Goldstein, page 18
‘Gereon, here you are at last!’ Gräf vacated the desk. ‘I’ve been sitting here like a cat on a hot tin roof. Can you imagine the fuss Kirie’s been making? Fortunately, a boy took him out. In exchange for a hefty tip.’
‘Lucky for the dog.’
‘But not for me.’ Gräf’s voice was unexpectedly strained. ‘Sorry, no time for a proper handover. I have to pee!’
With these words, Gräf made his exit. Rath shook his head and looked at Kirie, who had made herself comfortable under the desk again. ‘Can you understand it?’ he asked the dog. ‘How can anyone be so frantic?’
Rath sat at the table and opened the notebook he had filled with abstract patterns the day before. Gräf, who suppressed even the urge to pee while on duty, had been more conscientious. Judging by the date and times, he had made notes yesterday afternoon and this morning. He had written down everything that happened in the vicinity of room 301, even timing the appearances of the chambermaid and floor waiter down to the last minute. According to Gräf, Goldstein had only left his suite once since yesterday morning. It looked as if they had managed to spoil the Yank’s stay in Berlin.
Gräf returned from the toilet. ‘I needed that,’ he said. ‘Just going to pick up the car, were you?’
Rath nodded. The Hanomag hadn’t even managed the journey from Reinickendorf to Kreuzberg without incident. When the lights on Invalidenstrasse switched to green, the engine flooded and resisted all attempts to restart. Cursing, Rath left the crate by the side of the road, walked the few metres to Stettiner Bahnhof and telephoned the garage. It took a while to get hold of the right man.
‘Ah, the fuel line,’ Heinz said. Even on the telephone it sounded like he was eating a sandwich. ‘I thought I’d explained it to you?’ He hadn’t, so only now did Rath learn the whole truth. The Hanomag had a tendency to take on too much fuel and stall, but the driver could reduce the diameter of the fuel line with a clamp stored in the glove compartment. Rath did as bidden, and, after a moment or two of stubbornness, the car sprang back into life. Not that it was any more fun to drive. In neutral, the crate shook from side to side to such an extent that Rath came to fear every red light.
‘Goldstein doesn’t seem to be enjoying his time here,’ he said, gesturing towards the notebook. ‘A real stay-at-home, it looks like.’
Gräf nodded. ‘Probably spends the whole day telephoning overseas, home-sick.’
‘Or looking for a crafty lawyer to get him out of this. To be honest, I’m not sure what else we can do. On paper, he’s a respectable American citizen.’
‘I’ve kept less dangerous men under surveillance,’ Gräf said. ‘I think he’s just fed up. I bet we’ll see a boy wheeling his luggage trolley out of suite 301 before the week is out.’
‘You really want to bet?’
‘A crate of Engelhardt. He’ll be gone by the weekend. At the latest.’
Rath considered a moment before shaking on it.
At that moment, the chambermaid emerged from suite 301 and cast the two officers a curious glance before disappearing down the corridor. ‘Somehow that girl seems familiar,’ Rath said.
‘Of course she does. It’s the same one as yesterday and the day before.’
‘No, I’ve seen her somewhere else, I think. I just don’t know where. How long was she in with him?’
‘No idea.’ Gräf looked in the notebook. ‘I didn’t see her go in. Was it when I was in the toilet?’
Rath shook his head. ‘I didn’t see anything. She must have spent the night with him.’
‘Come off it! Your imagination’s running wild.’
‘You said it yesterday yourself. He had the chambermaid for breakfast.’
‘That was a joke.’ Gräf was outraged. ‘She’ll be out on her ear if this gets out!’
Rath shrugged.
Gräf took his hat and coat. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I’m off to stretch my legs. See you later.’
‘No you won’t. I’ve got an assignment for you – from Gennat himself. You’re to head back to the Castle and report to Böhm. They’ve got a new case. A corpse has been found in Humboldthain.’
He said it as casually as possible, but Gräf froze in mid-motion, his coat only half on.
‘What about you?’ Gräf looked like a scarecrow with his dangling coat sleeves.
‘I’m staying put. Someone’s got to look after the important jobs.’
39
Charly had already visited three of the Reinhold families in Friedrichshain. At the first door no one opened; the second family, the Reinholds in Romintener Strasse, had only been blessed with sons; and at the third address a woman of at least seventy answered. It transpired that she was unmarried and took the very question of a daughter or granddaughter named Alexandra as an insult.
Here in Grünberger Strasse, the fourth address on the list, Charly was having difficulties even finding the name Reinhold. She compared Gereon’s note with the house number again: Grünberger Strasse 64. The address was right, but there were no Reinholds here, either with a ‘d’ or a ‘dt’.
A man in grey overalls was sweeping the yard, shouting at a few boys playing football. He kept on until they finally picked up their homemade ball and pushed off. Charly went across.
‘The Reinholds haven’t lived here for a long time. They were given the boot around Christmas.’ He had a Berlin accent.
‘The Reinhold family is on the streets?’
Charly was so excited she didn’t realise she was thinking out loud. She had a good feeling about this: family on the streets, daughter neglected. Everything seemed to fit.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ the man said. ‘I didn’t turf them out! I just keep things tidy, but that’s how it goes when you don’t pay your rent.’
‘But a family . . . with children?’
‘Are you from Welfare or something?’ Charly looked at him steadily as the words sputtered out. ‘You couldn’t call them a family anymore. They do have one respectable son, Helmut, but he won’t have anything to do with them. If he’s sensible, that is. The younger brother, Karl, is almost certainly in Moscow by now, or wherever it is the Reds are hiding him. He’s a wanted man. Didn’t you know? The Beckmann murder.’
The name didn’t mean anything to Charly, but she hadn’t worked in Homicide for a long time. She shook her head as the man continued.
‘Heinrich Beckmann was the buildings manager here. It was in all the papers. Karl Reinhold’s meant to have shot him dead, that’s what people say. About the rent, maybe, but maybe also because Beckmann was in the SA, and little Kalle was in the RFB, the Red Front. Like father like son and, well . . . since the murder he’s vanished. His sister as well, maybe she’s involved too, a right little devil, she was. The cops were asking after both of them anyway. And now they’re gone. Strange wouldn’t you say?’
Charly was overwhelmed by the torrent of words, but remembered the story. It had made the headlines around Christmas. The Nazis had made a meal of it at the time but decided that SA-Führer Heinrich Beckmann didn’t have it in him to be a second Horst Wessel. At some point the matter had ceased to interest people. ‘You’re well informed,’ she said.
‘You’ve got to keep a close eye on those Reds, best to know who’s living in your building.’
‘I take it you’re not a Communist then . . .’
‘Do I look like one?’
‘The sister, you don’t happen to know what she’s called?’
‘Alex. Well, Alexandra, actually. You must have that in your files.’
He still thought she was from Welfare. ‘Of course,’ she said, and smiled, ‘but do I look as if I’ve brought my filing cabinet?’
Kopernikusstrasse was lined with tenements, and the mouldings were crumbling on the fronts. The building where Helmut Reinhold lived was the only one to have been given a lick of paint since the war. Charly had come by a few hours ago but no one had been home; now the door opened first time. A woman looked at her out of tired eyes amid the smell of fried onions.
‘Good afternoon, I’d like to see Helmut Reinhold, please. Am I in the right place?’
The woman nodded. ‘My husband’s eating at the moment. What do you want from him?’
‘Just a few questions about his sister. It won’t take long.’
The caretaker didn’t know where the rest of the Reinhold family were staying, but he’d given her the older brother’s address, so Charly had returned to the flat where she’d stood in vain that morning. Beforehand she had sat in a little cafe at Boxhagener Platz and treated herself to a cup of tea and a read of the papers. The headlines of the regional section were dominated by the fatal shooting on Frankfurter Allee. There was no mention of a girl who had escaped from Lichtenberg District Court.
‘You wanted to speak to me?’
A powerfully built man in his mid-twenties stood at the door. Helmut Reinhold was just as reluctant to ask her in as his wife.
‘You’re Alexandra Reinhold’s brother?’
The man nodded. ‘That’s the reason you’re here, Martha says.’ He eyed Charly suspiciously. ‘From the Welfare Office, are you? Well, you could have saved yourself the bother. I haven’t seen Alex in almost a year.’
‘Apparently she’s living on the streets . . .’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘Could she be staying with your parents?’
‘Typical Welfare, no idea about anything!’ Helmut Reinhold was another who associated a woman asking questions at his doorstep with the Welfare Office. He shook his head. ‘Do you know why Alex has been living on the streets all this time? Because my dear old father kicked her out a few days before Christmas.’
‘Then why don’t you take her in?’
‘If only I knew where she was. But she won’t come to me, she’s too proud for that.’
‘You sound as if you don’t care much for your parents.’
‘I can’t see how that’s any of your concern.’
‘In as much as it concerns your sister.’
‘My father hasn’t spoken a single word to me since my wedding. I invited my parents but they didn’t come. Mother sent a card, that was all. His signature wasn’t on it.’
‘Your parents are homeless. Isn’t it time to bury the hatchet?’
‘I went out to see them,’ he said bitterly, ‘to this camp on the Müggelsee, and was about to offer them a bed with me and Martha, but . . .’ He fell silent. ‘He can go hang for all I care.’
‘Is it possible that Alexandra is there?’
‘What do I know? Listen, I thought this was supposed to be a brief chat. I’d like to finish eating. I need to go back on shift soon.’ He slammed the door in her face.
There were many more questions Charly could have asked, about the missing brother, the Beckmann murder, about Alex’s friends and acquaintances, places where she might have found shelter, but the closing of the front door left her in no doubt that it would be pointless coming back. At least she knew where to find Alex’s parents.
She took the U-Bahn to Magdalenenstrasse. The way to Wagnerplatz seemed steeper than usual, the walk more arduous. Everything had changed since yesterday. The District Court building appeared strange and forbidding. The window on the first floor was open, and, for a moment, she thought it hadn’t been closed since yesterday.
It felt almost as if she was entering for the first time. Like that day six months ago when, heart pounding, she had stepped through the doors and her gaze had fallen on the marble slab in the lobby that had survived even the revolution: Wipe your feet/No smoking/Use a spittoon. Three commands, etched in stone, that told visitors in no uncertain terms what was expected of them in this building. Charly had never felt comfortable here thanks to Weber, who was the living embodiment of those expectations.
She jostled past a few people and climbed the stairs, needing to get the news off her chest, to rehabilitate herself in front of her boss. Now that she was back on Alex Reinhold’s tail, she felt hope again.
Weber looked surprised as she entered. ‘Fräulein Ritter? I thought I had relieved you of your duties.’
‘Some good news, Sir. I wanted to let you know.’
He eyed her suspiciously, none too pleased that she was back just one day after the incident. ‘You have something to tell me? When I’ve been trying to contact you for hours.’
‘I was out the whole morning.’
‘Yes, I noticed.’
‘That doesn’t matter now.’ Charly pulled herself together, trying not to sound too euphoric. ‘I’ve managed to identify the girl; I think it’s only a matter of time before I . . . before we track her down. Her name is Alexandra Reinhold and . . .’
Weber interrupted her. ‘Great news. So, you know the girl’s name.’ Charly’s euphoria disintegrated like a dry leaf. ‘Since you’ve taken the trouble to come here, allow me to confide something in you: I know what she’s been up to.’
‘Pardon me?’
Weber shook his head, as if unable to comprehend her dim-wittedness. ‘My dear Fräulein Ritter . . .’ she hated it when he spoke to her like this, mixing false sympathy and contempt. He shook his head as he spoke, and repeated his opening line in the tone of a psychiatrist dealing with a patient. ‘My dear Fräulein Ritter . . . It seems the girl who escaped your custody yesterday is the second member of the KaDeWe duo. You remember, of course? Sonnabend. The dead boy.’
Charly felt the blood rising to her face as Weber continued. Though it had since been replaced by a new dressing, it was now apparent that the girl’s bandage was in fact a rag torn from the dead intruder’s shirt. The original had been retrieved from the 81st precinct’s ash can, where suspicions had subsequently been confirmed. CID had launched a further investigation and discovered that the girl’s blood group matched that of the sample left by the KaDeWe duo at the display cases. Everything pointed to the fact that an unidentified girl who was being sought citywide had fallen into police hands by chance. This same girl had then managed to escape from the Lichtenberg District Court, of all places, which, of course, hardly showed the authority in a positive light. Charly listened, but felt all at sea, as if Weber were speaking to another person.
‘At any rate,’ he concluded, ‘Inspector Nebe from Robbery Division wishes to speak with you urgently. After which you are to contact Homicide . . .’
‘Homicide?’ It was the first word Charly managed to get out. What did her old colleagues in A Division want?
‘An Assistant Detective . . . Lange,’ Weber continued. ‘I’d advise you to be on your way as soon as possible. Best before they finish for the day.’
He no longer attempted to conceal his grin.
40
Reinhold Gräf brooded over the file Böhm had left him. It was from Section 1A, the political police: the politicals hadn’t kept a file on Gerhard Kubicki, but had been monitoring the storm unit he had joined several months ago, detailing a few fights with Communists, but nothing more serious until now.
He snapped the file shut, pushed it away and gazed at Gereon Rath’s abandoned desk. Was this really more exciting than surveillance work at the Excelsior? At least over there he breathed fresh air once in a while. It appeared Wilhelm Böhm didn’t want him to leave the office. New files kept arriving as the DCI was driven around town. It seemed to Gräf that he was suffering Böhm’s mood swings on Gereon’s behalf. To think, they had been a good team when he was still an assistant detective, but that was a distant memory now.
There was a knock. Erika Voss entered and placed another file on Gräf’s desk. ‘Just in on the Kubicki case,’ she said. ‘From E Division this time.’
He looked at it curiously. ‘An SA man who’s attracted the attention of Vice? Was he a pimp?’
‘No idea. I didn’t look inside.’
Gräf opened the file and whistled through his teeth. ‘A 175er. He was caught in a fairly notorious establishment.’
‘A gay Nazi? I thought they were against that sort of thing.’
‘They are in theory. In practice, things are a little different. Haven’t you heard? Apparently, the new SA chief of staff is a homosexual.’
‘If only the Führer knew,’ Erika Voss said, and disappeared back inside the outer office.
Gräf gazed after her. Was she being ironic? He worked his way through the file in astonishment. The kind of places Kubicki frequented were exactly the sort the Nazis would close down, given half the chance. When he had finished reading the file he asked to be put through to the political police. ‘Detective Gräf, Homicide. Could you send me everything connected with the Berlin SA and homosexuality?’
Half an hour later there was a mountain of files on his desk. He opened the first just as the telephone rang.
‘Gräf, Homicide.’
‘I read your appeal in the BZ. You’re seeking witnesses?’
The lunchtime papers had run the article. ‘That’s right. Did you see something?’
‘I know exactly what happened in Humboldthain.’
Gräf took out a pencil. ‘Go on.’
‘A brown arsehole got what was coming to him. That’s what happened!’
‘Who am I speaking to, please?’
‘My name has fuck all to do with you. You pigs are in cahoots with the Nazis. Social fascists!’
Gräf was speechless. He tried to think of an appropriate response, but nothing came.
The caller hung up.
41
Charly knew Arthur Nebe from her time in A Division. The head of Robbery was in Narcotics then, but had been brought in by Gennat to help Homicide on a number of occasions. Recently, he had solved the sensational murder of a chauffeur and been showered with praise by the press. He was an experienced, if slightly aloof, criminal investigator with a distinctive nose, whose eyes sparkled with thwarted ambition.
Although he was pushing forty, he hadn’t progressed beyond the rank of inspector, despite being seen as one of Bernhard Weiss’s favourites. In this he was in good company. The Castle’s moratorium on promotions applied to everyone, whether top brass liked you or not. Gereon, whose special relationship with Zörgiebel had brought him little more than envy, had learned that the hard way.
‘Lucky for the dog.’
‘But not for me.’ Gräf’s voice was unexpectedly strained. ‘Sorry, no time for a proper handover. I have to pee!’
With these words, Gräf made his exit. Rath shook his head and looked at Kirie, who had made herself comfortable under the desk again. ‘Can you understand it?’ he asked the dog. ‘How can anyone be so frantic?’
Rath sat at the table and opened the notebook he had filled with abstract patterns the day before. Gräf, who suppressed even the urge to pee while on duty, had been more conscientious. Judging by the date and times, he had made notes yesterday afternoon and this morning. He had written down everything that happened in the vicinity of room 301, even timing the appearances of the chambermaid and floor waiter down to the last minute. According to Gräf, Goldstein had only left his suite once since yesterday morning. It looked as if they had managed to spoil the Yank’s stay in Berlin.
Gräf returned from the toilet. ‘I needed that,’ he said. ‘Just going to pick up the car, were you?’
Rath nodded. The Hanomag hadn’t even managed the journey from Reinickendorf to Kreuzberg without incident. When the lights on Invalidenstrasse switched to green, the engine flooded and resisted all attempts to restart. Cursing, Rath left the crate by the side of the road, walked the few metres to Stettiner Bahnhof and telephoned the garage. It took a while to get hold of the right man.
‘Ah, the fuel line,’ Heinz said. Even on the telephone it sounded like he was eating a sandwich. ‘I thought I’d explained it to you?’ He hadn’t, so only now did Rath learn the whole truth. The Hanomag had a tendency to take on too much fuel and stall, but the driver could reduce the diameter of the fuel line with a clamp stored in the glove compartment. Rath did as bidden, and, after a moment or two of stubbornness, the car sprang back into life. Not that it was any more fun to drive. In neutral, the crate shook from side to side to such an extent that Rath came to fear every red light.
‘Goldstein doesn’t seem to be enjoying his time here,’ he said, gesturing towards the notebook. ‘A real stay-at-home, it looks like.’
Gräf nodded. ‘Probably spends the whole day telephoning overseas, home-sick.’
‘Or looking for a crafty lawyer to get him out of this. To be honest, I’m not sure what else we can do. On paper, he’s a respectable American citizen.’
‘I’ve kept less dangerous men under surveillance,’ Gräf said. ‘I think he’s just fed up. I bet we’ll see a boy wheeling his luggage trolley out of suite 301 before the week is out.’
‘You really want to bet?’
‘A crate of Engelhardt. He’ll be gone by the weekend. At the latest.’
Rath considered a moment before shaking on it.
At that moment, the chambermaid emerged from suite 301 and cast the two officers a curious glance before disappearing down the corridor. ‘Somehow that girl seems familiar,’ Rath said.
‘Of course she does. It’s the same one as yesterday and the day before.’
‘No, I’ve seen her somewhere else, I think. I just don’t know where. How long was she in with him?’
‘No idea.’ Gräf looked in the notebook. ‘I didn’t see her go in. Was it when I was in the toilet?’
Rath shook his head. ‘I didn’t see anything. She must have spent the night with him.’
‘Come off it! Your imagination’s running wild.’
‘You said it yesterday yourself. He had the chambermaid for breakfast.’
‘That was a joke.’ Gräf was outraged. ‘She’ll be out on her ear if this gets out!’
Rath shrugged.
Gräf took his hat and coat. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I’m off to stretch my legs. See you later.’
‘No you won’t. I’ve got an assignment for you – from Gennat himself. You’re to head back to the Castle and report to Böhm. They’ve got a new case. A corpse has been found in Humboldthain.’
He said it as casually as possible, but Gräf froze in mid-motion, his coat only half on.
‘What about you?’ Gräf looked like a scarecrow with his dangling coat sleeves.
‘I’m staying put. Someone’s got to look after the important jobs.’
39
Charly had already visited three of the Reinhold families in Friedrichshain. At the first door no one opened; the second family, the Reinholds in Romintener Strasse, had only been blessed with sons; and at the third address a woman of at least seventy answered. It transpired that she was unmarried and took the very question of a daughter or granddaughter named Alexandra as an insult.
Here in Grünberger Strasse, the fourth address on the list, Charly was having difficulties even finding the name Reinhold. She compared Gereon’s note with the house number again: Grünberger Strasse 64. The address was right, but there were no Reinholds here, either with a ‘d’ or a ‘dt’.
A man in grey overalls was sweeping the yard, shouting at a few boys playing football. He kept on until they finally picked up their homemade ball and pushed off. Charly went across.
‘The Reinholds haven’t lived here for a long time. They were given the boot around Christmas.’ He had a Berlin accent.
‘The Reinhold family is on the streets?’
Charly was so excited she didn’t realise she was thinking out loud. She had a good feeling about this: family on the streets, daughter neglected. Everything seemed to fit.
‘Don’t look at me like that,’ the man said. ‘I didn’t turf them out! I just keep things tidy, but that’s how it goes when you don’t pay your rent.’
‘But a family . . . with children?’
‘Are you from Welfare or something?’ Charly looked at him steadily as the words sputtered out. ‘You couldn’t call them a family anymore. They do have one respectable son, Helmut, but he won’t have anything to do with them. If he’s sensible, that is. The younger brother, Karl, is almost certainly in Moscow by now, or wherever it is the Reds are hiding him. He’s a wanted man. Didn’t you know? The Beckmann murder.’
The name didn’t mean anything to Charly, but she hadn’t worked in Homicide for a long time. She shook her head as the man continued.
‘Heinrich Beckmann was the buildings manager here. It was in all the papers. Karl Reinhold’s meant to have shot him dead, that’s what people say. About the rent, maybe, but maybe also because Beckmann was in the SA, and little Kalle was in the RFB, the Red Front. Like father like son and, well . . . since the murder he’s vanished. His sister as well, maybe she’s involved too, a right little devil, she was. The cops were asking after both of them anyway. And now they’re gone. Strange wouldn’t you say?’
Charly was overwhelmed by the torrent of words, but remembered the story. It had made the headlines around Christmas. The Nazis had made a meal of it at the time but decided that SA-Führer Heinrich Beckmann didn’t have it in him to be a second Horst Wessel. At some point the matter had ceased to interest people. ‘You’re well informed,’ she said.
‘You’ve got to keep a close eye on those Reds, best to know who’s living in your building.’
‘I take it you’re not a Communist then . . .’
‘Do I look like one?’
‘The sister, you don’t happen to know what she’s called?’
‘Alex. Well, Alexandra, actually. You must have that in your files.’
He still thought she was from Welfare. ‘Of course,’ she said, and smiled, ‘but do I look as if I’ve brought my filing cabinet?’
Kopernikusstrasse was lined with tenements, and the mouldings were crumbling on the fronts. The building where Helmut Reinhold lived was the only one to have been given a lick of paint since the war. Charly had come by a few hours ago but no one had been home; now the door opened first time. A woman looked at her out of tired eyes amid the smell of fried onions.
‘Good afternoon, I’d like to see Helmut Reinhold, please. Am I in the right place?’
The woman nodded. ‘My husband’s eating at the moment. What do you want from him?’
‘Just a few questions about his sister. It won’t take long.’
The caretaker didn’t know where the rest of the Reinhold family were staying, but he’d given her the older brother’s address, so Charly had returned to the flat where she’d stood in vain that morning. Beforehand she had sat in a little cafe at Boxhagener Platz and treated herself to a cup of tea and a read of the papers. The headlines of the regional section were dominated by the fatal shooting on Frankfurter Allee. There was no mention of a girl who had escaped from Lichtenberg District Court.
‘You wanted to speak to me?’
A powerfully built man in his mid-twenties stood at the door. Helmut Reinhold was just as reluctant to ask her in as his wife.
‘You’re Alexandra Reinhold’s brother?’
The man nodded. ‘That’s the reason you’re here, Martha says.’ He eyed Charly suspiciously. ‘From the Welfare Office, are you? Well, you could have saved yourself the bother. I haven’t seen Alex in almost a year.’
‘Apparently she’s living on the streets . . .’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘Could she be staying with your parents?’
‘Typical Welfare, no idea about anything!’ Helmut Reinhold was another who associated a woman asking questions at his doorstep with the Welfare Office. He shook his head. ‘Do you know why Alex has been living on the streets all this time? Because my dear old father kicked her out a few days before Christmas.’
‘Then why don’t you take her in?’
‘If only I knew where she was. But she won’t come to me, she’s too proud for that.’
‘You sound as if you don’t care much for your parents.’
‘I can’t see how that’s any of your concern.’
‘In as much as it concerns your sister.’
‘My father hasn’t spoken a single word to me since my wedding. I invited my parents but they didn’t come. Mother sent a card, that was all. His signature wasn’t on it.’
‘Your parents are homeless. Isn’t it time to bury the hatchet?’
‘I went out to see them,’ he said bitterly, ‘to this camp on the Müggelsee, and was about to offer them a bed with me and Martha, but . . .’ He fell silent. ‘He can go hang for all I care.’
‘Is it possible that Alexandra is there?’
‘What do I know? Listen, I thought this was supposed to be a brief chat. I’d like to finish eating. I need to go back on shift soon.’ He slammed the door in her face.
There were many more questions Charly could have asked, about the missing brother, the Beckmann murder, about Alex’s friends and acquaintances, places where she might have found shelter, but the closing of the front door left her in no doubt that it would be pointless coming back. At least she knew where to find Alex’s parents.
She took the U-Bahn to Magdalenenstrasse. The way to Wagnerplatz seemed steeper than usual, the walk more arduous. Everything had changed since yesterday. The District Court building appeared strange and forbidding. The window on the first floor was open, and, for a moment, she thought it hadn’t been closed since yesterday.
It felt almost as if she was entering for the first time. Like that day six months ago when, heart pounding, she had stepped through the doors and her gaze had fallen on the marble slab in the lobby that had survived even the revolution: Wipe your feet/No smoking/Use a spittoon. Three commands, etched in stone, that told visitors in no uncertain terms what was expected of them in this building. Charly had never felt comfortable here thanks to Weber, who was the living embodiment of those expectations.
She jostled past a few people and climbed the stairs, needing to get the news off her chest, to rehabilitate herself in front of her boss. Now that she was back on Alex Reinhold’s tail, she felt hope again.
Weber looked surprised as she entered. ‘Fräulein Ritter? I thought I had relieved you of your duties.’
‘Some good news, Sir. I wanted to let you know.’
He eyed her suspiciously, none too pleased that she was back just one day after the incident. ‘You have something to tell me? When I’ve been trying to contact you for hours.’
‘I was out the whole morning.’
‘Yes, I noticed.’
‘That doesn’t matter now.’ Charly pulled herself together, trying not to sound too euphoric. ‘I’ve managed to identify the girl; I think it’s only a matter of time before I . . . before we track her down. Her name is Alexandra Reinhold and . . .’
Weber interrupted her. ‘Great news. So, you know the girl’s name.’ Charly’s euphoria disintegrated like a dry leaf. ‘Since you’ve taken the trouble to come here, allow me to confide something in you: I know what she’s been up to.’
‘Pardon me?’
Weber shook his head, as if unable to comprehend her dim-wittedness. ‘My dear Fräulein Ritter . . .’ she hated it when he spoke to her like this, mixing false sympathy and contempt. He shook his head as he spoke, and repeated his opening line in the tone of a psychiatrist dealing with a patient. ‘My dear Fräulein Ritter . . . It seems the girl who escaped your custody yesterday is the second member of the KaDeWe duo. You remember, of course? Sonnabend. The dead boy.’
Charly felt the blood rising to her face as Weber continued. Though it had since been replaced by a new dressing, it was now apparent that the girl’s bandage was in fact a rag torn from the dead intruder’s shirt. The original had been retrieved from the 81st precinct’s ash can, where suspicions had subsequently been confirmed. CID had launched a further investigation and discovered that the girl’s blood group matched that of the sample left by the KaDeWe duo at the display cases. Everything pointed to the fact that an unidentified girl who was being sought citywide had fallen into police hands by chance. This same girl had then managed to escape from the Lichtenberg District Court, of all places, which, of course, hardly showed the authority in a positive light. Charly listened, but felt all at sea, as if Weber were speaking to another person.
‘At any rate,’ he concluded, ‘Inspector Nebe from Robbery Division wishes to speak with you urgently. After which you are to contact Homicide . . .’
‘Homicide?’ It was the first word Charly managed to get out. What did her old colleagues in A Division want?
‘An Assistant Detective . . . Lange,’ Weber continued. ‘I’d advise you to be on your way as soon as possible. Best before they finish for the day.’
He no longer attempted to conceal his grin.
40
Reinhold Gräf brooded over the file Böhm had left him. It was from Section 1A, the political police: the politicals hadn’t kept a file on Gerhard Kubicki, but had been monitoring the storm unit he had joined several months ago, detailing a few fights with Communists, but nothing more serious until now.
He snapped the file shut, pushed it away and gazed at Gereon Rath’s abandoned desk. Was this really more exciting than surveillance work at the Excelsior? At least over there he breathed fresh air once in a while. It appeared Wilhelm Böhm didn’t want him to leave the office. New files kept arriving as the DCI was driven around town. It seemed to Gräf that he was suffering Böhm’s mood swings on Gereon’s behalf. To think, they had been a good team when he was still an assistant detective, but that was a distant memory now.
There was a knock. Erika Voss entered and placed another file on Gräf’s desk. ‘Just in on the Kubicki case,’ she said. ‘From E Division this time.’
He looked at it curiously. ‘An SA man who’s attracted the attention of Vice? Was he a pimp?’
‘No idea. I didn’t look inside.’
Gräf opened the file and whistled through his teeth. ‘A 175er. He was caught in a fairly notorious establishment.’
‘A gay Nazi? I thought they were against that sort of thing.’
‘They are in theory. In practice, things are a little different. Haven’t you heard? Apparently, the new SA chief of staff is a homosexual.’
‘If only the Führer knew,’ Erika Voss said, and disappeared back inside the outer office.
Gräf gazed after her. Was she being ironic? He worked his way through the file in astonishment. The kind of places Kubicki frequented were exactly the sort the Nazis would close down, given half the chance. When he had finished reading the file he asked to be put through to the political police. ‘Detective Gräf, Homicide. Could you send me everything connected with the Berlin SA and homosexuality?’
Half an hour later there was a mountain of files on his desk. He opened the first just as the telephone rang.
‘Gräf, Homicide.’
‘I read your appeal in the BZ. You’re seeking witnesses?’
The lunchtime papers had run the article. ‘That’s right. Did you see something?’
‘I know exactly what happened in Humboldthain.’
Gräf took out a pencil. ‘Go on.’
‘A brown arsehole got what was coming to him. That’s what happened!’
‘Who am I speaking to, please?’
‘My name has fuck all to do with you. You pigs are in cahoots with the Nazis. Social fascists!’
Gräf was speechless. He tried to think of an appropriate response, but nothing came.
The caller hung up.
41
Charly knew Arthur Nebe from her time in A Division. The head of Robbery was in Narcotics then, but had been brought in by Gennat to help Homicide on a number of occasions. Recently, he had solved the sensational murder of a chauffeur and been showered with praise by the press. He was an experienced, if slightly aloof, criminal investigator with a distinctive nose, whose eyes sparkled with thwarted ambition.
Although he was pushing forty, he hadn’t progressed beyond the rank of inspector, despite being seen as one of Bernhard Weiss’s favourites. In this he was in good company. The Castle’s moratorium on promotions applied to everyone, whether top brass liked you or not. Gereon, whose special relationship with Zörgiebel had brought him little more than envy, had learned that the hard way.
