Goldstein, page 37
Charly already had, which was why, after she notified Lange and he finally appeared at the scene, she had returned on foot to her flat, which was no more than fifteen minutes away. In theory it was to change her blood-smeared blouse, but it also allowed her to see whether Alex and Vicky were still there.
They weren’t.
She had been expecting as much, and didn’t know whether it spoke in the girls’ favour or not. More than anything, she’d have liked to ask them directly whether they had anything to do with Kuschke’s death, but that was no longer possible.
After changing her blouse she headed to Lange’s office at the Castle where, inevitably, she ran into Gereon. She still didn’t know how much she could tell him. He had seen Alex at her flat and most likely drawn his own conclusions. Hopefully he had kept his mouth shut. She had so much on her mind . . . but couldn’t tell him a thing.
‘I think we’re done,’ Lange said, packing away the personal files. ‘Have you anything to add?’
Charly shrugged. ‘Such as?’
‘Such as where we might find Alexandra Reinhold.’
‘I wouldn’t be sitting here if I knew. You can count on that.’
86
They were coming out again, casket-bearers at the front. Jakob Goldstein lay in a simple, unadorned coffin carefully shouldered by the men. Next came the family, and Abe instinctively withdrew a little when he saw his black-bearded cousin, lowering his head and turning slightly away. He hadn’t gone into the chapel, which in any case was full. His grandfather must have been a popular figure in the community.
They stood on a large burial ground, next to the chapel. Waiting among the crowd for the formalities to end, Abe looked at a simple, stone monument, and read the inscription carved into the white stone. To our fallen sons. The Jewish Community of Berlin. The war had left its mark everywhere. He remembered how badly his parents had been treated, above all by the Irish and the Yankees, before the United States entered the conflict. All because they spoke Yiddish and the Paddys couldn’t differentiate between the two languages, so had lumped them together with the Germans.
The trees at the Weissensee Cemetery stood close together, but Abe had resisted the impulse to seek refuge there. Lurking behind tree stems or bushes, sooner or later he’d have been spotted by someone; the crowd was a better hiding place, even now as the cortège resumed its procession. He remained at a distance, far away from the family, among men of his own age. There weren’t many long-bearded caftan wearers here. Aunt Lea’s family were in the minority.
Again and again, the procession came to a halt. Abe didn’t like this Jewish custom, which was supposed to symbolise the mourners’ reluctance to approach the grave. A specialist in quick goodbyes, he hated anything that dragged out the mourning process.
After what felt like an age the procession reached the grave dug for Jakob Goldstein. His grandfather would have approved, Abe thought. The plot was a little off the beaten track, away from the main road and in the shade of a wall. The eulogy was brief, which would have pleased his grandfather too. The cantor began a psalm as the coffin was lowered into the ground.
The family was the first by the graveside, each member throwing three handfuls of earth over the coffin. Abe recognised his aunts and their families from the hospital, all with a tear in their collar as a symbol of mourning. Abe hated this custom too. He had refused to wear one at his mother’s funeral, likewise his father’s, which he had disrupted more than attended. Around a dozen men approached the open grave, among them his black-hat cousin. Abe knew what was coming and prepared himself. While the men were still grouping around the grave, he stepped to one side, behind one of the big family plots in the shade of the trees. He didn’t want any onlookers to see him. He positioned himself so that he kept the men standing by his grandfather’s grave directly in view, and when they began their age old prayer, passed down the centuries, he prayed quietly along too.
The Hebrew and Aramaic words came so easily to his lips it was as if he had learned them yesterday, rather than twenty years before. Abe mouthed the words quietly so as not to attract attention, but loud enough for God, if he existed, to hear. His grandfather too, should his soul be journeying from one world to the next.
He had fulfilled both of the old man’s dying wishes.
While the family accepted condolences, Abe noticed two men who didn’t seem to belong. The mourners, perhaps recognising them as Goyim, gazed curiously in their direction, but Abe knew they were cops. They hadn’t sent Detective Rath, probably so that Abe didn’t notice them straightaway, but it had backfired. It was the cops who hadn’t spotted him. His black mourning suit meant he was indistinguishable from the group and, since the majority of those present kept their heads bowed, they hadn’t seen his face under the brim of his hat either. Thus far, the pair hadn’t attracted too much attention, but as the funeral drew to a close they sprung awake, and set off in front of the mourners. Abe knew not to underestimate them.
As the procession started back he kept himself as far as possible from the family. The funeral complex had an additional chapel and further outbuildings. The detectives took up position in the portico leading out of the cemetery, closely monitoring everyone who exited the grounds.
Abe dropped into the throng to gain a little time. He couldn’t leave, not now. Even if the pair hadn’t seen him, they would recognise him as he passed, thanks to that blasted sketch.
He took up position in front of the basins where mourners washed their hands before leaving the cemetery. While he awaited his turn, squinting at the portico out of the corner of his eye, he had a sudden flash of inspiration.
He wasn’t the only guest to make for the toilets, but he found a free cubicle all the same. He bolted the door, sat on the seat and waited. He would have to be patient, but that was OK. Initially, there was still a great hullabaloo, but gradually the noise died, until the only sound was the echo of water dripping on the tiles.
Abe remained where he was for a moment, to ensure the detectives had taken their leave. And what if they hadn’t? He felt for the Remington in his jacket. He shouldn’t have brought it here, but knew his grandfather, if he were watching, would understand.
When he had listened to the water dripping for at least fifteen minutes – it felt like hours – he stood up. He hoped he wouldn’t have to shoot his way out, but wouldn’t hesitate if the situation demanded. His legs had gone to sleep. He waited until he felt them return to life, opened the door and stepped out.
Everything went smoothly until he entered the washroom and almost jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t heard him come in; he must have been stealthy as a ghost.
The man with the black beard and black hat gazed at him in surprise, more curious than hostile, just like a few days ago on the street outside the hospital. He didn’t say anything, but Abe could see from his eyes that Joseph Flegenheimer knew exactly who stood before him.
87
‘Please excuse the late interruption . . .’ The caretaker stood outside Charly’s door wasn’t being sincere. He would have called again later, if necessary. ‘Many apologies,’ he said, ‘but I’ve tried a few times this week and no one’s been home.’
‘That’s fine, Herr Maltritz,’ she smiled. ‘It’s not your fault I’m out so often.’
‘My apologies.’
‘You’re only doing your job. Someone has to collect the rent.’
‘If you would be so kind, then. Twelve fifty, please. Your receipt is ready as always.’
‘Just a moment.’
She disappeared inside the flat, not having so much as thought about the rent, which was due on Mondays. Normally she had the money counted out beforehand, to keep the weekly process as brief as possible, but, what with this week’s chaos, she hadn’t thought of such trivial details as the rent. On Monday she had accepted Lange and Gennat’s special assignment, said yes to Heymann and met with Gereon. Life hadn’t been any less busy since.
In the kitchen she opened the crockery cupboard, freezing as she looked inside the earthenware pot. It was empty.
For a moment she considered frantically what she could have done with the money, but soon realised what had happened, and who had stolen it. To think, she had trusted the girls, and all because they hadn’t pilfered her gun. Alex must have taken the money while she was making coffee at breakfast, as Charly naively praised the undrinkable sludge. One hundred and twenty marks! Rent and housekeeping – everything she had set aside for the coming weeks. She had been planning to go shopping tomorrow, buy a guidebook for Paris, as well as a dictionary to brush up on her rusty French.
Alex, you rat!
She went back to the door. ‘This is very embarrassing, Herr Maltritz,’ she said, ‘but I completely forgot I wasn’t at the court today. I won’t get my paycheck until Monday now. If you could possibly wait until then.’
Hans Maltritz didn’t look pleased – he was already a little dubious about two women sharing a flat – but he put a brave face on it. ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘I’ll turn a blind eye this time. Because it’s you. But I need the money on Monday, otherwise I’ll have to charge interest. Backdated!’
‘Of course.’ Charly gave a winning smile. It helped. Maltritz tipped his hat and bid her good night. On the steps he turned around again. ‘Monday,’ he said, and Charly nodded, smiling at him all the way down the stairs.
Damn it, she thought, as she closed the door. Damn it!
One thing was for sure: Alexandra Reinhold was a cunning little minx. Charly had been deceived. What a fine judge of character you are, Fräulein Ritter. Gereon had been absolutely right; Andreas Lange too.
88
It was a grey morning, even though the sun had risen much earlier, and a thick layer of cloud hovered over the city, threatening rain. The Mühlendamm was humming with activity, with five ships waiting at the locks. The lockmaster chewed on a second breakfast of bread and dripping as he opened the sluice gates for a barge loaded with scrap metal. Since he needed both hands for the job, he held his breakfast sandwich between his teeth. Gradually the vessel moved inside the lock chamber. Four men stood on board and kept the lock wall at a distance with long wooden poles, ensuring the vessel didn’t scrape against the algae. Two of them manned the ropes, mooring the barge in the lock chamber while the lockmaster cranked the wheel to shut the gate.
The lockmaster finished his sandwich, and the iron sluice gates closed more quickly than they had opened until, all of a sudden, they stopped moving altogether. Something was snagged against the gate. Hopefully it wasn’t a piece of scrap metal from the barge. Whatever it was, it resisted.
‘Damn it,’ the lockmaster cursed, cranking the wheel back. Opening the gate just a little usually helped. The things that floated down this way! They had found all sorts: oil drums, a rusty bedstead, a traffic light, the frame of a pram, even a half-decomposed cow. Everything got caught here, at the Mühlendamm, and with some items it was impossible to say how they wound up in the Spree at all. He had no idea what it was this time, only that the river needed cleaning again soon.
Cranking the wheel back seemed to help. Whatever was caught underwater detached itself, and the sluice gate moved with a gurgling squeak.
‘There’s something in there,’ shouted one of the men on the barge, leaning on his staff. The gate was by now almost closed again. The lockmaster gazed into the water, and saw something glimmer just beneath the surface. The optical refraction made it look as though it had been steamrolled. If the lockmaster had known what it was, he probably wouldn’t have looked so closely, but he didn’t realise until he saw the eyes staring back at him out of a face so pale and swollen it no longer looked human. But human it was, the skin waxy and green with algae, hair swaying like seaweed. There was a deep, but bloodless – and therefore all the more hideous – wound on the man’s face, which exposed half his teeth and made it look as though he were snarling. He was staring at a corpse.
His knees grew weak, and he felt his stomach turn. He sank to the floor, retched once, and threw up both first and second breakfasts in the dirty black water of the lock chamber. It was six forty-five on Thursday morning.
89
The atmosphere was eerily reminiscent of the week before. Again Bernhard Weiss stood on the podium, and again the deputy commissioner made a serious face. Another uniform cop had been killed, in the Hansaviertel this time but not, this time, in the line of duty. He had been stabbed to death while on leave of absence.
‘The circumstances remain a mystery,’ Weiss said. ‘It seems unlikely to have been politically motivated, although we cannot rule that out. It appears that, on this occasion, it wasn’t the police uniform that was targeted, but the man himself. Jochen Kuschke.’
Tornow swallowed. ‘Damn it, that’s one of my colleagues from Wittenbergplatz.’
This was confirmed moments later when Ernst Gennat replaced Weiss on the podium. Buddha explained that underworld involvement couldn’t be ruled out, since Sergeant Major Kuschke had taken part in the KaDeWe operation two weeks before – the same operation which had famously resulted in the death of one of the young intruders.
‘It is possible,’ he continued, ‘that it was an accomplice of the dead intruder, or indeed the mastermind behind the robbery, taking bloody revenge.’
Damn it, Rath thought. Was Charly’s Alex a murderer too, on top of everything else? He hadn’t breathed a word about her yesterday evening, and Charly hadn’t mentioned anything either, but keeping quiet was no longer an option. What the hell was going on? Was she so up to her neck that she was covering for a murderer?
‘We are pursuing all lines of enquiry,’ Gennat said. ‘Since this case is now our priority, we will be reassigning certain members of the homicide team.’
It was unusual for Buddha to lead an investigation himself. Looking around, Rath could see that even the department’s old hands were nervous. They wanted to be in the team. Rath, too, felt restless. You could always learn something from Gennat and, apart from anything else, it was good for your standing. He would even be willing to partner Wilhelm Böhm, the first name called. Next up were Grabowski and Mertens, followed by several assistant detectives he didn’t know. Rath came away empty-handed, and Gräf didn’t make the cut either. Plisch and Plum weren’t even in the room. No sooner had Buddha assembled his team than they learned why.
‘A corpse was fished out of the water at the Mühlendamm early this morning,’ Gennat said. ‘I’ve given it to Henning and Czerwinski.’
Gennat had now reassigned most of the officers working on the Kubicki case, leaving just Rath, Gräf and Tornow. Most likely he felt that Rath and Gräf still had to make good on their error at the hotel, as Abraham Goldstein remained the prime suspect for the SA man’s death. At least with Tornow they’d have an additional colleague – unless, of course, he was being returned to Warrants? But no, Gennat had explicitly requested that Rath, Gräf and Tornow attend a subsequent briefing.
Once there, Böhm handed them the Kubicki documents, which already filled two heavy lever arch files. ‘I almost filled one myself,’ Gräf said, with a sour smile. ‘Pages of useless statements, made by so-called witnesses.’
‘At least we know what we don’t have to read,’ Rath said, wondering whether the old Jew had returned to repeat his statement. It didn’t sound like it. He gave the first file to Gräf, the second to Tornow, and was just about to leave when Böhm waved a third in his face.
‘This is for you too,’ he said. Rath gazed at it curiously. ‘Looks like there’s a second corpse linked to this case. Rudi the Rat mean anything to you?’
‘From the Nordpiraten?’
‘Correct. They found a corpse a few days ago at the dump, out at Schöneiche. Kronberg has identified him. Bullets to the head and chest. Same weapon as Kubicki, apparently.’
‘Damn it,’ Gräf said. ‘Do the Nordpiraten know?’
‘Not yet.’ Böhm looked suspiciously at Rath. ‘My advice would be to find Goldstein before the Nordpiraten get to him first.’
Rath glared at the file. It looked almost as if Böhm’s men were trying to get rid of anything that had to do with the case.
‘I have what might be a lead,’ said Grabowski. ‘I’ve discovered where Goldstein bought his cigarettes. The tobacconist recognised him from the sketch. He says a man fitting Goldstein’s description bought a large quantity of American cigarettes from him at Stettiner Bahnhof on Sunday morning: Camel.’
Rath looked inside the file at a long list of addresses. It looked like a hotel directory of Greater Berlin. ‘What’s this?’
‘All hotels within a kilometre radius,’ Grabowski said. ‘They’re sorted according to distance rather than price category. He might be lying low somewhere. There are a lot of flophouses in that part of town.’
That part of town was the Poetenviertel, near Stettiner Bahnhof, but the only thing poetic about it were the street names, named after Germany’s great Romantics. Otherwise, the area was devoid of both poetry and romance. It was a railway district: dilapidated house fronts, dim rear courtyards, dive hotels, prostitution, drugs, the whole shebang. It was also Nordpiraten turf.
Barely an hour later, Rath was forced to park outside the newly completed yellow-brick commuter line station that looked like a miniature version of Stettiner Bahnhof, but was treated like its inferior cousin. There was a great to-do by the main station as tanned holiday makers encountered pale city dwellers desperate to escape the rainy summer. He had requested an Opel from the motor pool, as the Buick was too small for three people and he didn’t want to consign Gräf to desk duty.
Before they got out of the car, he distributed the lists, having asked Erika Voss to sort the addresses according to location. Most of the hotels were to the south of Stettiner Bahnhof. Rath took those in the southwest, while Gräf handled those in the southeast. Tornow took everything north of Invalidenstrasse. Thanks to Grabowski they had more than enough to get on with.
