Goldstein, page 19
Nebe seemed surprised when he saw Charly. ‘It’s you?’ he said.
‘You know me?’
‘Charlotte Ritter, Gennat’s stenographer.’
He had a good memory for people, she thought. ‘I haven’t worked for Gennat in a long time. State examination. Nine months ago now. I’m currently completing my legal preparatory service . . .’
‘ . . . and evidently at Lichtenberg District Court.’
Charly nodded. ‘Of course, you know already. It’s me you have to thank for all this.’
‘Let’s not go blaming ourselves. This sort of thing can happen to anyone.’
‘If I’d known what she’d done . . . I just thought she was some jumped-up fare-dodger who’d bust out of reform.’
‘You couldn’t have guessed who you were dealing with. We only made the connection ourselves this morning.’ He was trying to comfort her, and doing a better job than Gereon yesterday.
‘Well, at least I’ve been able to discover her name,’ Charly said.
‘You have?’ Nebe raised his eyebrows in surprise.
‘Alexandra Reinhold: no fixed abode, from Friedrichshain.’
‘Reinhold with a ‘d’ or ‘dt’’?
‘With a ‘d’’.
Nebe’s pencil scratched across the page as he noted the name. Charly felt like a traitor, but it was the least she could do to atone.
‘That’s more than I dared hope for, Fräulein Ritter. It’s something your superior at Lichtenberg was unable to provide.’ Nebe snapped his notebook shut. ‘But that’s not why I summoned you here. We need a personal description.’
‘Wasn’t Special Counsel Weber able to do that?’
‘If I understood him correctly, he has absolutely nothing to do with the case.’
Weber, you coward, Charly thought, trying to wash your hands of this, are you? Perhaps Gereon was right, perhaps she shouldn’t conceal Weber’s complicity. That the man was trying to sweep the matter under the carpet was testament to his guilty conscience.
‘Be that as it may,’ Nebe continued. ‘You, at least, saw the girl . . . Alexandra Reinhold . . . yesterday, and can provide a description. I’ve called for a sketch artist.’
A short time later Charly sat in front of a man with a sketch pad, describing Alexandra Reinhold. When the sketch was finished the face that stared out from the pad was exactly as she remembered it. Only the gaze was different; not quite as anxious. On paper Alex looked defiant and provocative, almost intimidating.
She didn’t want to nitpick, perhaps that’s how wanted posters had to look. The sketch artist tore off the page and passed it to Nebe.
‘Many thanks, Fräulein Ritter,’ he said. ‘You’ve been a great help. At last, something we can give to Warrants.’ He handed the sheet to a colleague. ‘Have duplicates made right away and pass it onto J Division along with our appeal. And here . . .’ He tore a page from his notebook. ‘ . . . is the girl’s name. That ought to make things easier.’
Warrants. Once the department’s machinery was set in motion, it would be tricky for Alexandra Reinhold to go underground. For some reason the thought of Alex falling into the hands of Warrant Officers made Charly uncomfortable. She couldn’t help thinking of the distraught girl sitting in her office with fear in her eyes, and then of the merciless apparatus of the Prussian Police’s Warrants Department.
As she paced the corridors of Homicide shortly afterwards, breathing in that strange but familiar smell of sweat and dusty files, ink and paper, she briefly considered paying Gennat a visit or, at least, Wilhelm Böhm. In the end she simply knocked on the door she had been assigned, not far from Gereon’s little office at the end of the corridor. Today wasn’t a day for chatting with ex-colleagues.
She had never worked directly with Andreas Lange, although she had met him before. Most of what she knew came from Gereon. A conscientious type, he had moved to Berlin from Hannover.
Charly knocked on the door and entered to a reedy ‘Come in’, to find Lange on his own, seated behind his desk, making notes in a file. He wore a serious expression. When he looked up he recognised her straightaway.
‘Fräulein Ritter!’ he said, and promptly turned red. That didn’t seem to have changed.
‘You asked to speak to me?’ Charly gave him a helping hand. ‘Lichtenberg District Court.’
‘You’re working for the District Court?’
‘Legal preparatory service.’
His colour slowly returned to normal. ‘Special Counsel Weber told me he could send someone over who had seen the KaDeWe fugitive.’
‘I’ve spoken with Nebe already. No doubt I’m being passed around the whole Castle.’
‘Inspector Nebe and I are working closely on this. I’m investigating the death in connection with the KaDeWe break-in.’ He sounded almost apologetic.
The boy who had plunged to his death while fleeing police. The headlines from a few days ago. Charly suddenly realised where the fear and horror in Alexandra’s eyes came from. ‘Could it be that the girl was a witness?’ she asked.
‘Just what I was about to ask you, Fräulein Ritter. You spoke to her after all. Before she escaped, I mean.’ There was a hint of red in his face again. He seemed embarrassed to mention her error.
‘That’s true, but she was totally distraught.’
‘Based on my findings, she did, indeed, see the boy fall. He had just turned fifteen.’
‘Dear God,’ Charly said.
‘The girl . . .’
‘Alexandra,’ Charly interrupted, and this time it didn’t feel like a betrayal. ‘Her name is Alexandra.’
‘ . . . Alexandra is an important witness. She . . .’
There was a knock so loud it felt as if someone was trying to kick the door down. Wilhelm Böhm stepped into the room. He looked at her in surprise. ‘Charly, what are you doing here?’ He sounded a little offended. As if reproaching her for calling on the assistant detective rather than him.
‘Fräulein Ritter is here on duty, so to speak,’ Lange explained, turning red again. ‘The KaDeWe case. In her role at Lichtenberg District Court she questioned a wit . . .’
‘The KaDeWe case . . .’ Böhm blustered, incapable of speaking quietly, ‘ . . .is the reason I’m here. I have an important . . .’
‘Could you please wait outside, Fräulein Ritter?’ Lange asked.
Wilhelm Böhm looked at him in irritation. He wasn’t used to being interrupted.
Charly stood up.
‘Stay where you are, Charly,’ Böhm said. ‘You’re involved in this case?’
‘If you say so, Sir.’
‘Lichtenberg District Court. Preparatory service, is it? You’ll have to tell me sometime over coffee.’
‘How about I buy you one afterwards in the canteen, and you tell me what you know about the Beckmann case. It was you who dealt with it at the time, wasn’t it?’
Böhm nodded. ‘It’s a cold case. We have a suspect, but he’s probably slipped off to Moscow – still a minor, but already a staunch Communist. Why are you interested?’
‘From a purely legal point of view.’
Böhm turned back to Lange. ‘I have a piece of news that will surprise you,’ he said. ‘As you know, I’m working on the murdered fence from Friedrichshain: Kallweit, Eberhard. The robbery homicide that wasn’t.’
Lange nodded. ‘I’m familiar with it, Sir. I was at briefing this morning.’
‘It looks as if we ought to coordinate our investigations – amalgamate them, even. It concerns the stolen goods found in the deceased’s stockroom.’ Böhm looked pleased with himself. ‘Among other things, our colleagues found a load of high-quality wristwatches. They’re from the KaDeWe break-in at the weekend.’
42
Gräf slammed the phone into the cradle. He’d had enough, sitting here with this crap! Böhm was gadding about with Grabowski, God knows where, while he, Reinhold Gräf, was left to do the dirty work. Fighting running battles with idiots who called the station at minute intervals. Since the abusive Communist almost an hour ago, he hadn’t had a moment’s peace.
The appeal in the lunchtime papers had yielded the same dubious results as ever. Until now, the only calls had been from busybodies: masochists who’d confess to any crime so long as it brought them attention; or whistleblowers pointing the finger at their own neighbours. Worst was the third group: the self-appointed world saviours who, in the absence of a world that would listen, had resolved to make their opinions known to the Prussian Police. On the one hand they were Communists who wished death on all Nazi bastards; on the other, Party members, or at least Nazi sympathisers, who asked why police weren’t in a position to protect respectable citizens (evidently referring to the SA man with the knuckleduster) from these red hooligans.
The telephone kept ringing, almost without pause. Gräf looked at the black device, picked up, dialled 1 and placed the receiver next to the cradle.
Peace at last!
The important calls would land somewhere. The main thing was that he could devote himself to the files. He sensed that Kubicki’s homosexuality could be a lead.
Erika Voss poked her head around the door. ‘Sorry,’ she said, stealing a glance at the telephone. ‘But the porter just called. A woman downstairs says she wants to make a statement about the death in Humboldthain.’
‘A woman?’ At least it wouldn’t be one of the masochists, Gräf thought. They were all men. ‘Send her up.’
‘She’s on her way.’
The detective nodded. ‘Fine.’
Erika Voss remained at the door.
‘Was there something else?’
‘Well . . . it’s almost six, and Inspector Rath usually . . .’
‘Of course, finish there for the evening. As soon as you’ve shown the witness in.’
Moments later, a slim, prematurely grey woman in her mid-forties stood in her place. She was a little uncertain, but in no way shy, and introduced herself as Renate Schobeck. Gräf motioned for her to sit in the visitor’s chair in front of Rath’s desk.
‘This business in Humboldthain,’ she said. ‘I’m not here to report anyone. But . . . my lodger . . . Leo Fleming his name is.’
One of the whistleblowers, then. Gräf sighed inwardly, but noted down the name and looked at her. ‘Yes?’
Renate Schobeck seemed a little helpless. ‘I don’t know if it means anything, but he came home very early this morning. He’s unemployed, if you must know, but leaves the house at half past five every morning and stays out until the afternoon. Looking for work, he says, though he’s never missed a rental payment.’
Gräf gave a little cough, making a point of not writing anything down. Instead he looked at his wristwatch. ‘Please get to the point. It’s already late.’
She looked mildly peeved. ‘I know that he waits at the Himmelfahrtkirche every morning for his bride-to-be. I’ve seen them there together. A lovely couple if you ask me, and he’s never tried to bring her back to his room. He knows what’s right and proper.’
Gräf rolled his eyes. ‘What exactly are you trying to tell me?’
She looked around, as if afraid someone might be listening. ‘Yesterday I didn’t hear Herr Fleming leave the house, but I did hear him come back. Just after six. I asked if he was sick, if I should make him a cup of tea, but he said he just wanted to be left in peace. Well . . .’ there was a pregnant pause ‘ . . . that was when I saw it.’
‘What, Frau Schobeck?’
She leaned in closer and lowered her voice.
‘Blood,’ she said. ‘His jacket was smeared with blood. Not much, but I saw it. He was so strange; wanted to go straight up to his room. I didn’t think anything of it, but then I read the appeal in the BZ . . .’
Gräf pricked up his ears. ‘You’re certain it was blood?’
‘Of course! I used to work in a butcher’s, and . . .’
He cut her off. ‘Many thanks, Frau Schobeck, this could be very helpful. Now, where can we find this Herr Fleming?’
‘At mine, of course,’ she said. ‘Putbusser Strasse 28, rear building, third floor.’
43
Lange had spoken more in the last few days to Superintendent Gennat than ever before. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad, but clearly Buddha was keeping an eye on him. He couldn’t afford any mistakes.
Trudchen Steiner, Gennat’s secretary, placed the cake tray on the table and Gennat served his guest. Discussions like this were more akin to a coffee morning than an official briefing. Lange thanked him for the slice of poppy seed cake that had landed on his plate, and took a bite.
‘How long have you been with us now, Assistant Detective?’
Lange replied with his mouth full, feeling ambushed. ‘Almothst two yearsth,’ he said. ‘Thinthe Dethember thwenty nine.’
‘Before that you did two years at Robbery Division in Hannover?’ Lange was glad that a nod of the head would suffice. His mouth was still full of poppy seed cake. Buddha seemed to have studied his personal file. ‘We’ve just taken on a number of cadets.’
‘Dr Weiss has introduced them already, Sir.’
‘Have you thought about applying?’
‘With respect, Sir, it seemed a little premature. I haven’t been at the Cas . . . ah, in Berlin, two years yet.’
Lange realised he had turned red, and felt annoyed, but Gennat didn’t seem to have noticed.
‘You’ve made a very good job of the KaDeWe case so far. Officers Nebe and Böhm are full of praise.’ Gennat shovelled a slice of gooseberry tart into his mouth, his favourite. ‘At the same time, you were disciplined enough not to mention our own suspicions.’
‘Well, Sir, I thought . . .’
‘And you thought right.’ Gennat leaned a little closer. ‘You’re aware that without a witness statement, you can’t give the public prosecutor anything.’
‘Yes, unfortunately. I still don’t know how I’m going to get hold of her. I suppose it’ll come down to Warrants.’
Gennat nodded. ‘I’d like you to take over the Kallweit case from Böhm. You’ve been working together on it anyway.’
‘DCI Böhm mentioned that this might happen. Does it mean I can close the KaDeWe file?’
‘For Goodness sake, no! Don’t be so hasty. Keep it simmering. Let’s bide our time for this witness.’
‘But the Commissioner is pushing for a swift resolution.’
‘He always does, but don’t let him bring you to heel. You can’t close the file until you’ve heard what the witness has to say.’ Lange nodded. ‘And this dead fence,’ Gennat continued. ‘There are enough links to the KaDeWe case. It might yield the odd insight.’
‘It could do, Sir. I just hope the KaDeWe witness doesn’t have the dead fence on her conscience. That would be a link I could do without.’
‘You’ll get support from Officer Mertens. But . . . as far as our suspicions go: not a word to anybody!’
Lange took another bite of poppy seed cake.
‘And,’ Gennat said, ‘if I don’t see an application for inspector on my desk during the next round of recruitments, there’ll be trouble.’
44
They were late. Dusk was already falling. Kirie pulled hard on her lead. Some scent or other was enticing her onwards, and it was all Rath could do to hold on.
‘To heel,’ he scolded for the umpteenth time. Kirie kept pulling. Rath wasn’t in the best of moods after his nerve-shredding journey home with the Hanomag. He had been looking forward to a quiet evening but, instead, was traipsing around the banks of the Müggelsee.
‘For God’s sake, Kirie, to heel!’ He pulled furiously on the lead. The dog gave a brief yelp and looked back in surprise, but at least she stopped. Charly too.
‘What on earth’s the matter with you?’ she said. ‘Pull yourself together.’
‘We should have left the dog at home.’
‘So she can keep the whole building awake? You know she doesn’t like being on her own.’
‘Maybe all three of us should have stayed at home.’
‘If it’s too much for you then you should have said.’
‘It’s fine. I just had a lousy day, that’s all. Sorry.’
Rath was still annoyed that he’d let himself be talked into it. God knows, he could imagine better things than searching for a homeless camp on the Müggelsee. If he was right, then this business with Charly’s fugitive had come to a head, and Alex Reinhold was no mere fare-dodger. She was also involved in one of the most spectacular break-ins of recent times, as well as two possible murders.
First Beckmann, one of Böhm’s cold cases. Heinrich Beckmann was shot dead in his flat on the evening of December 20th. There was no sign of the killer, but witnesses attested that they had seen Karl Reinhold emerge from the house. Others claimed to have seen his sister Alexandra entering the building around ten minutes beforehand. Both had been missing until yesterday afternoon, when Alexandra had done a bunk from Lichtenberg District Court. Her parents had been thrown out of the flat just two days after the murder, a forced eviction which Beckmann, the buildings manager, had set in motion on the morning of his death.
The second murder had to do with the KaDeWe break-in. Some of the spoils had been found with the dead Berolina fence. Whatever Alex’s role in these cases, Charly’s error had taken on a new significance, and could no longer be brushed aside.
Although needing to find the girl as quickly as possible, Rath still couldn’t see the use in visiting her homeless parents, especially when questioning them had been a dead end six months before. ‘You have her name, you’ve tracked down her family and you’ve even dug up an old case, so why don’t you just leave the rest to Warrants,’ he said once Charly had told him everything. It was meant to be comforting, but she had looked at him with that blank gaze he so hated, that ever so slightly contemptuous gaze which seemed to say: how can you still not understand me?
