Philip Kerr - Berlin Noir

‘Perhaps in order that he might name her in his anonymous call to the Alex?’

‘Yes, but then why wait several weeks before making the call? Doesn’t that strike you as strange?’

‘You have a point there, Bernie.’ He bagged the identity card and placed it carefully in his case, before looking back into the trunk. ‘And what have we here?’ He lifted up a small but heavy-looking sack and glanced inside. ‘How’s this for strange?’ He held it open for my inspection. It was the empty toothpaste tubes that Irma Hanke had been collecting for the Reich Economy Programme. ‘Our killer does seem to have thought of everything.’

‘It’s almost as if the bastard were defying us to catch him. He gives us everything. Think how smug he’ll be if we still can’t nail him.’

Illmann dictated some more notes to the sergeant and then pronounced that he was finished with the preliminary scene-of-crime investigation, and that it was now the photographer’s turn. Pulling our gloves off we moved away from the trunk and found that the station-master had provided coffee. It was hot and strong and I needed it to take away the taste of death that was coating my tongue. Illmann rolled a couple of cigarettes and handed me one. The rich tobacco tasted like barbecued nectar.

‘Where does this leave your crazy Czech?’ he said. ‘The one who thinks he’s a cavalry officer.’

‘It seems that he really was a cavalry officer,’ I said. ‘Got a bit shell-shocked on the Eastern Front and never quite recovered. All the same, he’s no hop and skip, and frankly, unless I get some hard evidence I’m not confident of making anything stick to him. And I’m not about to send anyone up on an Alexanderplatz-style confession. Not that he’s saying anything, mind. He’s been questioned the whole weekend and still maintains his innocence. I’ll see if somebody from the left-luggage office here can identify him as the coat that left the trunk, but if not then I’ll have to let him go.’

‘I imagine that will upset your sensitive inspector,’ chuckled Illmann. ‘The one with the daughter. From what he was saying to me earlier, he was quite sure that it was only a matter of time before you had a case against him.’

‘Almost certainly. He views the Czech’s conviction for statutory rape as the best reason why I should let him take the fellow into a quiet cell and tap dance all over him.’

‘So strenuous, these modern police methods. Wherever do they find the energy?’

‘That’s all they find energy for. This is well past Deubel’s bedtime, as he’s already reminded me. Some of these bulls think they’re working banking hours.’ I waved him over. ‘Have you ever noticed how most of Berlin’s crimes seem to happen during the day?’

‘Surely you’re forgetting the early-morning knock-up from your friendly neighbourhood Gestapo man.’

‘You never get anyone more senior than a Kriminalassistent doing the A1 Red Tabs. And only then if it’s someone important.’

I turned to face Deubel, who was doing his best to act dog-tired and ready for a hospital bed.

‘When the photographer has finished his portrait, tell him I want a couple of shots of the trunk with the lid closed. What’s more I want the prints ready by the time the left-luggage staff turns up. It’ll be something to help refresh their memories. The professor here will be taking the trunk back to the Alex as soon as the snaps are done.’

‘What about the girl’s family, sir? It is Irma Hanke, isn’t it?’

‘They’ll need to make a formal identification, of course, but not until the professor’s had his way with her. Maybe even smartened her up a bit for her mother?’

‘I’m not a mortician, Bernie,’ he said coolly.

‘Come on. I’ve seen you sew up a bag of minced beef before now.’

‘Very well,’ Illmann sighed. ‘I’ll see what I can do. I shall need most of the day, however. Possibly until tomorrow.’

‘Have as long as you like, but I want to tell them the news this evening, so see if at least you can nail her head back on to her shoulders by then will you?’

Deubel yawned loudly.

‘All right, inspector, you’ve passed the audition. The role of the tired man in need of his bed is yours. God knows you’ve worked hard enough for it. As soon as Becker and Korsch turn up you can go home. But I want you to set up an identity parade later on this morning. See if the men who work in this office can’t remember our Sudeten friend.’

‘Right, sir,’ he said, already more alert now that his going home was imminent.

‘What’s the name of that desk sergeant? The one who took the anonymous call.’

‘Gollner.’

‘Not old Tanker Gollner?’

‘Yes, sir. You’ll find him at the police barracks, sir. Apparently he said he’d wait for us there as he’d been pissed around by Kripo before and didn’t want to have to sit around all night waiting for us to show up.’

‘Same old Tanker,’ I smiled. ‘Right, I’d best not keep him waiting, had I?’

‘What shall I tell Korsch and Becker to do when they arrive?’ Deubel asked.

‘Get Korsch to go through the rest of the junk in this place. See if we might not have been left any other kind gifts.’

Illmann cleared his throat. ‘It might be an idea if one of them were present to observe the autopsy,’ he said.

‘Becker can help you. He seems to enjoy being around the female body. Not to mention his excellent qualifications in the matter of violent death. Just don’t leave him alone with your cadaver, Professor. He’s just liable to shoot her or fuck her, depending on the way he’s feeling.’

Kleine Alexander Strasse ran north-east towards Horst Wessel Platz and was where the police barracks for those stationed at the nearby Alex was situated. It was a big building, with small apartments for married men and senior officers, and single rooms for the rest.

Despite the fact that he was no longer married, Wachmeister Fritz ‘Tanker’ Gollner had a small one-bedroom apartment at the back of the barracks on the third floor, in recognition of his long and distinguished service record.

A well-tended window box was the apartment’s only concession to homeliness, the walls being bare of anything except a couple of photographs in which Gollner was being decorated. He waved me to the room’s solitary armchair and sat himself on the edge of the neatly made bed.

‘Heard you was back,’ he said quietly. Leaning forwards he pulled out a crate from under the bed. ‘Beer?’

‘Thanks.’

He nodded reflectively as he pushed off the bottle-tops with his bare thumbs.

‘And it’s Kommissar now, I hear. Resigns as an inspector. Reincarnated as a Kommissar. Makes you believe in fucking magic, doesn’t it? If I didn’t know you better I’d say you were in somebody’s pocket.’

‘Aren’t we all? In one way or another.’

‘Not me. And unless you’ve changed, not you either.’ He swigged his beer thoughtfully.

Tanker was an East Fresian from Emsland where, it is said, brains are as rare as fur on fish. While he may not have been able to spell Wittgenstein, let alone explain his philosophy, Tanker was a good policeman, one of the old school of uniformed bulls, the firm but fair sort, enforcing the law with a friendly box on the ear for young rowdies, and less inclined to arrest a man and haul him off to the cells than give him an effective and administratively simple bedtime-story with his encyclopaedia-sized fist. It was said of Tanker that he was the toughest bull in Orpo and, looking at him sitting opposite me now, in his shirt sleeves, his great belt creaking under the weight of his even greater belly, I didn’t find this hard to believe. Certainly time had stood still with his prognathous features – somewhere around one million years BC. Tanker could not have looked less civilized than if he had been wearing the skin of a sabre-toothed tiger.