Goldstein, page 34
‘I have a visitor.’
He must have pulled a pretty idiotic face. She laughed. ‘Don’t worry! It isn’t Guido! It isn’t a man at all.’
‘So why all the secrecy?’
‘It’s – I’ll explain some other time.’
‘I wanted to surprise you. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.’
‘I had a lot on my plate. Listen, I’ll tell you everything tomorrow, OK? I really can’t now.’ She looked at him almost ruefully. ‘I’m sorry, Gereon. We’ll talk on the telephone, OK?’
The bathroom door opened and a girl emerged wrapped in Charly’s red dressing gown, hair still wet. She turned around briefly and gazed at him through suspicious eyes before disappearing inside the kitchen. Rath put her at eighteen or nineteen, maximum. Her upper lip was swollen on the right-hand side.
He didn’t need to ask who it was.
‘Well, then,’ he said, lifting the bottle. ‘I suppose Kirie and I will just have to drink this alone.’
‘Oh, Gereon,’ she said, full of regret now. ‘Don’t be annoyed.’
He forced a smile and hoped it didn’t look too contrived. ‘I couldn’t have stayed long anyway. I have to sleep at Luisenufer tonight. Tomorrow I’ll need my black suit.’
‘Do you have to go to a funeral?’ She sounded horrified. There hadn’t been much talk yesterday . . .
Rath nodded. ‘Maybe even two.’
78
Alex was sitting in the kitchen, wrapped in a warm dressing gown and blowing on a cup of tea. ‘Who was that?’ she asked.
‘Just a friend.’ Charly sat down. ‘Feeling better after your shower?’
‘I don’t know if I’ll ever feel clean again.’ The cup jangled as she returned it to the saucer. ‘Kralle, the stupid arsehole! I hope he croaks.’
‘Then your friend would have a human life on his conscience.’
Alex pulled the dressing gown tighter. She looked as if she wanted to crawl inside it. ‘The man you were speaking to on the telephone just now,’ she asked. ‘Was he a cop?’ She sounded tentative, uncertain, wondering whether she could really trust Charly.
‘Yes, it was a cop, but a nice one.’
Alex gave a wry grin. ‘I didn’t know there was such a thing.’
Charly smiled back. She didn’t want to say that the man at the door was also a cop. She didn’t want to destroy Alex’s already fragile trust. ‘Don’t worry. I promised you no police.’
She couldn’t help remembering how anxious Alex had been when she mentioned the word police at the old tannery. ‘No cops,’ she had said, turning white as a sheet, ‘please, no cops.’
‘But . . . do you want that bastard to get away with this? He raped you.’
‘Please, no cops . . .’
Ultimately, Charly contented herself with sending for an ambulance so that Ralf Krahl, nicknamed Kralle, could receive medical attention. Perhaps the injury would be a lesson to him, more than a court appearance on charges of rape and grievous bodily harm.
The fact that Charly had kept the police out of it, as well as letting Erich Rambow go, had helped. The only reason Alex had come back to the flat, along with her friend Vicky, whom they had met on Eldenaer Strasse, was that the two girls had nowhere else to go. Erich Rambow, who had recovered his bike from Forckenbeckplatz, was in no position to offer them a place to stay, so Vicky now lay in Greta’s bed, asleep. Alex had dark circles under her eyes, but was holding out better than her friend.
‘Why are you doing all this?’ she had asked in the taxi.
‘What do you mean, all this?’
‘Helping us. Keeping the cops out of things. Why are you so stubborn? Is it because I got away from you?’
‘I just wanted to find you.’
‘Why?’
‘Perhaps I can help you. I think you have problems with the police.’
‘That’s hardly news.’
Charly placed a finger to her lips and glanced over at the taxi driver, but he kept his eyes on the traffic ahead.
‘That’s not what I mean. You saw Benny plunge to his death. You saw a police officer push him.’
Alex looked at her wide-eyed. Disbelieving, yet relieved at the same time.
By the time they arrived in Moabit, Charly knew the whole story. They had to shake Vicky awake and bundle her upstairs into the flat, but Alex told her everything. She and Lange had figured most of it out long ago, but the information about Benny’s fall was new.
‘There was a man there,’ Alex said.
‘What man?’
‘The one who called the ambulance. He saw everything.’
Alex hadn’t been able to give a perfect description, only that he wore metal-rimmed spectacles, and looked a little like that American with the boater who was always in the cinema, just that he wore a bowler, not a boater.
‘Harold Lloyd,’ Andreas Lange said when Charly called, before requesting that Alex provide the police sketch artist with a description.
Charly looked at Alex and how she held her cup of tea. As if it were her only comfort. ‘The policeman I just spoke to wants to send this Sergeant Kuschke to jail.’
‘He belongs on the scaffold, not in the clink.’
Charly was constantly amazed by how many petty criminals advocated the death penalty.
‘First, he belongs in a court that will convict him.’
‘They’ll acquit him! Birds of a feather flock together.’
‘If we have sufficient evidence and witness statements, he’ll be convicted, I promise. Our judicial system will see to it. Besides, a judge isn’t a police officer; there’s a big difference between the judiciary and the executive. They’re completely different beasts.’
‘Between what?’
‘It’s called the separation of powers. What I really mean, is that we need you to get to Kuschke. You saw everything, you can testify to it.’
‘Who’s we?’
‘Myself and Assistant Detective Lange.’
‘I thought the police and courts were separate. Isn’t that what you just told me?’
The girl was hard work. ‘They are, but I want to see this Kuschke convicted just as much as Herr Lange. I think that’s where our interests align. Am I right?’
‘I don’t want to see him convicted. I want to see him whining and whimpering and begging for his life. That’s what I want.’
‘You’re talking about vigilante justice.’
‘I don’t care what you call it. I call it revenge, and I’ll get it. I owe it to Benny.’
‘Please don’t do anything rash.’
‘Rash? You wouldn’t believe how much thought I’ve given it.’
‘It was you and Vicky who painted his house, the police station too, wasn’t it?’
‘What if it was?’
‘If anything happened to Kuschke, suspicion would fall on you two pretty quickly, if not Vicky then you at least. So please, for your own sake.’
Alex fell silent, thinking.
‘You’ve already slashed his face. Isn’t that enough? Let the police take care of the rest. And the courts.’
‘I’m not going to the cops. They’ll only lock me away. As for my witness statement, do you really think any judge is going to take what I say in court seriously? It doesn’t matter whether I’m the witness or the accused, they aren’t going to believe me.’
Charly fell silent. Alex had touched a nerve. The girl wasn’t the most trustworthy witness, even if they dressed her in new clothes for the court. A suspected (and, by that stage, possibly even convicted) thief would hardly be the best weapon in the murder trial of a police officer.
‘You could be right,’ she said finally, ‘but they might take your man with the metal-rimmed specs more seriously.’
‘If he had anything to say, he’d have done it ages ago, wouldn’t he?’
Charly shrugged. ‘Maybe he has his reasons, who knows? If we issue an appeal and throw in a description, perhaps he’ll come out of his hiding place.’
‘Then why don’t you? You don’t need me for that.’
‘Actually we do. You need to describe the man to a sketch artist. You don’t have to come to the station. There’s a cafe on the next street.’ Charly looked at her watch. ‘We’re meeting there in exactly twelve minutes.’
Alex froze.
‘Don’t worry. He’s not a police officer, just a sketch artist.’
79
Rath didn’t crack the champagne, but placed it in the cupboard and reached for the cognac instead. Kirie lay asleep at his feet, the sun having long since disappeared below the clouds. He could see his reflection in the windowpane, sitting freshly showered and dressed in his Sunday best, a glass of cognac before him alongside an ashtray. Just smoking and drinking and listening to music; thinking. Rarely had he looked so good in the process.
He guessed Charly hadn’t let him in to spare him a moral dilemma. She was housing a fugitive sought by the police, and the way things looked, she wasn’t about to give her up. He couldn’t help but smile: Charly of all people, who had always criticised him for failing to do things by the book. In some ways he was glad, but at the same time it hurt that she didn’t trust him. As if he’d have squealed! He wouldn’t even have tried to talk her out of it. He’d have let her go right ahead, only to make damn sure he reminded her of it next time she questioned the legality of his investigative techniques. Always a stickler for the rules, it seemed that Charly had finally realised the law wasn’t the decisive factor.
The decisive factor was the result.
He felt pleasantly drunk, and, thinking about such things, reached a decision. He left Kirie where she was, the dog squinting briefly as he rose from his chair, and grabbed his hat, coat and car keys.
Quarter of an hour later, he stepped out of his car onto Dircksenstrasse. It was stormy outside. He hadn’t parked in the atrium since he wanted to draw as little attention to himself as possible, something that the Buick, understandably, didn’t allow. It was also why he used one of the southern stairwells, where the greatest risk would be encountering someone from the motor pool, or perhaps a guard from the detention wing.
The wind was cold enough to sober him in the few metres between the car and the southwest entrance. He checked his shoe soles in the stairwell, to make sure they were dry, before entering the long corridor of E Division. It was deserted. That was good. If anyone was doing overtime, or in Vice for any other reason, he’d have some explaining to do, especially now, as he crept into the dark office and closed the door behind him. This was definitely breaking and entering, even if he hadn’t needed to force any doors. In the confusion surrounding his transfer to Homicide two years ago, no one had thought to ask for his key back, and even he had forgotten he still owned one, until it occurred to him again that evening.
It was eerily quiet, with only the rain drumming on the windowpane for company. Rath switched on Lanke’s desk lamp, which cast its dim, green-yellow light into the room, and searched for the key to his old desk. Even that still worked.
The light was sufficient. He rummaged in the drawers, searching for something that looked like an address book or index file. Nothing doing. Greaseproof paper rustled between his fingers. He found pencils, empty cigarette cartons, a half-eaten apple, everything under the sun except what he was looking for. No sign of Marion Bosetzky. Not even an idiot like Gregor Lanke was daft enough to keep a file on an unofficial informant.
The lowest drawer contained nothing but pornographic photos. Lanke junior, like his uncle, worked for Vice squad, where this sort of thing was used as evidence, but there seemed to be an enormous amount of evidence gathered here. Some of it was worn, covered in fingerprints. Rath skimmed through the images. The collection was unbelievable!
It looked as if Lanke had picked out his favourites from each arrest and kept them for himself. Rath even came across the odd photo he had confiscated himself: a Hindenburg double engaged in close combat with Mata Hari. Nevertheless, it wasn’t these images that grabbed his attention, but a different set entirely. A series of private snaps, taken by an amateur, showed the same naked woman in action, photographed from the perspective of a man whose erect penis was the only part of him visible, and even then not entirely, since it was mostly inside some bodily orifice or other. Though lacking intimate knowledge of Lanke junior’s anatomy, Rath was certain that the detective had taken the pictures himself. This confirmed his hunches on two counts: one, that Gregor Lanke was the dirtbag he’d always taken him for, and, two, that Marion Bosetzky wasn’t simply engaged as his informant, but also in an entirely different capacity – even if it looked like one she didn’t always enjoy.
Rath leafed through the images, grinning when he found one of particular interest. He held it against the light and stowed it in his pocket. It wasn’t as good a picture of Marion as the others, but in the background was a large wardrobe – with mirrored doors.
80
They were in Tietz again; it had proved to be a good meeting point. This time Lange had invited her for breakfast. Cutting an unhappy figure, he seemed to have slept badly. A copy of the Berliner Tageblatt lay before him on the table next to a cup of coffee.
‘In case you haven’t had breakfast, it’s on me,’ he said, and waved the waiter over. They had the restaurant almost to themselves.
‘Thank you, that’s not necessary.’ Charly ordered tea with lemon and pointed towards the paper. ‘Heard anything from our witness?’
Lange shook his head. ‘Still no response to our appeal. Six papers carried the story this morning, with his picture.’
‘It’s a pretty generic face.’
‘You’re telling me.’ Lange looked sceptical. ‘Yesterday I tried to trace the person who took the emergency call. So far, no luck.’
‘You think our witness called the ambulance?’
Lange nodded. ‘Perhaps he gave his name. If he isn’t just a ghost, that is.’
‘That would mean Alex invented him. I don’t believe that.’
‘If she doesn’t want to turn herself in, the obvious solution is to invent a witness.’
‘She might be a criminal, but I think she’s telling the truth.’
‘Which leads us to our next topic,’ Lange sighed. ‘Alexandra Reinhold is a criminal. If it gets out that we’re using her for information, only to turn her loose, it’ll be curtains. For both of us. Your career will be over before it’s even begun.’
Charly took a cigarette from the carton. ‘May I?’ she asked.
‘Please do. A few weeks ago watches and jewellery worth several thousand Reichsmark were stolen from right here, from Tietz.’ Lange gestured towards the floor. ‘The thieves locked themselves in the department store overnight. The same as ten days later in Karstadt. Who do you think the principal suspect is?’
‘I see you’ve got a hotline to Arthur Nebe.’
‘If Nebe knew we were shielding his main suspect!’ Lange spoke louder than he intended. He gazed around him, horrified.
‘How’s he going to find out? No one’s allowed to know anything about our agreement.’
‘So long as you realise you’re covering for a felon. That we’re covering for a felon.’
‘Listen,’ Charly said. ‘I know what Alex has done, and that she’s no angel, but she’s given us important information.’ She drew on her cigarette, almost defiantly. ‘If I give her up now, she’ll most likely be convicted and then her life really will be ruined.’
‘It makes me uneasy,’ Lange said. ‘As a police officer, I always thought I’d automatically be on the right side, but with this case I just don’t know.’
‘Sergeant Major Kuschke is a police officer with a man on his conscience, a boy in fact; a murderer who tried to kill the girl who recognised him. He shot at Alex. Is that the right side?’
‘Of course not.’ Indignation hung in Lange’s voice. ‘If I thought that, I’d have filed this case away long ago. Do you think this is making me any friends in the Castle? As for when it all goes public . . .’
‘I’m sorry,’ Charly said. ‘I know where you stand, but you can’t lose sight of our goal of building a watertight case against Kuschke.’
‘And turn a criminal loose in the process?’
‘Look at Alex as an informant who’s pointed you towards an important murder witness. Tip-offs like that come at a price.’
‘Informants don’t have free rein. All these department store break-ins – they’re hardly petty crimes.’
‘Forget about Alex. Use me as your informant. Pitch me as someone with links to the criminal underworld. That way it’ll be me drawing the short straw.’
‘What about Berlin’s highest-grossing department store thief?’
‘Alex is an intelligent girl who’s been through a rough time. She just needs a little help getting back on the right track. I think she can make it, but not if we take her into custody. Besides, do you really want her sitting in a cell with someone like Kuschke still at large?’
‘OK, OK, I know,’ Lange said. ‘First we need to get Kuschke so that she’s no longer in danger. If this mysterious witness doesn’t come through and we need Alex after all – will she turn herself in then?’
Charly shrugged. ‘Not as long as Kuschke remains at large.’
‘The whole thing’s a vicious circle. We need Alex to get at Kuschke, but so long as he’s still roaming free, we’ve no chance of getting Alex.’
‘That’s a knot for you to untie.’ Charly stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I’m not giving Alex up. I’ve given her my word.’
She’d never have thought herself capable of talking like this, she who had been raised to be conscientious and loyal to the state. Was Gereon’s Rhine-Catholic nonchalance rubbing off on her?
Lange still cut an unhappy figure. ‘It’ll be curtains for both of us,’ he said again, shaking his head.
‘So what if it is,’ Charly said. ‘We’ll open our own office.’ She drew an imaginary sign with her hands. ‘Private Detectives Lange and Ritter, enquiries of all kinds. Now, doesn’t that fill you with confidence?’
