthold here. What’s going on? Where…?’

Weinert quickly packed his notepad and pencil, reached for hat, coat, scarf, and gloves and ran into the street. The question was not so much whether the story was big, but how big given the location. An icy wind almost knocked him from his bicycle on the Kronprinz Bridge, but in five minutes he reached Platz der Republik where the first fire engines stood in front of the Reichstag.

He leaned his bike against a tree and looked around at firefighters rolling out hoses and cops holding people back, but no barrier yet. He plunged into the crowd, trying to establish the heart of the blaze. A burst of flame in a window near the main entrance… a ladder was on its way. Broken glass when a firefighter smashed a window with his axe. That must be the Reichstag restaurant. Had the fire broken out in the kitchen? In better times he had dined there with politicians.

A fire in the Reichstag was worth an inside page at least. With luck, and if the firefighters didn’t extinguish the blaze too quickly, it might even yield a major story. He climbed the stairs to the ramp in front of the main entrance, moving quickly but calmly while trying to look official. He could pass for a CID arson investigator, thanks to what he knew from Gereon, his ex-neighbour. Herr Rath had gone a little quiet on the story front recently. Some people had it too good.

Weinert’s gaze was drawn skywards, to the glass dome that crowned the massive building. Suddenly illuminated from inside, it was as if someone had switched on a giant light bulb. Firefighters and police officers stopped with him to look up, grimly fascinated, only to fall into an even more pronounced frenzy. More fire engines arrived, some of which were directed to the other sides of the building.

News that the Reichstag was on fire spread quickly. Police officers cordoned off parts of the square as more pedestrians arrived. The dome shone so bright in the misty winter night; even the golden Victoria on the Victory Column reflected the flames, sending word across the city: the Reichstag is on fire! One by one the glass panes of the dome shattered in the heat.

Weinert hoped his news colleagues would be late on the scene. Best if his story was exclusive!

He hurried to the south wing, where firefighters leapt from their vehicles and rolled out hoses. The entrance was open. He strode determinedly past the abandoned porter’s lodge and climbed upstairs. All he had to do was follow the hoses.

The smell of burning grew more intense. Pulling his scarf over his mouth and nose, he reached the hall where in recent years politicians had mostly debated in vain, since with Hindenburg’s blessing successive governments had done as they pleased. The frosted glass of the swing doors had shattered and a solid wall of flames burned on the other side. The enormous room consisted, in its entirety, of fire. A dim memory from his religious childhood told him that hell looked something like this.

The firefighters kept a respectful distance, hosing water through the doors and into the chamber, but still the heat intensified. Weinert gripped his hat and looked for something to hold onto. No one paid attention to him.

Part of the wooden panelling collapsed, sending sparks upwards like an army of angry glowworms. Entering the chamber was impossible, but he had seen enough, and he had to sell his story before someone beat him to it.

At the telephone booths near the southern entrance, he inserted a coin and asked to be put through to the Scherl-Verlag. He was on good terms with Hefner, the senior duty editor of Der Tag and, besides, he paid the best rate. Once Hefner heard his story, the morning edition would need a major rewrite.

‘Weinert here. The Reichstag is on fire.’

Hefner wasn’t surprised. ‘We’ve sent someone.’

‘Bet he isn’t inside the building though.’

Hefner put him through to a typist, and Weinert dictated his story directly into the receiver. More firefighters entered the building, their frantic, almost shell-shocked faces helping him find the right note, but he was astonished at his own fluency. That’s how it was when reporter’s fever took hold, and the story was big enough all right… He could see himself back in the editor’s chair he had lost three years earlier.

He was almost finished when a group of civilians entered, one of whom he recognised, a furious, fat man in a trenchcoat: President of the German Reichstag, Hermann Göring, recently appointed Reich minister without portfolio and commissar for the Prussian Interior Ministry.

Göring’s eyes flashed and in three steps he was at the telephone booth, seizing Weinert by the collar and yanking him out. ‘What are you doing here, man?’ Weinert was too stunned to speak. Was this the Reichstag president or some American gangster? The receiver dangled on its cable. ‘Are you one of the Communists responsible?’

‘Let me go so I can show you my press identification.’

Göring snorted with rage as Weinert searched his coat pockets.

A member of Göring’s entourage lifted the receiver. ‘Hello,’ he said into the mouthpiece. ‘Who am I speaking to?’

The typist had hung up, or simply didn’t answer. The man turned to Weinert. ‘Where’s this ID of yours? Give it here. Otherwise you’ll be spending the night at Alex.’ He sounded like a cop. What Weinert wouldn’t give for Gereon Rath to appear now from around the corner. He searched his pockets with both hands, growing more and more frantic.

The cop fiddled with the receiver. ‘Operator?’ he said, and Weinert was surprised at how friendly the man could sound when he wished. ‘Can you please confirm the recipient of the last call?’ Satisfied with the answer, he hung up and turned to Göring. ‘He was speaking with the Scherl-Verlag, Sir. What shall we do with him?’

‘Turf him out. The press has no business here.’

‘No need. I’m leaving of my own accord.’

Only now did Weinert realise his knees were shaking, and he was sweating despite the cold. He didn’t like to think what might have happened if he had been speaking with the offices of Vorwärts, or, even worse, the Rote Fahne. Or, for that matter, his former employer Mosse, a Jewish publishing house. At least the Scherl-Verlag was staunchly nationalist.

9

‘I’ve got the car outside,’ Charly said, reaching for a cold glass of kümmel. She had only come to pick up the dog, but the Spenerstrasse flat still felt like home. Everything looked as before: the pile of books next to the sofa, the dance dress hanging over the chair, the studied untidiness that gave the flat its sense of cosiness. The bottle of aquavit in the cooling basket by the window. She had been living with Gereon in Charlottenburg since August.

She held out her glass for a refill.

‘I thought your car was outside,’ Greta said.

‘My bedroom’s next door.’ Greta hadn’t let out Charly’s old room. Financially there was no need as her parents sent money regularly. Her father was an engineer, her Swedish mother an actress in Stockholm. She had a permissive attitude to affairs of the heart but had never made any secret of her aversion to Gereon Rath, even less her aversion to marriage.

It was true that Charly had spent the odd night here since moving in with Gereon, and sometimes asked herself where she would go if circumstances changed. So, she accepted a third glass. After a day like today she needed to let her hair down.

Having completed their report on the failed interrogation at Dalldorf, Superintendent Wieking had insisted that she and Karin question a few girls who had been picked up by Warrants in Wedding, suspected of having something against Hitler’s looks. Charly pitied their falling into police clutches, knowing that Wieking wanted to make an example of them. If there had been any trace of paint on the girls, she’d have omitted it from the statements.

Since Dalldorf she and Karin had switched roles. Now her colleague asked the questions while Charly silently made notes. There was no proof, but the episode had done nothing for her mood, since she’d promised Greta that she’d collect Kirie just after six. As she had done each day since Gereon left for Cologne.

‘Has she been out yet?’ Charly asked.

‘Not in the last three hours.’ Greta raised her eyebrows. ‘We were waiting for someone.’

Five minutes later they were strolling down Calvinstrasse towards the Spree, past dirty snow at the side of the road, wind buffeting the trees as they crossed the river and walked along the path towards Bellevue Palace. Kirie sniffed at every streetlight but eventually relieved herself against a tree.

‘Are you going to tell me who ruined your day?’ Greta asked. ‘Karin van Almsick or Gereon Rath?’

‘What do you mean: Gereon?’ Greta could read her mind. ‘Gereon isn’t even in Berlin.’

‘Precisely. Has he been in touch?’

‘No.’

‘You see.’

‘He’s probably been trying. I haven’t been at home much in the last few days.’ Greta’s gaze said: You’re protecting him, even though he doesn’t deserve it. ‘No.’ Charly sighed. ‘I take full responsibility for my mood. I’m just not a very good police officer.’

‘Uh-oh,’ Greta said, linking her arm in Charly’s. ‘Keep on like that and I suggest we turn straight around and finish that bottle. If we run out of Aquavit, there’s a tasty Cognac to follow.’

‘You realise that approach is straight from the Gereon Rath book of problem-solving?’

Greta shrugged. ‘So what?’

Crossing the Luther Bridge, Charly gazed upon the goods station and the gurgling darkness of the Spree, and, not for the first time, was surprised at how the city seemed to set the night sky aglow. The ‘Golden Else’ on top of the Victory Column towered over the dark treetops of the Tiergarten, shining like a torch. Yes, the golden figure of Victoria that soared fifty metres above Platz der Republik was actually flickering in the darkness… but the glow of the sky was irregular, glimmering now here, now there. ‘Something’s not right,’ she said.

‘Come again?’

Charly recalled hearing fire brigade sirens as she stepped out of the car on Spenerstrasse. A common enough sound in Moabit, she had thought nothing of it.

‘What do you think it is?’

‘How should I know? The Kroll Opera House has gone bust, hasn’t it? Wouldn’t be the first time someone had started afresh with help from their insurance.’

‘Trust you to think of a crime…’

‘Professional hazard.’

‘It’s more likely someone’s testing out a new sign.’

‘It smells like burning to me.’ The glow was no neon sign! If she looked closely she could see naked flames reflected in the gold of the statue of Victoria.

Without exchanging another word, the two friends stepped off the bridge. Their destination was no longer Moabit, but the source of the flames. Kirie followed begrudgingly when she realised they weren’t going home. Charly had to pull on the lead. It was Monday evening, just after ten.

10

Strapped to the metal frame of the bed, she deliberately kept herself awake. She was used to the ghastly cries of her fellow inmates. It had nothing to do with them; nothing to do with the night-time lullaby. It was a only matter of time before Scholtens appeared; after midnight – soon – when the checks were reduced to two-hourly intervals.

The first time he assaulted her he hadn’t thought it necessary to keep her mouth shut or gag her, but taken her as she lay strapped to the bed. Knowing that no one would come, that her cries were only one part of Dalldorf’s nightly concert of horrors, he let her scream and her helplessness only aroused him further. Next time, when she refused to scream, he hit her until she started. He revelled in torturing her, but tonight she was ready, with the paperclip that had been attached to her father’s photograph in her mouth. By the time the warders overwhelmed her and Charge Sister Ingeborg had wrestled the photo from her hand, she had it. No one had seen a thing.

Spitting it out and bending it open, she used it to prise open the clasp that secured the bed straps. It didn’t take long, and when she was certain no one was watching she fetched a glass shard from under the radiator. She had hidden the long, pointed piece of glass weeks before when she had broken a vase in the corridor, kicking a stray fragment under the bed in her room. When they loosened her restraints a day later it was still under the bed. She had wrapped its butt end in fabric and hidden it under the radiator.

She didn’t know if it would keep Scholtens away in future, or provoke him and make things worse, but she did know this: tonight it would be him that screamed.

There was no sign of him. She had fantasised her revenge so often and so vividly that she felt disappointment. At last she heard footsteps as the cries of inmates fell away.

Her door had no handle on the inside, but she knew he was coming by the shadow in front of the little glass window. The door scraped open and a figure in white uniform squeezed in, but it wasn’t Scholtens. The man wedged a chair in the crack. No master key, so he couldn’t be one of the staff. She had an inkling of who… but then she knew. She knew before she heard his voice.

‘You’re awake. That’s good.’ She felt him looking at her, even if she couldn’t see his eyes. ‘Defenceless, too. Lucky me.’ Rummaging in his overalls he took out a long, sharp dagger. ‘See this? A single, well-directed thrust and the lights go out. That’s the cleanest way, but you don’t deserve a quick death.’

Hannah clasped the glass shard she’d wanted to drive into Scholten’s arse.

When the police officer had showed her the photo of the dead man, Hannah couldn’t make sense of it, realising only that Huckebein was back. Even so, she’d never have believed things could move so quickly.

Huckebein. Peg Leg. With a single jerking motion, he pulled her pillow away and her head struck the mattress. For a moment she was afraid that the surprise manoeuvre might have revealed her unrestrained arms and legs, but Huckebein was concentrating on her eyes. The bastard was grinning. He held the pillow in both hands and pressed it hard against her face. Her mouth and nose were blocked, as if taped shut. She tried to think clearly, rearing so that the straps didn’t slip down. Her hand closed around the shard, gripping the fabric at the end. The first blow had to hit home, had to incapacitate him at least temporarily. She couldn’t just stab blindly. His back would be the best place, right in the middle of his back. Now!

She thrust with the glass for all she was worth, heard him yelp, sensed the pressure on her face immediately recede. She pulled the shard out and drove it into his body again, only now rolling from the bed and running for the door.

Huckebein held his thigh and hobbled after her, but lost his balance and fell to the ground. ‘I’ll kill you, you bitch!’

She pulled the door shut, trapping him inside with no handle to turn, and ran down the corridor. Let him pound at the door, let him rant; raving lunacy was normal here. He wouldn’t get out until the night team made their next inspection. Or when Scholtens came…

She had to get out of this shitty madhouse first. She wasn’t crazy. A murderer, yes, but she wasn’t crazy. She had to go where they couldn’t touch her. Only, where? This was the secure wing and all she was wearing was an asylum nightgown, open at the sides. She pulled a pair of rubber boots from a cleaning cupboard over her bare feet and helped herself to three overalls from the hook.

Behind her, in the half-darkness, a door crashed open.

She pulled the door of the cleaning cupboard quietly shut, sure of only two things: Huckebein couldn’t find her here, and she had to get out of the building. If he had entered undetected, there must also be a way out. She listened. He was moving in her direction.

She curled into a ball, groping in the dark for the glass shard, but she must have dropped it in her mad flight.

11

Rath found himself lying on the floor looking at a huge pair of black ears. Closing his eyes again he tried a second time, lifting his eyelids slowly and carefully – to see the same thing: a pair of oversized mouse’s ears on the dusty floor. They were made of cardboard with leather straps that could be buckled on. Under the sofa were the remains of a carnival outfit. Gradually it dawned on him what it was, and to whom it belonged: Mickey Mouse. One of a pair. Two girls who had accompanied them to the bar on Eigelstein straight after the parade and then…

On the walls stood shelves and cases of wine and, in front of the windowsill, a desk. He couldn’t see much outside save for a bare brick wall and a few shorn trees, but the view was familiar. The furnishings even more so. How many times had he sat here in the past? He tried to sit up, but the steam hammer in his head pounded so hard he had to stop. Next to the sofa was an open case of wine with wood shavings sticking out. He stood up, letting the thin woollen blanket that had covered him fall to the floor. At least he was wearing underwear. Had he fallen from the sofa or lain deliberately on the carpet? He couldn’t remember, but someone was snoring under a bedcover on the sofa. Blonde hair glistened in the daylight that filtered through the window into the room. He pushed an empty wine bottle across the floor with his foot. The bundle on the sofa sighed and turned over. One by one the memories returned.

The Mickey Mouses had been standing in the shadow of the cathedral. After linking arms to sway to the music, they had wound up in a bar on Eigelstein that Rath didn’t know, but which Paul claimed was the best place to go after the parade. Mickey and Mickey needed no second invitation. One was blonde and the other brunette; the blonde had talked a lot and the brunette gave the occasional smile. But what a smile it was! Paul must have thought so too since at some point they made themselves scarce, leaving Gereon alone with the blonde.

So, what now? she had asked, and he had shrugged and ordered another round of champagne. They clinked glasses and when he made no move to kiss her, she pushed the false nose and moustache onto his forehead and seized the initiative. He didn’t resist.

A faithful soldier, without fear… The song was blaring from the loudspeaker as they left the bar. He led her through the night-time streets as if he had a destination in mind which, to his surprise, he did: Paul’s office on Sudermanstrasse, which he entered with the lockpick that Bruno Wolter had taught him how to use.

What an arsehole! Breaking into his best friend’s wine store because he and some girl he’d picked up needed a place for the night. At least he’d had the good sense not to call on his parents. He squinted across at the make-up smeared face. She wasn’t bad looking, the type he always went for when he was drunk.

His socks and shoes lay beside him, but he needed longer to find the rest. At first, all he could lay his hands on was her outfit: short red trousers with big black buttons, full length black knitted stockings and white gloves. With each item a new memory arrived. How he had taken off her trousers and stockings, and more besides – after opening one of Paul’s cases and helping himself to a bottle of red wine. God, he had been out of control! They had taken it in turns to swig from the bottle, kissing, pawing and stripping one another as they went. Her giggling hadn’t stopped him, even though giggling was something he really couldn’t stand.

His trousers were under the sofa behind the black cardboard ears. His shirt was there too. Jacket and overcoat lay beneath the desk, which left only the fake moustache-and-glasses combo from Tietz. The sofa yawned softly and he turned around. Two bleary eyes squinted at him.

‘Good morning,’ he said.

‘You’re up early.’

‘I didn’t want to wake you.’ He couldn’t remember her name, and where was that goddamn false nose? He looked behind the desk and underneath the chair.

‘Looking for this?’ She pulled it out from beneath the cover. The wire rim was bent out of shape. He put it in his pocket. The girl seemed to find the whole business a good deal less embarrassing.

He threw the black stockings and Mickey Mouse outfit onto the sofa. ‘Get dressed,’ he said. ‘The cleaning lady will be here soon.’

‘No breakfast?’

‘Not here.’

He turned his back, a slave to his Catholic upbringing and afraid he’d give the wrong impression if he got an erection.

She looked around. ‘Is this your office? Are you a wine merchant?’

‘Something like that.’

When she was dressed, he led her through the store onto the road, letting the door click shut. Hilde, he remembered now, Wilde Hilde. Not even that had deterred him.

It looked as if a bomb had gone off on Eigelstein. The street cleaners hadn’t cleared the paper, broken glass or other rubbish, let alone the less appetising deposits. He led her to a little cafe on the Hansaring.

‘Let me order,’ she said. ‘I know a good hangover cure.’

‘Who said anything about a hangover?’ Rath asked, making such a pained face that she laughed out loud before going to the counter, then the toilet.

Rath lit an Overstolz and hoped in vain that she would slip out through the rear exit. By the time Wilde Hilde returned the waiter had set down two glasses of a brown, fizzy liquid.

‘What’s this?’ Rath asked. The smudged make-up was gone; Hilde had pencilled over her eyebrows and applied fresh lipstick, an ordinary civilian once more.

‘Try it.’ The drink was ice-cold, and tasted sweet as lemonade, only better. ‘So?’

‘It’s good,’ he said.

‘It’s called Afri-Cola.’

‘Are they paying you for this?’

‘Something like that.’ She lit a cigarette. ‘I work at their offices.’

‘Where?’

‘Blumhoffer in Braunsfeld.’

She smoked Juno, the same brand as Charly. He made his excuses and went to the toilet, running the cold tap and silently cursing his reflection. At least he recognised it: unshaven, hair tousled, dressed for carnival, otherwise presentable. No worse than most Cologners the day after Rosenmontag. He splashed cold water on his face and ran his hands through his hair. He felt better already; this Afri-Cola stuff seemed to work.

Back in the cafe, he ordered two more Afri-Cola and sat with Hilde for a final cigarette. At some point she asked about the scar on his shoulder and he let her believe it was a relic from the war. After placing a five-mark note on the table, he gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Sorry, but I have to…’

‘Will we see each other again?’

He shrugged and went on his way.

Outside, on the Ring, he made for the telephone booth by the tram stop on Platz der Republik, within sight of the Eigelstein gate, and called Paul. He let it ring for a long time, but no one picked up. You should have left a note, he thought, but it was too late now. He bought a ticket and the morning paper and climbed aboard the next tram. He had to go home to his parents, shower and put on fresh clothes. Then shoot himself.

He boarded the number sixteen tram and opened the paper. It was one of LeClerk’s, the man who’d forced him out of Cologne four years ago. Assassin, the press had dubbed him for days and weeks, Officer Trigger-happy. Now Berlin was where he belonged, with Charly, not in Cologne. This city was drunk on itself; it could stick its ridiculous excesses. The headline jolted him instantly awake.

Reichstag in Flammen. Holländischer Kommunist verhaftet. Reichstag in flames. Dutch Communist arrested.

Was the Red Front finally hitting back at the Nazis? He leafed through the paper, reading everything he could find on the story, almost forgetting to change to the twenty-one at Barbarossaplatz. Most Cologners were busy dealing with the aftermath of Rosenmontag, and perhaps they were right. What did they care what these idiots in Berlin were up to? Communists, Nazis, it was all the same – even if the danger of civil war had never been greater than since the brownshirts installed their Chancellor. Did this, now, mark the start? Surely not; the Communists in Berlin were braggarts who favoured words over actions.

Adenauer had said: Hitler should have been countered with force a year ago. It’s too late now. Was it really? Wasn’t there an election on Sunday? Germany had been transformed into a madhouse in the last two or three years, but Nazi support was on the wane. A little patience and normality would soon be restored.

He alighted the tram on Luxemburger Strasse. The smell of roast meat wafted through the hall as Frieda opened the heavy front door. In the Rath household, lunch was taken at twelve thirty whether or not the world outside was coming to an end.

‘Herr Rath!’ The girl regarded him wide-eyed. ‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’

12

The corridors of the Wittenauer Sanatorium smelled of cabbage and bratwurst. Charly’s stomach rumbled as she hurried along the shiny corridor, trying her best to keep up with Charge Sister Ingeborg. After Böhm’s call she hadn’t hesitated, had dropped everything and headed back to Reinickendorf, alone this time.

‘You’re going back?’ Karin asked, wide-eyed. ‘Why?’

‘Because the girl we questioned yesterday escaped last night.’

‘So what? That’s up to Homicide to investigate.’

That was true, but Charly wanted to know what had happened in Dalldorf. ‘Hold the fort,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back in two hours.’

On the way she had stopped by the Reichstag to see how it looked in daylight. The smell of burning still filled the air, and the kitsch glass dome was reduced to a sooty steel skeleton. She doubted whether the Communists were responsible for the arson, as the papers claimed, but hadn’t said anything at the office, revealing neither where she’d been last night, nor her reservations about the arsonist’s identity. Why should the Communists dredge up some Dutch comrade, then ask that he, of all people, set fire to Parliament? If they really wanted to go for the Nazis, why not hit the SA Sturmlokale found all over the city? Or the Reich Chancellery itself? Or, for that matter, the Interior Ministry, where Göring was doing his best to turn the Prussian Police into a political brute squad?

Only two weeks earlier he had decreed that enemies of the state should be ruthlessly gunned down. In other words, the Communists. And Thälmann’s men were supposed to have set fire to the Reichstag now, giving Göring the ideal pretext for even more stringent measures?

Cui bono? Who stands to gain? Once the question was asked, there was only one answer: the one Greta had given instinctively when they passed the Kroll Opera House and realised what was happening. ‘It was the Nazis.’

Remembering brought tears to Charly’s eyes. The Reichstag had been the symbol of the German Republic but the Nazis called it Schwatzbude, talking shop. They had filled more and more seats in the place, until November last year when, for the first time, they’d lost votes, two million in all. Charly hoped the downward trend would continue on Sunday. At some point Germany must come to its senses.

With the help of her CID identification, she and Greta had bypassed the police blockade with Kirie, spying Hitler himself from a distance as he arrived with Goebbels. The pair looked more like gangsters than statesmen. She hadn’t seen fattie Göring, but he had been there too according to Gereon’s journalist friend Berthold Weinert, whom they met at the southern entrance and accompanied to an automat. It had been a long night.

Now Charge Sister Ingeborg was talking about the fire and, for a moment, Charly thought she was trying to pin the blame on Hannah Singer. That was impossible, however. At half past nine the girl had still been strapped to her bed. The last inspection had taken place at eleven, and the alarm raised at half past midnight.

The door hung on its hinges; the glass of the viewing window was shattered, the bolt wrenched from its moorings. It looked like the work of a crazed gorilla, not a sixteen-year-old girl.

‘Here it is,’ Charge Sister Ingeborg said, regarding Charly with disdain. It’s your fault that brat broke out, her gaze told her, if you hadn’t shown up, we’d have been spared all this!

‘Thank you, Sister, that will be all.’

The charge sister turned on her heels and clattered down the corridor.

Charly almost stepped in the pool of blood on the floor. The trail led from the door to the bed, where a man was examining the buckles on the leather straps. ‘The work of the great Houdini?’ she asked.

‘Charly!’ Reinhold Gräf said. ‘Did Böhm send you?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You’re starting to sound like Gereon Rath.’

‘Is that a compliment?’

‘You ought to know. You’re the one marrying him.’ Reinhold had put up with a lot down the years, but he and Gereon were still good friends. ‘The great Houdini indeed… At any rate the girl picked the lock. And then…’ He gestured towards the door. ‘Then she must have kicked in the door and taken the fire escape.’

‘You think Hannah Singer did this? Have you seen her? Hercules she is not.’

‘You wouldn’t believe what crazy people are capable of.’ Then he asked the same question as Böhm. ‘Why did she run? Do you think it could be linked to your interrogation?’

‘Looks that way. As if I frightened her, but I wouldn’t know how.’

‘Wosniak’s death?’

‘She hardly reacted to his photo, but I think she recognised him. Not that she said anything during the interrogation, just sat there. Until I showed her the image of her father. She flipped as soon as the sister tried to reclaim it.’

‘Sounds crazy, but that’s what she is, and an arsonist to boot.’

‘At least she can’t set fire to the Reichstag. How hard can it be to find a girl running around in a hospital nightshirt in winter?’

‘There are more dangerous arsonists out there.’ All of a sudden Gräf was serious. ‘The police are finally taking action against the Reds.’

‘You really think the Communists are responsible?’

‘Who else?’

Charly didn’t say what she was thinking. ‘Perhaps this Dutchman they picked up is the crazy one.’

‘You shouldn’t play down the Communist threat. Germany’s future is at stake. We can’t just stand idly by and watch.’

‘You’re right,’ Charly said, knowing Reinhold had a different kind of political engagement in mind. Suddenly she felt sad; Reinhold had once been her favourite colleague. ‘Anyway, let’s get down to it, start looking for clues.’

Gräf gave a sour smile. ‘The blood in the corridor had already been wiped by the time I arrived. I just about managed to prevent the cleaning lady from tackling the room.’

‘Cleaning is our national obsession.’

‘At least she could still tell me where it’d been.’

‘Let me guess: the trail led from Hannah’s room to the fire escape. I don’t understand.’

‘What don’t you understand?’

‘The tracks in the room.’ She gestured towards the bed and surrounding floor. ‘Why is there blood everywhere if she only injured herself on the door?’

‘Maybe she went back to pick something up.’

Suddenly Charge Sister Ingeborg stood in the doorframe. ‘Excuse me.’ The sister looked at Gräf, Charly being unworthy of her gaze. ‘But… we found something. The cleaning lady…’

Moments later they stood in a small, windowless room which held bucket, broom, scrubbing brush and all kinds of cleaning agents, with a small, wiry woman in an overall.

‘This is Frau Blaschke,’ Charge Sister Ingeborg said. ‘Show the inspector what you found.’

‘Detective,’ Gräf corrected.

The cleaning lady reached behind her back as if she were holding a surprise present. A bloody, oblong shard of glass. The butt end was bound with tape and looked like a knife handle. ‘Herr Gräf…’

‘Detective Gräf,’ Charge Sister Ingeborg said.

‘Right. Detective Gräf says I should stop cleaning, so I take my things back. And then I find this here, on the floor.’ She pointed towards a dark corner near the door.

Charly took the glass knife from her. ‘Have you ever taken blood from Hannah Singer?’

‘Of course.’ Like Frau Blaschke, Charge Sister Ingeborg was confused that a female officer should be in charge.

‘Then you’ll know her blood group.’

‘It’s in the patient file.’

‘Then let’s get the knife to the lab so we can determine the blood group and compare it with the tracks on the floor. I bet they’re identical, and that they don’t match Hannah Singer’s.’

Gräf nodded thoughtfully. He understood what Charly was getting at.

‘That’s… I don’t believe it!’ The cleaning lady stood at a hat and coat rail with two overalls on it, exactly the same as hers.

‘What is it, Frau Blaschke?’ Charge Sister Ingeborg asked.

‘I’ve only just realised, but… the overalls. Half of them are gone. They only came back from Laundry yesterday.’

13

They really had been looking for him everywhere. Rath didn’t find out why until after lunch, during which, apart from grace, not a word was spoken. Engelbert Rath said nothing over the soup, nothing over the meat course and nothing over dessert. His father was a master when it came to the silent treatment, instilling guilt feelings in Gereon from a young age. Somehow this silence and its accompanying gaze of disappointed indifference worked on him still. How, he wondered irritatedly, was it possible to see through a man yet remain so utterly in his thrall?

Lunch over, he was called into the study, where in bygone days Engelbert Rath had presided over his children’s misdemeanours like almighty God. Even now it was clear he was brooding over his wayward third son. He skimmed through his papers, stacked them neatly together and shifted them around a huge desk.

Rath still felt hungover, though his symptoms were mainly psychological. The shower had helped with the physical side, but his guilty conscience was harder to shift. At last his father broke the silence. ‘You didn’t stay on the balcony for long yesterday.’

Engelbert Rath didn’t come at you with questions, but statements and accusations.

‘I had an invite from Paul Wittkamp. Like I told you.’

‘You had an invite from the mayor too.’

‘I came, didn’t I?’

‘You disappeared after ten minutes.’

‘Half an hour. I didn’t ask to parade around with the big shots on the town hall balcony.’

‘Konrad and I were doing you a favour.’

‘Thank you.’

‘There’s no need for sarcasm. Are you one of those who refuse to acknowledge our mayor since the Nazis started agitating against him?’

‘He isn’t my mayor.’

‘You know what I mean. Are you avoiding him because it’s politically opportune?’

‘Political opportunism is more your domain. I already know how it feels to have your friends desert you overnight.’ Rath lit an Overstolz, knowing his father would hate it. ‘Konrad Adenauer isn’t my friend. He’s yours. Don’t take it out on me if your cabal is vanishing into thin air. You backed the wrong horse. The Centrists are out. You’d have been better off with the Nazis.’

‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this from my own son. Konrad Adenauer is my friend and, precisely because he is having a rough time politically, I took the opportunity to stand by his side. I’d have welcomed you being man enough to do the same.’

‘I wanted to enjoy Carnival, not play at politics.’

‘Politics happens whether you like it or not. We need to ensure it’s conducted by the right people.’

‘I’m a police officer.’

Engelbert Rath slammed his fist against the paper on his desk. ‘What do you think this is? The Reichstag on fire. Politics! As well as being a police investigation.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Berlin called. Several times.’

‘Police headquarters?’

‘Who else? Heinz Rühmann? Of course it was headquarters.’

‘They do realise yesterday was Rosenmontag?’

‘What does that matter? What matters is that someone wishes to speak to my son on police business, and no one has the faintest idea where he is.’

‘How about you? Do you realise yesterday was Rosenmontag? No, of course not. You were too busy playing at politics. You didn’t celebrate Carnival. You just took the salute.’

‘The same clearly can’t be said of you.’

‘I had my fun. Thank you.’

Engelbert Rath shook his head. ‘Officials in your position need to be available. Even when they’re on holiday.’

‘Don’t get so worked up. I’ll call them back.’

‘You should have been in touch of your own accord. That’s what a dutiful police officer would have done. Where are you going?’

Gereon had had enough. ‘To make a telephone call.’

‘I haven’t finished. There was another call for you, a Herr Klefisch. Apparently he will be making a police statement after all.’

Engelbert Rath waited for an explanation, but Gereon refused to oblige. He stubbed out his Overstolz and left without another word.

14

Charly returned later than anticipated, to find Karin van Almsick on the telephone looking overwhelmed.

‘I’ll pass you over now,’ she whispered, placing one hand over the mouthpiece. She must have exhausted all her good will on her voice as her face was decidedly less friendly. ‘That’s four hours I’ve been waiting for you!’

‘Sorry,’ Charly took the receiver from her colleague. ‘Ritter, G Division.’

It was Gereon. Typical. Disappears for days, then calls at precisely the wrong time. She decided to keep things businesslike. Fortunately he wasn’t one for sweet nothings. ‘Are the Communists in revolt?’ he asked.

She gazed out of the window, away from her nosy colleague. The sky was even greyer than yesterday. ‘How nice of you to get in touch,’ she said.

‘I’ve tried God knows how many times in the last few days, both at Carmerstrasse and the office.’

The call had taken an unwanted turn. She placed a hand over the mouthpiece and addressed Karin. ‘Would you mind making us some tea?’

Karin lifted two cups from the desk and marched out of the room. Charly waited until the door was closed. ‘I was there.’

‘At the Reichstag? On duty?’

‘By chance. It certainly wasn’t a Communist revolt. There’s hardly a Communist here who dares venture out.’

‘Well, that’s something. About time that lot started taking cover.’

‘What do you know about politics? What is it you want? I can’t believe you’ve called to discuss the Reichstag fire.’

‘Yes and no. It’s just… they’ve ordered me back to Berlin. There’s a ban on leave.’

‘Because of the Reichstag fire?’ She might as well have said: because of the Communist witch-hunt, since that was clearly why the commissioner was pooling police resources. He wasn’t interested in an actual investigation.

‘My train gets in just after midnight,’ Gereon said.

‘Tonight?’

‘You saw it? The Reichstag, I mean.’

‘Greta and I happened to be passing. It was late and we had to take the dog out. That’s when we saw the flames.’

‘We had to take the dog out? You sound like an old married couple. You were in Moabit with Kirie?’

‘Greta looks after her while I’m at work. The poor thing has to go somewhere. Wieking’s forbidden me from bringing her here.’

‘Bergner’s perfectly happy looking after her.’

‘I can’t ask for the porter’s help every day.’

‘But you can ask Greta?’

‘She’s my friend, so yes, and she doesn’t complain when I’m late. Think of the money we’d be wasting on tips!’ Why, in God’s name, did she have to justify what she did with the dog? Who was it who’d left Kirie with her in the first place?

‘I thought Carmerstrasse was our home…’ said Gereon. ‘Sounds like I can count myself lucky if I see you tonight.’

‘You were saying about an old married couple?’

‘Need I remind you that we will be married soon?’

‘Remind me? Who’s the one gallivanting around Cologne while I’m stuck at home with Kirie? If I choose to spend the night at an old friend’s house because it’s late, then that’s my business, and my business alone!’

Charly heard someone clearing their throat behind her and spun around.

‘If it’s your business alone, Fräulein Ritter, and I’m perfectly happy to concede that it is, why do you need to conduct it using a police telephone?’ Superintendent Friederike Wieking stood in the doorframe, gazing sternly, report file wedged under her arm.

‘Inspector Rath has instructions to return to Berlin and wanted to…’

Superintendent Wieking wrenched the phone from her hand. ‘Inspector Rath,’ she bellowed into the receiver. ‘If you have instructions to report to Berlin, then I suggest you do so. God knows we need every officer here to repel the Communist threat. Now, if you would kindly refrain from distracting my girls!’

Charly longed to hear Gereon’s response, but couldn’t make it out.

‘Let me worry about that, Inspector,’ Wieking said pointedly, and hung up.

Karin paused in the door holding two cups of tea. Her eyes flitted between Charly and her commanding officer, towards her work station and back.

‘Please come in, Fräulein van Almsick. What I’m about to discuss with Fräulein Ritter is no secret, especially seeing that you, too, are affected by her actions.’

Karin set one cup on Charly’s desk and the other on her own. She sat down and opened a file. When her eyes finally met Charly’s she shrugged her shoulders as if to say: sorry, I didn’t mean to snitch. Charly didn’t believe her.

‘Were you at the Wittenauer Sanatorium this morning, Fräulein Ritter?’ Wieking began.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘I don’t recall sending you there a second time.’

‘Chief Inspector Böhm called and…’

‘I’ve spoken with Chief Inspector Böhm. He didn’t request a follow-up.’

‘What I was about to say was that Böhm called to inform me that Hannah Singer had escaped from the sanatorium, the girl I…’

‘And you saw this as an opportunity to send yourself back to Reinickendorf? Leaving your colleague here in the lurch.’

‘I thought I could help.’

‘A commendable attitude, Cadet Ritter, but in future you should wait until someone authorised gives the order.’

‘Yes, ma’am. It’s just… I felt responsible somehow. The interrogation yesterday…’

‘…got out of hand. Yes I can see that. As for your report…’ Friederike Wieking threw the file onto Charly’s desk and tapped it with her finger. ‘You couldn’t call it a transcript. You mention glances, advance suspicions – but as for facts, as for a single meaningful word, I can’t find anything.’

‘That’s because she didn’t say anything.’

‘Extracting a statement from a crazy Jewish brat was always going to be a fool’s errand. But I didn’t want to turn down Superintendent Gennat’s request…’

So Böhm had engaged Gennat’s help, Charly thought.

‘If DCI Böhm gets fixated on something, that’s his business,’ Wieking continued. ‘What I can’t have is him commandeering my officers. Have I made myself clear?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Very well.’

‘Should I re-write the report?’

‘Leave it as it is.’ A smile spread across Superintendent Wieking’s face. ‘I don’t think Chief Inspector Böhm will be working on the case much longer.’

‘But…’

‘The report can wait. I’d rather you focused on the Red Rats. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had something to do with the Communist revolt. Graffiti like that, and days later the Reichstag’s on fire…’ Friederike Wieking waved her hand. ‘Well, I’m sure you and Fräulein van Almsick have it in hand.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Karin, who had interpreted the superintendent’s words as praise. Charly had never hated working in G Division under Friederike Wieking so much.

‘Then you know what to do,’ the superintendent said. Reaching the door, she turned around, lifted her right arm and issued a brisk ‘Heil Hitler!’ before departing.

Charly and Karin exchanged surprised glances. Six months ago the superintendent would have risked disciplinary proceedings for the Hitler salute, which was still something she’d never have dared in Gennat’s presence. Party politics had no place at police headquarters, even if the Nazi leader was now Chancellor and his thugs working hard to destroy German democracy for good.

For the time being, however, the German Reich remained a Republic, and, like so many others, Charly hoped the March elections would give its government something to think about. Democratically – or at least civically – minded Germans might still rise up and fight. They couldn’t let these barbarians run the country.

15

The fog had dispersed but it was still cold beneath the elevated railway, where a sharp wind was blowing. It was at least ten degrees cooler than Cologne. Rath had never been able to stand the Berlin winter. The city was too cold for a Rhinelander.

Beggars gathered on the station steps. One man sat huddled on a piece of cardboard in a coat stiff with dirt, his hat on the pavement propping up a sign that said: War-blind, please give generously. Despite his white stick and pitch-black sunglasses, Rath felt that the man was staring at him. He rummaged for a ten pfennig piece and dropped it into the hat.

A cop bobbed up and down on his bootheels, wringing his gloved hands to keep them warm. Pigeons cooed in the bridge struts. Rath went over and presented his identification.

‘Why don’t you see how things are coming along,’ Böhm had said, though Rath hadn’t known what awaited him at Nollendorfplatz until he got there. At the foot of a steel column were two wooden frames, each covered with canvas. The canvasses were splattered with pigeon droppings. According to Böhm they’d been here since the weekend, guarded by the Berlin Police as if they were the Hohenzollern crown jewels.

Now Rath understood the cop’s disgruntled expression. It was all he could do to prevent his own mask from slipping. Had he really interrupted his carnival celebrations for this… shit?

Yesterday on the phone it had sounded as if the successful capture of the Reichstag arsonists rested in Gereon Rath’s hands alone. All leave has been cancelled, Erika Voss informed him, every available man is to report for duty. Within hours he was on a train to Berlin without saying goodbye to Paul, let alone explaining the misappropriation of his office. Revellers might still be spilling out of the station, but to Rath it felt like Ash Wednesday. The fun was over, and it was time to head back.

His late-night arrival at Bahnhof Zoo, on the platform where he and Charly had shared many a reunion and goodbye, was an anticlimax. She appeared bleary-eyed and absent-minded, while Rath’s delight was tempered by his guilty conscience. Conversation was no more than perfunctory on the journey home until, arriving at Carmerstrasse, they fell exhausted into bed.

This morning any notion that he might be involved in the Reichstag investigation had been swiftly disabused. Although the fire remained the dominant theme at A Division briefing, Gennat had assigned him to Wilhelm Böhm. Unlike most of his colleagues, Böhm saw little point in hounding the city’s Communists and had already been deserted by Cadet Steinke, who had volunteered for the newly formed Reichstag task force.

Rath lit a cigarette and examined the soiled canvasses, wondering if he shouldn’t follow Steinke’s lead when he got back, despite being sceptical about the general political madness: the Red threat had always been overstated in Berlin, and even now he couldn’t believe the Communists were on the brink of revolution.

He took the photo Böhm had given him from his pocket: the corpse of a homeless man, his coat covered in rime and pigeon droppings. He compared the thickness of the shit with that of the two canvasses remaining from the original six.

‘I come bearing glad tidings,’ he said to the cop, who stood at a distance from the site. ‘Our work here is done.’

The cop looked as if he had been given the all-clear following a lengthy illness. ‘About bloody time. You wouldn’t believe how many people have stood here mugging me off.’

‘Oh, I think I would.’ Rath gestured towards the canvasses. ‘Do me one last favour. Get these loaded into my car. It’s parked over there.’

The man was unenthusiastic, but obeyed all the same. Rath unlocked the car, opened the passenger door and the cop gradually lowered the two canvasses into the footwell, only for his blue sleeves to become smeared with pigeon dirt at the last minute. ‘Shit!’ he cursed.

‘I should say so!’

‘It wouldn’t be so bad if the Prussians picked up the goddamn cleaning bill! Instead it will be left to my wife. Communist blood, vomit and pigeon muck. She’ll be delighted, I tell you.’

‘Lucky there’s Persil,’ Rath said, as the cop tipped his shako with a pained smile.

Back at the Castle, Rath delivered the canvasses to Forensics.

‘What are we supposed to do with these?’ Klassen, one of Kronberg’s men, asked.

‘It’s to establish the chronology of…’

‘I know what it’s for,’ Klassen interrupted. ‘Right now we don’t have time. Anything to do with the Reichstag fire and the Communists has priority. The rest will have to wait.’

‘Perhaps the dead tramp was a Communist,’ Rath said. Klassen forced a smile. The pair had always got on well. ‘Come on! I’ve already compared them with the photos. All I need’s a quick look at the original coat and your signature, to make it official. I’ll write the report while you fetch it.’

‘Go on then,’ Klassen said. ‘But you’ll owe me.’

‘Of course.’

Rath sat at the typewriter, inserted a Forensics report form and began to type. Moments later, Klassen returned with the old soldier’s coat, which dangled from a hanger as if it were about to be returned to its wardrobe. It smelled as though it hadn’t been washed since the war.

‘It’s more or less a match, wouldn’t you say?’ Rath asked.

Klassen threw a glance at the canvasses, and at the dead man’s coat and nodded. ‘They’re both covered in about the same amount of shit, if that’s what you mean.’

Rath shook his head. ‘Which would suggest he was there four or five days before being discovered. Shocking. A man lies dead next to a busy train station for days, and the Berliners simply wash their hands.’

‘I fear it isn’t just Berliners,’ Klassen said, stamping Rath’s report and adding his signature.

Rath waved the ink dry and put the report in his pocket. ‘Much obliged.’

‘No trouble.’ Klaasen pointed towards the coat and canvasses, which were stinking out the warm office. ‘You going to take them with you?’

‘Me?’ Rath raised his hands. ‘Sorry, but that’s evidence. Nothing to do with me.’

‘You think I have any use for them now that the ‘examination’ is complete?’

‘Have them taken to the evidence room, or whatever it is you do. If in doubt ask Böhm. They’re no good to me.’

Wilhelm Böhm was in a downright filthy mood. ‘Four days,’ he grumbled. ‘Which means that Wosniak was killed on Tuesday. Possibly Wednesday if his overcoat was already a little… stained prior to his death.’

‘The twenty-first or twenty-second then.’ Rath noted the date. ‘Shall we launch a press appeal? Check if anyone noticed any suspicious goings-on in the vicinity of Nollendorfplatz on either day?’

‘Could do,’ Böhm said, ‘but I fear the press already has wind of the case.’

‘It does?’

‘And it doesn’t look as if they’re in the mood to help.’ Böhm gestured towards a newspaper on his desk. Der Tag. Most of the articles still concerned the Reichstag fire and its aftermath, but one carried the headline:

Police adopt questionable methods in hunt for killer

Rath was astonished to see the name in the byline. Berthold Weinert, a former tenant of the widow Behnke’s, in Nürnberger Strasse.

Böhm snatched away the article before Rath could finish reading. ‘You know this Weinert, don’t you?’

‘What are you trying to say?’

‘I’m just wondering where he gets his information.’

‘Not from me.’ What a pleasure to be genuinely outraged for once. ‘You didn’t fill me in on the case until this morning. Though you’re right, I do know Weinert. Perhaps I should have a talk with him.’

‘I’m wondering whether that might not make matters worse.’ Böhm sounded wary. ‘At least Der Tag’s the only one making fun of us,’ he said, flinging his copy into the wastepaper basket.

‘Don’t you think we should put out a request for information? Especially now we can isolate the time of death.’

‘Perhaps we won’t need the public’s help,’ Böhm said, gesturing towards a folder on his desk. ‘Just in from Pathology.’ He had a gift for making his colleagues feel surplus to requirements. ‘Dr Schwartz has examined the wound in Wosniak’s head more closely. The weapon wasn’t a knitting needle but a blade with a triangular cross-section.’

‘Like a skewer,’ Rath said, receiving an angry glance.

‘A kind of stiletto, but an unusual one. Dr Schwartz suspects it could be a trench dagger.’

‘There’s no shortage of those.’

‘True, but they differ greatly in style. Every front soldier had his preference. Anyway, it should help us identify the perpetrator.’

‘A soldier, like his victim.’

‘It’s highly likely. At the very least someone who knows a soldier.’

‘Or his way around a pawnshop.’

‘Unlikely. A front soldier wouldn’t part with his trench dagger.’

‘Why would an ex-soldier kill a homeless man?’

‘Because the homeless man was a soldier too. I’d wager that’s where we’ll find our motive. It could be score-settling from the old days.’

‘Or a fight between tramps,’ Rath said. Yet here we are.

‘The nature of the wound suggests this was no crime of passion. The man was stabbed through the nostril. It was a calculated act.’

‘Someone trained in close-combat?’

‘Could be. I’ve put in a request to the Reichswehr Ministry. We need to know exactly where Heinrich Wosniak served during the war, and with whom.’

‘That could be quite the list.’

‘Perhaps, but what is police work if not a search for a needle in a haystack?’

‘Hell of a job we have.’

‘Quite,’ Böhm said. ‘Which is why you’ll be delighted to hear that I’ve earmarked a special needle just for you.’

‘Come again?’

‘Not a needle exactly, but how about a trench dagger in a city of four million? One with a triangular blade. You need to find the manufacturer, and any potential owners.’ He handed Rath the report. ‘Measurements are in there: blade length, width and so on.’

Rath’s face grew pale. ‘Will Gräf be assisting me in this Sisyphean task?’

‘Detective Gräf has his hands full with the city’s homeless shelters. We still haven’t found anyone who can identify Heinrich Wosniak.’

‘Nothing from the morgue?’

‘Nothing, and in three days they’ll have to remove him from the showroom. That’s when the deadline expires.’

Rath gazed at the report in despair. ‘How am I supposed to manage this alone? Can’t you give me anyone?’

‘What do you think? They’re all out hunting for Communists. Be glad there are three of us working the case.’ He looked at Rath. ‘You have a secretary, don’t you? Why don’t you see if she’s game, if you can’t manage on your own!’

16

Rath had cajoled two hours’ overtime out of Erika Voss, and now knew just about everything it was possible to know about trench daggers, despite never owning one as a youthful recruit.

After finishing for the day he dropped her off in Wörther Strasse, and headed home in a funk. Police work could be such a drag. Stepping out of the lift in Carmerstrasse, he was greeted by the unfamiliar odour of hot food and remembered that he had skipped lunch. Kirie was even hungrier, pulling on her lead and sniffing everywhere as she dragged him to the front door. He removed her lead, and she pitter-pattered into the kitchen while he set down his bag and hung his hat and coat on the stand.

‘I’m home,’ he called. ‘Sorry for being late.’

Charly appeared in the kitchen door, looking a little frantic, a stained white apron tied around her waist. ‘There you are. I’ll get the potato dumplings on.’

‘You… cooked?’ Usually, if something warm landed on their plates, it was the work of their housekeeper, Lina, a young Silesian who came by twice a week. Most days they ate lunch in the canteen or at Aschinger, with a cold meal in the evenings.

‘Sauerbraten,’ Charly said. ‘Rhineland-style.’

‘What have I done to deserve this?’

‘Nothing. This is your welcome home meal.’

She vanished inside the kitchen where Rath heard pans clattering and the sound of cursing. He made straight for the living room to put on a record, Ellington’s Clouds in My Heart, and fetched the bottle of cognac from the cupboard. Just when he had poured himself a drink she reappeared.

‘Want one?’ he asked.

‘Maybe after dinner.’

‘I had a lousy day.’ Somehow he felt the need to justify himself. Since living with Charly he had seldom reached for the bottle, but after a day like today…

‘Catch many Communists?’

‘Not a single one. I’m one of the few who isn’t working for the Political Police. They put me with Böhm.’

‘So that’s why…’ she said, indicating the bottle.

‘Very funny.’

‘Paul called.’

He looked at her in her ill-fitting apron and, all at once, realised how much he loved her. The pangs of conscience were intense. Wilde Hilde. The night in Paul’s office. ‘What did he want?’

‘The usual. To warn me off.’

She was being ironic. Even so, he had to clear his throat. ‘Some witness.’

‘Why don’t you call him back? I assume he didn’t just want to flirt with me, though I could be wrong.’

Despite his guilty conscience, he felt a stab of jealousy. He waited for Charly to return to the kitchen before reaching for the telephone. No one home, so he tried Sudermanstrasse.

‘Wittkamp Wines.’

‘Chapeau, Herr Wittkamp. Working overtime so soon after your Carnival-induced coma?’

‘Ash Wednesday usually marks the end. Mind you, some don’t make it that far.’ Paul seemed annoyed. ‘When I opened my office again this morning it looked a little worse for wear.’

‘Sorry.’

‘And then my postbox… There wasn’t just business mail, but a letter from a certain Hildegard Sprenger. She writes that she’d like to see me again, the night we spent together was so wonderful. I’ll spare you the rest, shall I?’

Pots and pans clattered in the kitchen. Kirie had been chased out and looked at him from where she lay in front of the radiogramophone.

‘I tried to call, but I was ordered back to Berlin.’

‘Your sense of duty knows no bounds.’

‘I’m sorry, I really am. I don’t know what got into me that night.’

‘I thought you got into someone else?’

‘Fräulein Sprenger was one of the Mickey Mouses.’

‘You don’t have to explain. She was here just now, minus the ears.’

‘Come again?’

‘She stopped by the office. Seemed surprised to see me behind the desk. For a while she thought you were my partner, until I told her you didn’t sell wine.’

‘What else did you tell her?’

‘Not your name and address anyway.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You might have said you were spoken for! If not before your night of passion, then at the very least after it.’

‘There was no time. I never thought I’d see her again.’

‘Is that why you made yourself scarce on Tuesday night?’

‘I’ve told you already. I had to leave – on duty. You wouldn’t believe how many times I tried to call.’

‘Well, here I am.’

‘I owe you an explanation, but I can’t talk now. There’s no way Charly can hear of this and…’

‘That would top it all, wouldn’t it, if Charly got hurt? I’m your friend, Gereon, and there’s plenty I can ignore, but don’t ever treat her like this again! She doesn’t deserve it. And if you can’t manage that, then don’t marry her.’

‘You’re right.’

‘I’m serious! If you ever do anything like this again, you can consider our friendship over.’

Rath couldn’t think of a worse threat.

Charly poked her head around the door. ‘I don’t want to interrupt, but dinner is ready.’

He turned away as his eyes flooded with tears. Idiot, he thought. Feeling sorry for yourself, are you, because you’re such a prick? He cleared the lump in his throat before continuing. ‘I’ll call you, Paul,’ he said, his voice still hoarse.

Charly had laid the table as if for a formal dinner. Serviettes, wine glasses, knives and forks were set neatly alongside the plates. All that was missing was a lighted candle.

‘Charly, I love you,’ he said.

She looked at him, and raised her eyebrows. ‘And all it took was your favourite meal.’

The beef cut easily and smelled as if Frieda had prepared it. Sadly it didn’t taste quite so good. Too sour, for Rhenish tastes, at least, and the seasoning was bland.

‘Good,’ he said, chewing contentedly.

The dumplings and red cabbage weren’t bad at all.

‘More sauce?’

‘No thank you.’

‘It could do with a little salt,’ she said.

‘Now that you mention it.’

‘Any news on Hannah Singer?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘I thought you were working with Böhm?’

‘The crazy fugitive?’ He shook his head. ‘No, Warrants have bigger fish to fry. We have a new lead anyway, an old comrade. Someone Wosniak knew from the war.’

‘If Hannah had nothing to do with his death, then why did she scarper?’

‘Why do crazy people flee asylums? The same reason they catch flies and mistake their toothbrush for their dog.’

‘She isn’t crazy. She’s just… disturbed. I think they packed her off to Dalldorf because they couldn’t explain what she did. Perhaps she can’t either.’

‘Eight people on her conscience, and you’re telling me she can’t explain why? That’s pretty much the definition of insane.’

A quarrel was brewing, but he didn’t want to spoil their reunion meal when she had gone to so much effort. It wasn’t Sauerbraten Rhineland style, but with a little salt it tasted just fine. He helped himself to more.

‘And now?’ he said, dabbing his mouth with a serviette. ‘Fancy a little dessert? I know just the thing…’

She made a disappointed face. ‘Sorry, Gereon, but I have to go.’

‘What? Where?’

‘I’m meeting Greta.’

‘So that’s it for our reunion, is it? I thought we could make an evening of it. Dance to old Ellington, finish the wine, and then… well… then I thought we could really celebrate.’

‘It sounds good. I just can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’d rather stay here too, but I’ve promised Greta. You weren’t due back from Cologne until the day after tomorrow, and we wanted to have a girls’ night, like old times.’

‘Two women going out on their own? So you can, what? Make eyes at strange men?’

‘You’re not jealous?’

‘Of course not. But… we’re engaged! You should be going out with me. Especially on a night like this.’

‘Greta will scratch my eyes out.’

‘That I can believe.’

‘Gereon, I know the pair of you have never got on, but… she’s my best friend, and her friendship is very important to me.’

‘All right, it was a joke.’ He attempted a smile. ‘I don’t want to spoil your evening.’

‘We’re going to the cinema, then out dancing. Don’t worry, I won’t speak to any strange men. Unless, of course, they ask me to dance…’

‘Is this your way of saying I don’t take you often enough?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Then how about we celebrate my birthday on Sunday in style? Dinner followed by dancing in the Kakadu-Bar.’

‘Sounds good.’ She smiled and stood up. ‘But I really do have to go.’

Rath put on a brave face, and a quarter of an hour later Charly stood ready at the door. She looked stunning. ‘Should I drive you?’

‘I’ll take the S-Bahn. It goes almost door to door. We’ll get a taxi from Spenerstrasse.’

‘How about the way back? Are you planning to take the S-Bahn at night?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll sleep at Greta’s.’

‘Come again?’

‘See you tomorrow morning. At the Castle.’

Before he could say anything, she planted a kiss on his cheek and left. For a moment he thought about going after her, only to reconsider. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself.

Was he jealous? Too damn right he was!

Jealous of any man who danced with her tonight, even of Greta. She still hadn’t said anything about the Negro from Aschinger last year, not that he’d admitted seeing them together. Were they still in touch? He’d have liked nothing more than to go after her, to watch how she spent her evening, but he couldn’t. Not at any cost.

‘Well, old girl,’ he said to Kirie. ‘It’s just me and you tonight.’ He attached her lead and they set off on her evening walk. Perhaps he might take a little trip up the Ku’damm himself.

17

Sewage pipes and electric cables ran along the low ceiling, and water dripped periodically onto the concrete floor. Leo stood in a long corridor alongside a group of men he didn’t recognise. He didn’t know how long he’d been here, didn’t know if it was day or night, if he was still in Berlin or in the country somewhere.

They had dragged him half conscious into the car and placed a stinking sack over his head. The drive had taken so long that blood from his head wounds had congealed against the coarse material. The wounds opened again when the sack was wrenched from his head and he blinked into the dim light of a 40-watt bulb.

That was when he knew he’d be lucky to make it out alive. They weren’t finished with him, otherwise they’d have thrown him out of the car on the way over. At one point it looked as if they might. The burr of cars and traffic had grown suddenly louder as he felt the ice-cold air on his skin, but then the man about to push him out had held fast. By his comrades’ laughter, he knew they were only messing around.

The men in uniform had come for him in the middle of the night, kicking down the door before he had a chance to open it. Seconds later they were in the bedroom. Vera had gazed first at him, then them, her world turned on its head. She had always known the cops might come knocking, but hadn’t reckoned on SA men in the white armbands of the auxiliary police grinning at her as she pulled the covers to her chin.

Leo chose not to reach for the revolver in the drawer of his bedside table, but when their leader made a suggestive remark, he couldn’t hold his tongue and paid for it with a heavy blow. He spat out blood and teeth and heeded their command to get dressed. As he struggled with his trousers, the leader hit him again with his rubber truncheon, on the knuckles this time. The four undernourished-looking dwarves that made up the rest of the troop hounded him out of the bedroom. Taking him by the arms, they hauled him downstairs and threw him onto the rear seat of a car waiting outside. A different SA man pulled the sack over his head before administering a third truncheon blow.

When he came round, head still ringing, he couldn’t see anything and his breathing was hampered by the stinking linen fabric. His hands were tied behind his back, but he wasn’t gagged. He knew they were driving, but not where. The men around him said nothing. Realising he was conscious again, they had played their trick with the car door, but otherwise left him in peace until they reached their destination and the fun started again. He thought it was another joke, but this time they really did throw him out.

He heard the crunch of tyres stopping on gravel. There must have been others waiting. Taking him by the feet they hauled him across the courtyard and down a flight of stairs. He didn’t want to know how many bruises he’d suffered, but experience from the war told him he wouldn’t feel them until tomorrow. If, that is, they let him live that long.

Another drip of water.

He hadn’t the slightest idea how long he had been down here with the others, hands on trouser seams, standing in line like carrots waiting for harvest. Stand up straight was the command, and no one dared move or lean against the damp, whitewashed wall. The first to give in was beaten for so long he was little more than a bloody clump when his three assailants dragged him out. When another poor soul could no longer hold his bladder, they forced him to lick up his own piss, and laughed when he vomited. Then they beat him to a pulp too.

Leo was damned if he was going to move. He didn’t need the loo, thank God, and was used to standing for hours. No, he wouldn’t give these bastards any excuse. People were screaming in pain, shrill and full of despair. He had seen people suffer and die before, but this waiting, this uncertainty, was wearing him down so much he wondered if it wouldn’t be better to get himself beaten to death and have the whole thing over with. The temptation to step forward and give one of these brown scumbags a little something to think about grew with every minute. Perhaps they would shoot him, the kind of quick and painless death he’d always wished for.

There was movement in the stairwell, the steel door at the end of the corridor opened and a uniformed officer with a file under his arm emerged. ‘Juretzka, Leopold!’

Leo’s voice failed him at first, but at length he rasped a ‘Here’.

The SA man planted himself in front of him and rammed a rubber truncheon into his gut. Leo doubled up with pain.

‘Answer loud and clear when I address you,’ the Nazi said. ‘Stand up straight.’

Leo stood up straight and yelled: ‘Here!’

‘Now come with me, shit-heap.’

He was surprised not to be struck again but the man with the file simply pushed him along the corridor and up the stairs. It must have been dark outside. He couldn’t see any daylight. A fierce kick to the back, and he landed in a room lit only by a desk lamp, but managed to cling to a chair in front of a desk. Pools of blood were thickening on the floor. Blood glistened on the seating surface.

‘Prisoner Juretzka,’ File Man announced.

The man behind the desk was the highest ranking. He was writing something on a kind of report form, almost as if he were a real cop, but Leo realised he was playing at the role, perhaps to make himself feel more important. Behind him stood another, whose face was untouched by the cone of light shining from the desk lamp.

Despite the brown uniform and shorn hair, Leo recognised this third man immediately, having seen him often enough outside the door of Neunundsechzig, looking strangely out of place in evening dress. No doubt get-up like that was de rigueur for bouncers employed by the most infamous, and therefore most profitable, Nordpiraten-run illegal nightclub in the city. Müllerstrasse, in a rear courtyard basement of house number 69.

‘Hello, Katsche,’ Leo said. ‘Nice uniform.’

The man with the file pressed Leo onto the bloody surface of the chair and closed the door.

‘I didn’t realise the SA worked with criminals,’ Leo said. ‘Has Katsche here told you who else he runs with? Ever heard of the Nordpiraten?’

‘Keep your mouth shut,’ File Man said. ‘Comrade Kaczmarek will deal with you soon enough.’

Right on cue, Katsche emerged from the darkened corner, took up position next to Leo’s chair, and dealt him a blow to the liver. Leo doubled up in pain. He ought to have known what Katsche’s role was. The man was a bouncer. He knew how to strike where it hurt.

‘Am I being held by the Pirates or the SA?’ Leo asked, receiving another blow to the knuckles for his troubles.

The man behind the desk set his report form to one side. ‘You, scum, are in the hands of the German police.’ He planted himself in front of Leo. ‘And you’ll speak when you’re spoken too. Understood?’

‘Sarge.’ Leo said through gritted teeth. ‘I just didn’t recognise your new uniform. Didn’t it use to be blue?’

Another blow, to the ribs this time.

‘That’s Herr Scharführer to you, you piece of shit.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Yes, what?’

‘Yes, Herr Scharführer, Sir.’

The Scharführer looked satisfied. Typical German, Leo thought, always crowing about his rank.

‘Might I ask what it is you want from me, Herr Scharführer? I’ve nothing to do with the Reichstag fire, and I’m no Red either. Just ask Katsch… I mean SA-officer Kaczmarek.’

Katsche struck him a blow to the solar plexus. He gagged and Katsche seized him and pulled him up by the collar. ‘See that you don’t puke over the floor,’ he said. ‘Otherwise you’ll be licking it up yourself. You Red swine.’

Red swine? Leo was surprised. Surely Katsche knew better. Had he denounced him as a Communist to his new comrades? To settle old scores?

Katsche let him flop back onto the chair.

‘We ask the questions here,’ said the Scharführer. ‘All we want from you is answers. Understood?’

Leo nodded. Why give these arseholes any more excuses? It would soon be clear enough that he was no Communist, in which case they’d have to let him go. Then, if he really had denounced him, Katsche would be the one in trouble. That was something at least.

18

Rath wakened at a quarter past four following a restless sleep. After tossing and turning for fifteen minutes he went into the kitchen to put on some coffee. He took a long shower and emerged feeling half-awake. The central heating, which ensured the supply of hot water was constant, was one of the advantages of his newly-built apartment in Charlottenburg. How he had hated having to switch on the water heater on cold winter days in his old place in Kreuzberg.

In the kitchen Kirie looked at him out of drowsy eyes, and Rath ran his hands affectionately through her black fur. Despite another late night, he didn’t feel too hungover, but perhaps the headache was still to come. Finishing his coffee, he saw that it wasn’t yet five. Kirie looked bewildered as he attached her lead and shooed her outside. The night porter greeted him with the same blank gaze as always, only Rath was more familiar with it on his way in. He had never left the house so early before.

Reaching the small park at Steinplatz, he was the only person for miles around. At other times of day it wasn’t unusual to run into fellow dog-walker Bernhard Weiss, who lived here with his wife and daughter, having been evicted from his official residence in Charlottenburg last summer when the Reich government made a purge of the Berlin police executive. It was a shame: in Police Commissioner Grzesinski and his deputy, two capable men had been lost. These days Rath felt slightly embarrassed at seeing him, unsure whether to regard him as his ex-boss or a new neighbour.

Charly had no such qualms, chatting as if they were old school friends… but now he was thinking about her again. It didn’t matter what else was going on in his head, at some point his thoughts turned to Charly. Even this stupid murder case linked back to her, or at least she thought it did. This crazy girl wandering the streets of Berlin like a ghost. It was only a matter of time before Warrants picked her up.

Once Kirie had completed her business he shunted her into the car and started the engine and drove aimlessly through the city, only to wind up in Moabit. To his left he saw the prison, the yard of which was brightly lit even at night, and the long, dark brick wall. To his right was Spenerstrasse. He switched on the indicator to turn, but pulled over at the last minute.

What’s the plan here? he asked himself. Ring on Greta’s door and offer Charly a lift to Alex? A crazy idea, they’ll almost certainly still be asleep. You’ll only make a fool of yourself.

He drove on through the city, past the burned-out Reichstag whose silhouette rose dark against the brightening eastern sky. Apart from the shattered, warped glass dome, the building looked exactly as before. You could be forgiven for thinking nothing had happened.

He tried to focus on something else, to look forward to the coming day, to seeing Charly, at the latest in the canteen, and greeting his colleagues. All at once he knew where he could go. They could discuss the case, perhaps even arrange to meet for a beer later in the Nasse Dreieck, just like old times.

Parking on Luisenufer, he felt better. It was still very early, but if Gräf was planning to take the bus to Alex, as he did every morning, then he would certainly be up. At worst, he’d be having his breakfast. Rath and Kirie crossed the empty courtyard and made for the rear building. At just after six, there was no one in the stairwell. Reaching the door on the first floor, he debated whether he should permit himself the obligatory greeting, before giving a loud knock and crying: ‘Police! Open at once!’

Moments later the door opened a crack and Reinhold Gräf, in a dressing gown and with his hair still wet, peered out, white as a ghost. ‘Gereon, for the love of God. What’s going on?’

‘Nothing much. Just thought I’d pick you up for a change.’

Gräf looked at the clock on the wall. ‘You do realise what time it is? I haven’t had breakfast yet.’

‘No problem. Why don’t I join you?’

Gräf made no move to let him in. The door was open no more than a crack, but for Kirie that was enough. Rath had noticed her growing impatient on the stairs, pulling on the lead as she sniffed out the flat where she’d spent the first years of her life. Or perhaps it was the liver sausage, but either way she broke off from her lead and charged inside.

‘Bad dog!’ Rath cried. ‘To heel!’

Kirie never paid much attention to such commands. Rushing after her, Gräf and Rath found her in the kitchen, in the corner she used to call her own. It was a year now since Rath had passed on his old Luisenufer flat to Gräf, in favour of his apartment on Carmerstrasse, which was not only bigger but twice as expensive.

Rath crouched and threatened Kirie with his index finger. ‘You should be ashamed,’ he said, and Kirie closed her eyes, less out of shame, Rath suspected, than the need to catch up on sleep. He shrugged. ‘Well, now that we’re inside, I might as well take a coffee. No rush. There’s plenty of time.’

Gräf gave a pained smile and filled the kettle. ‘How about you see to that while I get ready?’ he said, placing the kettle on the stove. ‘You know where everything is.’

Rath went to the cupboard and fetched the coffee grinder. The kitchen door was still open, and he could see the stand in the hall outside. He hesitated. No, he wasn’t imagining things. An SA uniform hung from one of the hooks. He continued as if nothing was wrong. ‘Any joy yesterday?’

‘Come again?’

‘In the homeless shelters.’

‘Nothing. No trace of Heinrich Wosniak anywhere. I’ve scoured all the relevant addresses around Bülow and Nollendorfplatz, but there’s no one who knew him.’

‘A man fights for his country, and ten years later the whole world’s forgotten about him.’

‘There are thousands of them.’

Rath was about to ask about the brown uniform when the bathroom door opened and a man emerged, towel wrapped around his hips, blond hair still wet but perfectly parted, and marched straight into the kitchen. Rath had heard the water running as Kirie charged inside, but thought nothing of it.

Seeing Rath, the blond man stopped in his tracks.

Gräf was visibly uncomfortable. ‘This is Conrad. I mean, Herr Kötter,’ he said. ‘He lives upstairs in the attic room, where that Countess used…’ He cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, Herr Kötter has no running water, which is why…’

‘Burst pipe,’ the blond man said to Rath, but it sounded like: ‘Wanna’ fight?’

In the same instant Rath realised where he had seen him before. On several previous visits to Luisenufer he had run into an SA man in the courtyard who’d greeted him with a dirty look. He didn’t appear much friendlier now.

‘I’ll be off then,’ Herr Kötter said, removing his uniform from the hook. ‘Many thanks, neighbour.’

‘No trouble.’ Gräf smiled uneasily.

No wonder, Rath thought. Imagine letting a Nazi do his morning toilet in your flat.

Kötter slung his trousers and brown shirt over his arm, put on his uniform cap, and picked up his boots. It was strange seeing an SA officer clad in only a towel and peaked cap, but Rath sensed he’d be wise to suppress a grin. The SA wasn’t known for its sense of humour.

‘Just a moment,’ Gräf said and ran into the corridor. He took the swastika brassard from the hall stand and set it on top of the clothes pile on Kötter’s arm. They exchanged another glance, which Rath couldn’t explain, and the door clicked shut.

Rath poured coffee beans into the grinder. ‘Best get in with the new regime. Or did you just fancy seeing a Nazi in his pants?’

Gräf ignored the quip. ‘I’ll get ready,’ he said, disappearing into the bedroom.

Rath cranked the lever, considering the situation as the beans cracked. He knew that Reinhold harboured sympathies for the ‘government of national concentration’, as Hitler’s cabinet termed itself.

‘At last things are looking up,’ Gräf had said back in January, when Hindenburg appointed his new Chancellor. In spite of Reinhold’s admiration for the brownshirts, Rath had hoped he wasn’t a true believer. No one who had kept their sense of humour could be and Reinhold had kept his – until now.

They never really discussed politics when they met, nor did they speak about their private affairs. For a long time Rath hadn’t told Reinhold about Charly, partly out of concern that his colleague might have eyes for her too, but there had been no bad blood when he learned of their engagement and his congratulations had been genuine.

Continuing to crank the lever, Rath’s gaze fell on the breakfast table. It was already laid for two: two coffee cups, two plates, two knives, even two egg cups. It must have looked like this before he and Kirie burst in. The table wasn’t laid for him, it was laid for… Blood rushed to his head. It couldn’t be true, or could it?

Gräf returned to the kitchen, looking immaculate. Even his tie was done up.

‘Could I…,’ Rath said. ‘Would you mind if I used the bathroom?’ He paused. ‘Or do I have to join the SA first?’

‘Very funny.’

Rath set down the coffee grinder knowing he had to get out of the room. Perhaps he was just imagining it. Perhaps Gräf had offered his neighbour a coffee, just as he had his commanding officer. If they really had been meaning to have breakfast together, the detective and his Nazi neighbour, it didn’t have to mean anything. Gräf was embarrassed, naturally, accurately sensing what Rath might say after bursting into the flat. Still, being friends with a Nazi was nothing for a police officer to be ashamed of these days. A year ago the Politicals would have become involved and an internal investigation triggered. Now it was practically a badge of honour.

Reaching Gräf’s bathroom, Rath saw something that rattled him even more, perhaps because the display of intimacy was precisely what his own bathroom lacked whenever Charly decamped to Greta’s. Reinhold Gräf’s bathroom looked as Gereon Rath’s ought to have looked, with two glasses on the shelf in front of the mirror, and in each glass a toothbrush.

19

The awakening city flitted past but all Reinhold Gräf could see was Gereon staring blankly through the windscreen. He had been silent since the flat, saying nothing in the face of what was obvious: nothing about Conny, who’d emerged from the bathroom freshly showered, nothing about the breakfast table, nothing about the idyll they shared like an old married couple. How could they have been so naive?

Returning to the bedroom to get dressed – to dispose of Conny’s things and fix the crumpled sheets – Gräf had slammed his fist against the mattress in anger at his own stupidity.

Why, oh why, had they chosen to play with fire like this? Conny usually crawled upstairs to his attic flat at the end of the evening, but in the last few weeks they had grown careless. Perhaps it was their euphoria at Germany’s change in fortune. Joy at the triumph of the nationalist movement was one of many things they had in common. Even so, they shouldn’t have forgotten that what they were doing was wrong and illegal.

Someone like Gereon Rath, who had previously worked for Vice, wasn’t blind, and he certainly wasn’t stupid. There must be a reason for his silence, or was he simply over-tired? Was Gräf attaching meaning where there was none? Because he had felt caught from the moment Gereon appeared at his front door? Half an hour later and Conny would have been on his way to work.

Ifs and buts… what was done was done.

‘Strausberger Strasse?’ Gereon asked.

Gräf nodded, grateful for even the most banal of utterances. ‘Number seven, second rear building. Silesian Olga.’

‘Doesn’t sound very official.’

‘I’ve been round all the municipal shelters.’

‘So you’re going private?’

‘If you like.’

Gereon stopped outside the house. ‘See you at the Castle.’

‘Depends how I get on. I still have a few addresses to check. How about a beer tonight in the Dreieck?’

‘No can do. I have to look after Charly.’

Gräf got out, let Kirie onto the passenger seat and tipped his hat. Gereon returned the gesture. No sooner had he closed the door than the Buick turned and headed back towards Frankfurter Allee. Through the reflection in the windscreen he tried to see whether Gereon was looking back, but all he could make out was Kirie’s silhouette.

After crossing a miserable-looking courtyard, he descended the basement stairs to the second rear building and was assailed by the smells of mildew and male sweat. Olga Joppich lived in a flat almost completely devoid of light. It seemed scarcely credible that a dozen men could have slept here last night, but they had, and paid for the privilege.

Places like this were plentiful in north and east Berlin. Miserable, damp, mouldy basements that poor souls like Olga Joppich rented to those who were even less fortunate, to avoid being put out on the streets themselves.

Gräf fervently hoped that such conditions, imposed on Germany by the November criminals, would soon be a thing of the past. German soldiers who had sacrificed their health for the Fatherland now lived on the streets – that couldn’t be right. In the new Germany, they, too, would find their place. Sadly it was too late for Heinrich Wosniak, and many others who had spent their final years in penury. Men whom the Weimar ‘system’ had on its conscience.

Reaching the door he followed the instructions on the yellowed sheet nailed to the jamb, and rang three times.

20

Rath still wasn’t quite with it as discussion turned to the latest rumblings in the press. The article in Der Tag had opened the floodgates for the rest. Gennat advocated going on the offensive, but Böhm was having none of it, so great was his distrust of ‘hack writers’. His experiences with the press hadn’t been universally positive, which no one knew better than Rath, who had been responsible for many of them. But what did Böhm, who avoided all contact with journalists, expect? Certainly Gennat was against such default negativity.

While Buddha and Böhm argued, Rath’s thoughts turned to Luisenufer earlier that day. He still couldn’t believe it, but there was no other explanation. Reinhold Gräf was a pansy.

How could he do this to him? After all the beers they had drunk together, everything they had been through? How often had they got changed after police sports? Stood under the shower together? Plenty of opportunity to look him up and down… Rath grew furious thinking about it.

‘…isn’t that so, Inspector Rath?’

The voice belonged to Böhm, but everyone was looking at him.

‘Come again?’

‘The murder weapon. The trench dagger. My colleagues and I would like to know what progress you have made.’

‘Well, it’s tricky.’ Rath cleared his throat. ‘There is no such thing as a standardised trench dagger. Remember that trench warfare was something unknown, for which German soldiers were unprepared. For the most part, the men would have acquired their own daggers, whether by manufacturing them or adapting existing weapons. It wasn’t until the second year that infantrymen on the Western Front were provided with trench daggers, albeit there were still enormous regional differences.’

‘Fine, Inspector,’ Böhm interrupted. ‘But what does it mean for us?’

‘That we still have a long way to go. The only thing we can say with any certainty is that our murder weapon is unlikely to be standard army issue.’

‘A homemade job then?’

‘Or stolen from the enemy, that sort of thing happened too. Although a dagger with a triangular cross-section was rare, it wouldn’t have been the only one. For the time being I have concentrated our inquiries on Heinrich Wosniak’s unit, the First Guards Reserve Infantry Regiment. Perhaps we’ll learn more if we can track down one of his old comrades.’

‘Thank you, Inspector Rath,’ said Gennat. A ‘thank you’ from Böhm was unthinkable. ‘Given the degree of uncertainty, I think it would now be appropriate to appeal to the press for witnesses.’

Böhm seemed to hold Rath personally responsible for his defeat. ‘You heard Superintendent Gennat,’ he shouted, ten minutes later when they had retired to his office. ‘Now get the ball rolling.’

‘Me?’

‘It’s thanks to you we’re in this position. If you’d made a little more progress on the murder weapon, we wouldn’t have to bother.’

‘I don’t understand your aversion to launching an appeal, Sir. The public has helped get many an investigation back on track.’

‘First, who said anything about my investigation not being on track? Second, you know perfectly well that for every reliable witness another twenty unreliable ones crawl out of the woodwork, and that’s not counting the busybodies.’

‘I…’ Rath didn’t get a chance to finish. There was a loud knock and, before anyone could say ‘come in’, two SA men wearing auxiliary police brassards appeared in the doorway. Behind them, Böhm’s secretary, Margot Ahrens, gestured apologetically.

‘I’m sorry, Sir, but the gentlemen wouldn’t take no for an answer.’

Böhm leaped from his chair. ‘How dare you?’ he thundered. ‘You’re interrupting an official conversation.’

The brownshirts were unimpressed. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Böhm?’ the smaller one asked. Böhm nodded. ‘The commissioner would like to see you.’

‘Fine. Tell Herr von Levetzow I’ll come and find him as soon as our meeting is over. In future, a simple telephone call will suffice, especially when we need every available man.’

‘You don’t understand. We have orders to bring you to the commissioner. Now get your jacket and come with us.’

‘I beg your pardon!’

‘The police commissioner would like to see you. Now.’

‘You hangers-on would be better off doing as you’re told,’ the second SA man said. ‘You’re finished here.’

For a moment Böhm was speechless, then it all came out. ‘You’ve some nerve, speaking to me like that. You’re an auxiliary officer! How dare you take that tone with a Prussian police officer?’

‘Prussian police officer? Let’s see about that,’ the small man said. ‘You are guilty of multiple breaches of duty, and…’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Now come with us.’ The SA man placed his hand on Böhm’s shoulder.

Böhm looked at the hand as if it were an insect to brush away. He opened his mouth but said nothing, halting in the doorway to address his secretary, who didn’t know where to look for embarrassment.

‘I’ll be right back, Fräulein Ahrens, it’ll be fine. Go and take your break.’ He looked at Rath and shook his head before following the uniformed officers through the outer office into the corridor.

Margot Ahrens stared at the door as it shut behind them. She uttered a brief cry of horror, more like a sob, and held her hand in front of her mouth. She looked at Rath wide-eyed, and when all he could do was shrug, she took her coat from the hook and ran outside.

21

The fourth years seemed to sense he was distracted. Entering the room like an absent-minded professor, he took the wrong textbook from his bag and almost returned the seventh year essays, two whole lessons early. The article in the morning paper had startled him. Heinrich Wosniak. How long had it been since he’d heard the name?

Linus Meifert had settled into a modest existence as a senior teacher and tried not to think of that time any longer, at least not during the day. Nights were different. Time and again he wakened drenched in sweat.

By now such dreams were his only remaining link to the war, and he was proud to live a normal life as a respected, if slightly dotty, senior teacher in Potsdam. How many others had been unable to return, had joined volunteer corps, turned to crime or landed in the gutter like Wosniak?

The class was staring at him expectantly. No giggling, like in the girls’ lycée years ago. The boys were too disciplined for that. Even so, they were waiting for him to drop his next clanger.

He cleared his throat. ‘Right then, let’s recap. How do I define a parallelogram? Wosniak!’

No response. No one stood up. Astonished faces.

‘There’s no Wosniak here, Sir.’

Concentrate, damn it!

‘Pardon? No, of course not. So. The definition of a parallelogram. We had it last week. Vogelsang, answer when I call your name!’

Vogelsang stood up straight as if on the parade ground and, for a moment, it seemed as if he might protest against the injustice, but decided against it. That was why Meifert had chosen him. Vogelsang always complied.

‘A parallelogram is a quadrilateral in which the opposing sides are equal,’ he said dutifully.

‘Good! Sit down. Why didn’t you respond straight away?’ Vogelsang furrowed his brow. ‘Today we are going to practise what we have learned. Open your books and turn to page forty seven.’

‘Which exercise, Sir?’

‘I just said. Page forty seven. The whole page.’

The boys obeyed with a collective groan. While the lower third completed a page of algebra, Meifert made himself comfortable behind his desk. Could he really be in danger?

The article didn’t mention when Wosniak had died, or why. Only a handful of men knew what had happened on the Western Front, most of whom were long in the ground. Meifert had never breathed a word about it and didn’t intend to. After all these years it was the events of March 1917 that still haunted his dreams.

22

Rath sat on Böhm’s visitor’s chair and gazed blankly at the Hindenburg portrait on the wall. In his long years of service he had witnessed many summonings by top brass. Usually it was a bad sign. Even so, he had never seen anyone being led away as Böhm had been moments before. Still, his sympathy was limited.

How many times had he been called to make his report by Böhm? Now the boot was on the other foot. Multiple breaches of duty… It seemed the punctilious detective chief inspector, who demanded even greater punctiliousness from his men, had finally rubbed someone up the wrong way. Rath wondered what Charly would say. He’d never understood why she set such great store by the grumpy so-and-so in the first place.

The telephone rang in Böhm’s outer office, an internal call. He went through and picked up. Perhaps it would be Gennat, calling to re-assign the Wosniak investigation.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Böhm’s office. Inspector Rath speaking.’

‘Porter here. Brettschneider. We have someone here requesting to speak with DCI Böhm urgently.’

‘He isn’t here.’

‘Can I send him up anyway?’

‘I don’t know when he’ll be back. Tell your man to make an appointment.’

‘He claims the matter is urgent and brooks no delay. It concerns the dead homeless man.’

The receiver clicked, and Rath heard a clipped but pleasantly warm voice. ‘Von Roddeck here. With whom am I speaking, please?’

‘Detective Inspector Rath. Detective Chief Inspector Böhm is currently unavailable. What is it that’s so urgent?’

‘It concerns the case in today’s paper. The dead homeless man. The pigeon droppings and…’

‘If you wish to make a complaint, I must ask you to do so in writing.’

‘No, no, I don’t wish to make a complaint. Perhaps I can be of assistance.’

‘You were a witness?’

‘No, but I knew Heinrich Wosniak.’

The man on the telephone didn’t sound as if he moved in homeless circles. As for his name… ‘Do you think you could identify Wosniak? He’s still at the morgue.’

‘It was a long time ago, but I think so.’

Rath led Achim von Roddeck to his own office to avoid an ill-tempered Wilhelm Böhm bursting in on their conversation following his return from the police commissioner.

Baron Achim von Roddeck, to give him his full title, and that wasn’t the half of it. Achim Friedrich Wilhelm Albrecht Achilles… Rath stopped listening after the fifth name. The man had actually pushed his passport across the table when asked for his personal particulars, as if it were important that he be formally identified. Rath handed the passport to Erika Voss, who was on shorthand duty.

The first thing he noticed about the man was his immaculate wardrobe. It wasn’t just the suit or coat and hat that he hung on the stand next to the door; his gloves looked tailor-made, and his brightly polished shoes. His ash blond hair – more ash than blond – was perfectly parted, albeit rather thin. The man looked like a yellowing portrait of his own youth. Even so, he could still turn heads, Rath could tell as much from his secretary’s reaction.

‘May I?’ Achim von Roddeck asked. He smoked Manoli and his cigarette case was silver and decorated with a coat of arms. Rath pushed the ashtray across the table and produced a light. The baron made no move to offer one of his cigarettes, so Rath fished his own, unadorned, case from his jacket. Overstolz, a price tier below Manoli. Roddeck inhaled deeply. No doubt he was nervous. He shivered as he clapped the cigarette case shut and returned it to his pocket. The coat of arms on the silver lid showed an axe, crossed with a sword, as well as a few other symbols that Rath couldn’t identify.

‘You knew Heinrich Wosniak?’ he began. Roddeck nodded. Rath gestured towards Erika Voss. ‘Please answer yes or no, for the record.’

‘Yes, I knew him,’ Roddeck said. The shorthand pencil scratched across the page.

‘I would ask that you identify the body.’

‘Gladly, though I’m surprised it’s taken this long.’

‘We’ve been unable to trace any friends or relatives. We have the name from his old service record, which he was carrying in his coat.’

‘That sounds like him.’ Von Roddeck appeared almost moved, to the extent that any Prussian indulged in such sentimentality. He drew on his cigarette before continuing. ‘We stood together in the trenches on the Western Front.’

Rath leafed through the file and opened the worn service record. ‘In the First Guards Reserve Infantry Regiment.’

‘I served as a lieutenant, and Heinrich was my orderly. A good man. That he should have died this way…’ Roddeck shook his head. ‘Homeless, you say?’

‘You say.’

‘Well, that’s what it said in the paper. As if it were a disgrace. As if it were pointless even investigating his death. Damn hacks! The man risked his neck fighting for the likes of them.’

Roddeck’s outrage appeared genuine. All too frequently, would-be soldiers gave voice to their patriotism without having served, without knowing what they were talking about. Achim von Roddeck seemed to know.

‘I intend to publish my war memoirs,’ he continued.

‘Like Remarque?’

‘Nothing like Remarque!’ Roddeck practically hissed in response. ‘Märzgefallene won’t drag the name of German soldiers through the mire. On the contrary, it will show that the blame for the Fatherland’s defeat lies squarely with those who should never have been allowed to wear the officer’s uniform in the first place.’

‘Märzgefallene?’ The March Fallen.

‘The title of my novel. Pre-printing begins in the Kreuzzeitung in less than two weeks, and the work will be published by Nibelungen in May.’

The baron was starting to grate. So, he had written a book… ‘Why are you telling me this? Are you hoping to gain a new reader?’

‘I fear my novel has someone running scared. Someone whom I thought long dead.’

‘Come again?’

Roddeck fetched a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘Read this. I found it in my mailbox two weeks ago, days after the pre-printing of Märzgefallene was announced.’

Rath skimmed the document, which looked like a blackmail letter, typewritten, and in block capitals.

‘I thought it was a bad joke, but it seems he has made good on his threat.’

‘Alberich? Like the dwarf? Strange name.’

‘A code name.’

‘Of course…’

‘You’re aware of Operation Alberich?’ Roddeck asked.

‘1917. The retreat to the Siegfried Line.’

Achim von Roddeck gave a nod of acknowledgement. ‘You served, didn’t you?’

‘I didn’t make it to the Front,’ Rath replied. ‘A few months too young.’ He shrugged guiltily, an involuntary reaction. He had no call to apologise for being spared the carnage, for having seen out the end of the war in the rear, where, in anticipation of imminent death, he and his comrades had lived each day as if it were their last.

‘I was part of it. We evacuated the territory, mined the streets, destroyed the railways, booby-trapped abandoned villages, poisoned wells, you name it. Nothing glorious about it, but that’s war. We did what was necessary.’

Rath silently disagreed. Operation Alberich was a masterfully conceived manoeuvre, but the way the troops had devastated the abandoned territory, leaving it littered with dead, was a matter of national shame. It was one of the many wartime episodes that had shaken his naive belief in the heroism of hand-to-hand combat, which had been drummed into him since his schooldays.

‘Since he called himself Alberich, I thought it might be one of my ex-comrades playing me for a fool,’ Roddeck said. Rath and Erika Voss waited for a name. ‘All these years I thought he was dead. We all did. But he’s alive. No doubt about it, and he killed my faithful Heinrich.’

‘Who did, Herr von Roddeck?’

Achim von Roddeck drew on his cigarette and Erika Voss rolled her eyes. ‘His name is Benjamin Engel. He was a captain on the Western Front.’

At last Erika Voss’s pencil scratched across the page.

What he served up next was hard for Rath to digest: a convoluted account of the exploits of one Captain Engel, who had stood out for his cruelty during the retreat, and had incited his unit to conceal a gold strike, murdering three people when the episode threatened to come to light. Two minors – French civilians – and a German recruit.

‘You covered it up all these years?’

‘Engel fell the day after the murders, or so we thought. Why drag the German army’s good name through the mire?’

We. ‘There were other witnesses?’

‘Heinrich Wosniak was one.’

‘You think this Captain Engel is still alive, and trying to prevent the publication of your novel, which tells precisely this story…’

‘Correct.’

‘Then why did he murder your orderly, if you and your novel are the threat?’

‘My death wouldn’t have prevented its release! Wosniak’s murder was a sign that Engel means business. Isn’t that obvious?’

‘This Captain Engel of yours killed, to give you a sign?’

‘Engel stopped at nothing during the war. Todesengel, we called him. Angel of Death. When I remember how cold-bloodedly he murdered those children, and Wegener, the youthful recruit…’

Despite finding the whole thing fanciful, Rath had Erika Voss note all the names. Not only was Heinrich Wosniak dead, he had met with a violent end. Exactly how violent, Rath would soon see for himself. His body had been on display in the morgue for some days, standard procedure for those whose identity was unconfirmed.

‘I have a gentleman here who knew Heinrich Wosniak from the war,’ Rath explained to the porter. Moments later he and Roddeck stood before the thick glass pane that separated the chilled corpses from onlookers. The showroom was stiller even than a church; the dead demanded respect, or perhaps it was the attendance of Death that made the living fall silent.

Wosniak’s corpse was laid at a slight angle so that visitors could examine his face.

Rath couldn’t work out the man standing next to him. Was Achim von Roddeck a serious witness or just another busybody, the sort who appeared without fail at headquarters following a newspaper appeal?

Roddeck looked at the body carefully. ‘My God, how old his face has grown, and such horrific scars.’

‘Burns,’ explained Rath, who had only seen photos until now. ‘Wosniak survived a fire about a year ago. The shack he shared with various others was burned down.’

Roddeck shook his head. ‘A man survives a war for this.’

‘You can identify him then?’

‘Yes, that’s my faithful Heinrich. You really haven’t traced any next of kin?’

‘But for the service record in his coat we wouldn’t even have his name. Nickname was a different matter. Kartoffel.’

‘Kartoffel!’ Roddeck shook his head. ‘It’s a disgrace the way our Fatherland has treated its most loyal sons!’ He sounded as if he weren’t just speaking for poor disenfranchised souls like Heinrich Wosniak, but men such as himself. He looked at his silver fob watch.

‘Inspector, do you still need me? I have an urgent meeting with my publisher and the editor of the Kreuzzeitung.’

Rath pricked up his ears. ‘You’re thinking of pulling the release?’

‘Absolutely not! I’ve given my word. A German officer does not submit to threats.’

‘Especially when he doesn’t stand to come to harm himself.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘This mysterious captain hasn’t ruined your life but that of your orderly. You told me yourself, your own death won’t prevent the novel being printed.’

‘Nothing will prevent my novel being printed!’ Achim von Roddeck flashed his eyes at Rath, a look that Kaiser Wilhelm had once made popular. ‘Do you sincerely believe my life isn’t in danger?’ He gestured towards the deceased Wosniak. ‘Is that not proof enough of the seriousness of Engel’s threats?’

‘If that’s what you think, you ought to have contacted the police sooner, then perhaps your faithful Heinrich would still be alive.’

‘You think I don’t blame myself? But that doesn’t mean the police should make the same mistake. See that there are no more victims, Inspector! Find Wosniak’s killer.’

‘It isn’t so easy to find a dead man. No doubt your Captain Engel goes by a new name.’

‘Then protect me and my men.’

‘You want police protection?’ Rath gazed at Roddeck in disbelief. ‘Don’t you think that’s a little… over the top? I wouldn’t hold out much hope given the current situation. The sort of manpower that would entail…’

‘I believe my former comrades are in danger, as am I.’

‘Some of these men aren’t even from Berlin.’

‘Captain Engel wasn’t from Berlin either. He was from Bonn.’

Rath gave in. ‘Perhaps I can assign you a little protection today. If you tell me where your meeting is, I’ll take you there myself.’

Lieutenant von Roddeck appeared offended, but nodded all the same. ’Friedrichstrasse,’ he said. ‘Café Imperator.’

23

Including the walk and the number nine autobus, Wilhelm Böhm needed approximately twenty minutes to get from Alexanderplatz to the Prussian Interior Ministry on Unter den Linden, just by the Brandenburger Tor. Who did these upstarts think they were? God knows he had better things to do than justify his methods to the new heads. All this time being passed from pillar to post meant his work was left undone, which was no doubt what they wanted, and how would Rath and Gräf manage without him?

At least he had been allowed to make his way to the Interior Ministry without brown-shirted accompaniment. In the corridors of the Castle he had felt like a prisoner. He remembered Grzesinski, the former police commissioner, who had been frogmarched out of his office by Reichswehr soldiers last year. Back then the protests had been vocal, but all he had received, sandwiched between two SA auxiliary officers, was the odd sympathetic glance. He felt like a pariah and perhaps that’s what he had become. Certainly the new police commissioner had done nothing to dispel him of this notion.

‘You do understand that the police can ill afford such headlines,’ Magnus von Levetzow had barked in the brisk tones of a one-time naval officer. The Berlin police chief tapped the pile of newspapers on his desk, everything from the Kreuzzeitung to Der Tag, the latter having upped the ante again this morning.

‘With respect, Sir, I’m not responsible for the headlines. I don’t know how these muckrakers got hold of my name.’

‘But you are responsible for the methods which are making our police force a laughing stock! We have an important role to play in the new Germany, where we must fight in the national revolution alongside our national forces, and against the enemies of the Fatherland!’

Levetzow banged his fist on the table, but Böhm refused to be intimidated. He had encountered worse drill sergeants during the war. ‘With respect, Sir, I have a different view of police work.’

‘Your view of police work is detailed right here in Der Tag. Do you know how many complaints there have been about the methods employed at Nollendorfplatz? Rightly I might add! You, Detective Chief Inspector Böhm, are making a comedy troupe of the Berlin Police, and the whole city is in stitches. Worse, you are wasting valuable resources. Men who are needed to fight the enemies of the new Germany stand guard over canvasses covered in pigeon dung!’

‘There is a perfectly good reason, Sir. The death of…’

‘The death of an urban vagrant should have been shelved long ago. We have other priorities, or did I not make myself clear?’

Böhm stopped listening. However he might respond the outcome was fixed. The commissioner didn’t want any arguments. All he wanted was to give a troublesome officer a good bawling-out. The surprise came at the end, when Levetzow packed him off to the Interior Ministry. They weren’t finished with him yet. ‘The Daluege Bureau would like to see you.’

So it was that Detective Chief Inspector Wilhelm Böhm sat wasting his time in an outer office of the Prussian Interior Ministry with his bowler hat in his hands, waiting to be called. He had heard of the Daluege Bureau. Once they had your number the odds were stacked against you. A few months earlier, Kurt Daluege, then working for the Berlin Refuse Department, was appointed by Göring himself to ‘Special Commissar’, tasked with purging the Berlin Police of its politically unreliable elements. So, that was the name given these days to a distinguished officer such as Wilhelm Böhm, who had neither belonged to a party nor politicised on duty in his life. A politically unreliable element.

At last the door opened and a man emerged with sweaty hair clinging to his forehead. He didn’t appear to see Böhm or the secretary sitting behind her desk, and left the room without a word.

‘You can go in now,’ the secretary said.

Kurt Daluege, a flashy greenhorn with a high forehead and arrogantly curved lips, barely over thirty, sat behind a desk stacked with files. Personnel records, Böhm thought, and inside every one is a poor sod whose career with the Berlin Police is going to hell in a handbasket. The new regime was determined to create as many faits accomplis as possible before the vote on Sunday. Daluege was probably taking these files home at night, scouring officers’ biographies for weak points. Böhm couldn’t believe it. A binman was to pronounce judgement on him.

‘Take a seat, Detective Chief Inspector.’

Daluege spoke without looking up from the file he was writing in. Böhm sat on an uncomfortable visitors’ chair that might have come from the interrogation rooms at headquarters. At length Daluege snapped the file shut, set it to one side and reached for the next.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Wilhelm Böhm, A Division?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re a Social Democrat?’

‘No.’

Daluege made a tick in the file.

‘Nevertheless, you are interested in their election programme. Why else would you attend a Social Democrat hustings?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘You’ve been seen at Social Democrat conventions.’

Böhm wondered who had seen him at the rally on Sunday and deemed it cause for denunciation. A colleague? An ex-con out for revenge?

‘I am a responsible citizen of this Republic, and democrats have a duty to keep themselves informed. Since when do I have to justify attending a campaign rally?’

‘You call yourself a democrat – but claim not to be a Social Democrat.’ Daluege furrowed his brow and threw Böhm a disapproving glance. ‘No doubt you are one of those who hasn’t understood the significance of the national uprising. Wake up, Detective Chief Inspector, the Republic is history! The new age begins now. Germany is on the up!’

The former waste engineer’s triumphalism was starting to get on Böhm’s nerves, but he checked himself and pretended to listen.

‘In times like these there are two types of German,’ Daluege continued. ‘Those who help build the new Germany and those who don’t. The question is: which type are you?’

‘The old Germany will do me just fine, I don’t need a new one. As a police officer I work to make things better, or at least ensure they don’t get worse.’

Daluege wrote a few sentences in Böhm’s file. ‘If you desire a better Germany, your priority should be to thwart the Communist pillagers who burned down the Reichstag and are laying waste to our country. Instead you are withholding your cooperation…’

‘I wouldn’t say that. All I did was explain to the commissioner that I am a homicide detective, and murder investigations take precedence over arson attacks in which there are no fatalities. I was only too glad to have Cadet Steinke transferred to the Reichstag task force.’

‘You make it sound like an act of mercy.’ Daluege shook his head. ‘Do you know why you are here, Detective Chief Inspector?’

‘Evidently because I attended a campaign hustings.’

‘You are here because the German Police must ensure it can rely on its officers to play their part in the construction of the new Germany. As matters stand, Detective Chief Inspector, I’m uncertain whether you are playing yours.’

‘Meaning?’

‘That you’re in luck. For the time being I will refrain from suspending you. Instead you will have the opportunity to prove yourself.’

Daluege seemed to expect gratitude, but Böhm refused to play ball. He held the binman’s gaze and waited for him to continue. ‘Your case has been reassigned, and you will no longer be working at Alexanderplatz.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You are being transferred to Köpenick, Detective Chief Inspector.’

‘When… when does this transfer take effect?’

‘Immediately, of course. What did you think? Get used to the pace of the new age! Now back to headquarters with you and clear your desk. Tomorrow morning, you’ll report to Inspector Brenner.’

‘Brenner?’

‘He’s head of operations at Köpenick.’ Daluege wrote another sentence in Böhm’s file. ‘You can go now.’

Böhm’s legs felt like jelly, but soon the old spirit returned and filled him with resolve. He wouldn’t let himself be ground down. They had no cause to remove him from office, and for as long as he was a Prussian police officer he would conduct business as he saw fit. These Nazi upstarts could go hang.

Nothing lasts forever, he thought, let’s see what the elections bring. He left the office without another word.

24

Café Imperator was slightly out of the way, towards the southern end of Friedrichstrasse. Two gentlemen rose when they spied Roddeck. Rath had never seen the gaunt man, but recognised the fat man with the glasses.

Roddeck made the introductions. ‘Martin Frank, Neue Preussische Zeitung, and Gregor Hildebrandt, my publisher – Gereon Rath, Criminal Police.’

‘Hildebrandt?’ Rath asked, shaking the fat man’s hand. ‘Didn’t you publish Herr Roeder back in the day?’

‘Some time ago,’ Hildebrandt said, evidently flattered that Rath should recognise him. ‘Nibelungen is famous for its true life stories.’

‘Or true war stories.’

‘War is life, life is war,’ Hildebrandt said seriously. ‘How are you getting on, Inspector? Ever considered putting pen to paper yourself?’

‘God forbid!’ Rath raised his hands. ‘No one’s interested in my life.’

‘Don’t say that.’

Rath and Roddeck took their places at the table.

‘We’ve just come from the morgue,’ said Roddeck. ‘It really is my faithful Heinrich.’

Hildebrandt shook his head. ‘What do you think, Inspector? Is the murder linked to this poison-pen business?’

‘You know about that?’

‘I advised Herr von Roddeck to go to the police.’

‘Advice you should have given two weeks ago.’

‘I only told Herr Hildebrandt this morning,’ Roddeck said.

‘What are you going to do?’ Hildebrandt asked. ‘Will Herr von Roddeck receive police protection?’

‘That’s not my decision. Besides, it’s still a little early… First we need to examine the facts.’

‘Too early? Don’t you think it might be too late, unless you act?’

‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’ Rath lit an Overstolz. ‘How about you? What steps are you taking?’ He turned to Martin Frank, the editor. ‘The easiest thing would be to pull the advance print. You could announce it in tomorrow’s edition.’

‘We’ve spent the last few weeks publicising it,’ Frank said. ‘Our readers are expecting the first instalment. If we postpone it, we’ll need a replacement, and negotiations are still ongoing for our next serial.’

‘But it isn’t completely impossible? I mean, it’s still two weeks away, and if a human life really is at stake, then…’

Frank looked uncertainly towards Roddeck and Hildebrandt. ‘Assuming it met with the wishes of Herr von Roddeck and Herr Hildebrandt, then, yes, postponing is something we might consider. If the police recommended it.’

Roddeck cut in. ‘The police should focus on catching the killer. For my part, I will not submit to threats.’

‘The same goes for the Neue Preussische Zeitung, of course,’ Frank interjected hurriedly. ‘I just thought that since the Criminal Police…’

‘Yielding to blackmail can’t be in police interests,’ Roddeck said.

‘We only have to be seen to be yielding,’ Rath said. ‘Forbearance is not acquittance. It would ease the pressure, that’s all, and give us a week to search for this missing captain. If he is still alive, that is, and responsible for Heinrich Wosniak’s death. To be honest I have difficulty believing someone would kill in order to prevent a book from being published.’

The publisher looked astounded. ‘Hasn’t Lieutenant von Roddeck explained to you what this is about?’

‘Operation Alberich, Captain Engel, the murder of two French civilians…’

‘…and a German recruit,’ Hildebrandt added.

‘This business with the gold. What can I say, it all sounds pretty convoluted.’

‘Herr von Roddeck expresses himself better in writing.’ Hildebrandt said, reaching for his briefcase. He removed a thick wodge of papers held together by cord. ‘Here,’ he said, passing it across. ‘Märzgefallene proofs. Read the book and you’ll understand.’

Rath looked at the wodge in horror. ‘How many pages?’

‘Five hundred and eighty, but you don’t have to read everything. I’ve marked the most important sections. You’ll realise soon enough that our fears are justified. Captain Engel is cold-hearted and devoid of scruples.’

‘A Nazi?’

‘What are you saying? The exact opposite.’

‘A Communist?’

‘No.’ The publisher looked piqued. ‘A Jew.’

25

When Rath returned to his office, Erika Voss was sitting at her desk in her hat and coat writing something on a piece of paper. She crumpled it when she saw him.

Rath looked at his watch. ‘I didn’t realise it was so late.’

‘You don’t say.’ She passed him Kirie’s lead. ‘I was all set to take her home.’

‘Sorry, Erika,’ he said. Kirie wagged her tail contentedly. ‘Traffic.’

He released Kirie’s collar and she made straight for her favourite place under his desk. Rath followed her into his office and set down the thick stack of papers he was carrying. ‘Any sign of Gräf?’ he asked through the door.

‘Finished for the night. Your fiancée was asking for you on the phone just now.’

‘She was?’ Rath hung his hat and coat on the stand. ‘Did Gräf have any luck?’

‘None. No trace of our dead man.’ Erika Voss could no longer hide her curiosity at the wodge of paper. ‘What’s that?’

‘Märzgefallene. Our baron’s novel about his wartime experiences.’

‘All that shorthand was for nothing?’ Erika Voss presented him with a neatly stapled file. ‘Interview transcript, freshly typed.’

‘You’re an angel.’

‘Speaking of which…’ She opened a second, thinner file. ‘Captain Engel was reported missing in March ’17, and declared dead seven years later. At his widow’s behest.’

Many war widows refused to accept their missing husbands’ deaths, even if it brought them financial difficulties, but Captain Engel’s widow had prioritised inheritance over hopes of a miracle. Perhaps the woman was simply realistic, but how would she react when she learned her husband might not have been killed after all?

‘Do you have her address?’

Erika Voss pushed the file across the table. ‘This is everything I’ve been able to find.’

Rath skimmed the list, which also contained the addresses of some of the men Roddeck had mentioned. Eva Engel still lived in Bonn, but went by a different name. ‘Looks like she remarried?’

‘I don’t know, but she’s called Heinen these days.’

‘Our colleagues in Bonn should pay these men a visit. The widow, too, of course. Is the press appeal ready?’

Erika Voss removed a letter from her folder. ‘You still need to sign.’

‘It’s Böhm who needs to sign. Has he been in touch?’

‘It’s as if he’s disappeared from the face of the Earth. Fräulein Ahrens isn’t answering either.’

‘Strange,’ said Rath. ‘We’ll just have to keep trying. I’ll fill him in tomorrow at briefing.’

He took out a pencil and signed the document, which contained a precise description of Wosniak and appealed for witnesses who had seen anything unusual at Nollendorfplatz between the 21st and 25th of February.

‘Pass it on to Gennat. I’d rather he approved it, if Böhm’s nowhere to be found. Otherwise I’ll just be accused of going it alone again.’

Erika Voss reached for an internal mail envelope. ‘I’ll take this and be on my way.’

‘Wait a moment,’ Rath said.

He had a hunch she was meeting someone, and was pleased at her startled face. Fetching his brown leather briefcase he stowed the Roddeck novel and interview transcript inside.

‘Homework,’ he said, attaching Kirie’s lead and reaching for the coat he had only just taken off. Erika Voss looked at him quizzically. ‘Can I drive you somewhere?’ he asked, and her face was transformed by a smile.

He had parked the Buick on Dircksenstrasse, and started when he saw a familiar Adler sedan tucked in behind. ‘Get in, Erika,’ he said, opening the passenger door. ‘I need to do Kirie’s seat.’

Before Rath unfolded the dickey he went across to the black sedan, the window of which was lowered in the same instant. ‘New girlfriend, Inspector?’ Johann Marlow asked from the back. In the rearview mirror Rath recognised a pair of narrow eyes. Marlow’s closest confidant Liang was behind the wheel.

‘My secretary,’ Rath said. ‘Better for both of us if she doesn’t see us together.’

‘I need to talk to you, and the only person at home is your bride-to-be.’

‘Then you should have called headquarters. This isn’t a good time.’

‘I need to speak to you today. If you don’t want your secretary to find out, then suggest an alternative location.’

Rath looked around. Erika Voss was using the time to paint her lips. ‘She lives on Wörther Strasse. Is there somewhere we can meet close by?’

‘Let’s do it like this,’ Marlow said. ‘I’ll wait around the corner, by the water tower. We’ll talk there in the car. It’ll be better for both of us.’

The window was closed before Rath could say anything. He went over to the Buick and tipped up the dickey. The sedan pulled out of its space and rolled slowly past. Rath released Kirie’s collar and she jumped on the seat. He hadn’t seen Johann Marlow in almost a year, but Rath had the uneasy feeling of being shackled to the man, knowing his career would be over if their association were ever made known, and not just his career. Charly would never forgive him if she found out. Not so much his working alongside a known criminal as lying about it for so long. Four years ago she had made him promise that he’d never see Johann Marlow again.

He climbed into the Buick and Erika Voss twisted her lipstick shut. ‘What did you want with the man in the sedan?’

‘Illegally parked.’ Rath started the engine. ‘I politely suggested that this was a no-stopping zone, whether you were a swank with a chauffeur or not.’

26

The Jonass department store lacked the pomp of Kadewe or Wertheim, and the tasteful respectability of Tietz or Karstadt, but was no less impressive. Sober and functional, the newly-built eight-storey department store dominated the Prenzlauer Berg skyline, gazing over the districts of Spandau and Friedrichshain from which it drew its custom.

Hannah had tried at both branches of Tietz, on Alexanderplatz and on Leipziger Strasse; had been in Wertheim and Kadewe, but everywhere she went they threw her out. She still looked like a beggar girl, despite the old coat she had pinched from Aschinger. Her oversized rubber boots, stuffed with newspaper, undermined any attempt to appear even halfway solvent.

It wasn’t easy finding somewhere to sleep when you didn’t have a penny. The places she had been forced to bed down since Dalldorf! Last night had been a sandpit on the banks of the Spree, where she had shivered until morning. Upon waking she’d dragged herself from bar to bar, taking advantage of the warmth until her inevitable expulsion. Being thrown out was the one thing she could count on. The waiters couldn’t have her begging or selling her body against the promise of a warm meal.

More than once she had considered returning to Reinickendorf, where there was at least food and warmth, but then she remembered it wasn’t just Charge Sister Ingeborg or Warder Scholtens who’d be waiting, but Huckebein too.

Jeder Preis ein Schlager, the sign above the entrance said. Every price a winner. Hannah stepped into the enveloping warmth. At Kadewe one of the uniformed porters had sent her on her way within seconds, but at Jonass she didn’t stand out quite so much. You could buy on credit here, which meant there were more shabby-looking figures about, and fewer judgemental looks. A gaunt girl in an oversized coat attracted little attention. She strolled through the aisles, past the clothes racks and up and down the stairs until she found what looked like a suitable place to sleep.

The large wooden trunk in the furniture department was the kind of place no night watchman would think to look. Hannah would have liked nothing better than to climb straight in but, as soon as she opened the lid, she felt half a dozen pairs of eyes on her. She gave the trunk a look of appraisal and replaced the lid.

The department store idea came from the Märchenbrunnen posse. They recalled a girl who would get herself locked in at night so that she could make off with jewellery and so forth. For Hannah the appeal resided less in stealing jewellery than the prospect of a meal and something warm to wear, and the chance of a few hours’ comfortable sleep.

The Märchenbrunnen posse weren’t a fixed set, not like the hundreds of gangs with martial-sounding names like Red Rats or Black Hand, but a handful of homeless youths or runaways who had chosen the Märchenbrunnen in Volkspark Friedrichshain as their meeting point around the same time Hannah had finally escaped the hell of the Crow’s Nest. The Crows had found her again a few days later, of course, and hounded her back to Bülowplatz. Back to her slave’s existence selling matchsticks on the Weidendammer Bridge along with her bitter, crippled father whose morphine addiction swallowed the greater part of their takings.

Still, those few days in summer had shown her a life in which she owned little but was free; in which she had friends. Escaping from Dalldorf, memories of those warm nights had driven her back to the Märchenbrunnen, the Fairytale Fountain, but Hansel and Gretel’s noses were covered in icicles and there were no young people for miles around. Since then she spent her days in the Volkspark and surrounding area looking for the posse, and her evenings scouring department stores for somewhere to sleep.

Yes, she was a thief. The coat wasn’t the only thing, and she didn’t feel guilty – a girl like her couldn’t sink any lower. The only thing that made stealing difficult was the fear of getting caught. If someone handed her over to the cops, she would be sent back to Dalldorf, perhaps even to jail. Somewhere, at any rate, where Huckebein would find her.

Of course Berlin wasn’t completely safe, but how, she asked herself each day, would she survive outside the big city? Owning nothing but the clothes on her body she was better off in the capital than out in the country where the farmers would chase her off their land. Cold as the winter here might be, there were plenty of opportunities to get warm.

In the meantime, she took up position in a stairwell of the office wing, where the employees finished earlier than those on the floor. Hannah looked for somewhere to hide in the ladies’ toilet, knowing from her experiences in Tietz that it would be searched before closing. The staff toilets might be different. She waited for the glow of light in the lavatory window to dim… and then started.

For a moment she didn’t know where she was. She must have fallen asleep. Even the toilets here were pleasantly warm. She considered going properly to sleep, but fear of the night watchman jolted her awake. She didn’t know how late it was, but the light from the department store was gone and it was almost pitch black. She groped her way forwards and out.

The door to the sales floor was still open. She worked her way gradually towards the furniture department, taking cover behind whatever shelves she could find, until she reached the trunk. Stretching for one of the cushions draped over a nearby sofa, she lifted the lid and climbed inside. She just needed to adjust her legs slightly and everything was perfect albeit dark as an inkwell. Only when her eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom did she notice the cracks in the wood through which light filtered.

On the cusp of sleep a noise startled her. It must be the night watchman doing his rounds. She scarcely dared breathe, but listened and hoped that he might soon be on his way. The steps drew closer until… Goddamn it! He must have noticed one of the sofa cushions was missing. The lid above her opened.

Paralysed by fear she squinted upwards; her ‘night watchman’ was equally terrified. A boy of perhaps eleven or twelve, dressed even more shabbily than she was, looked down at her out of large, frightened eyes.