Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

‘What are we going to do with the rest of the evening?’

Charlotte Ritter sounded determined. ‘I think we should go to Alex,’ she said. ‘It feels strange that no one knows where Gereon is.’

‘Maybe he’s sitting in a pub somewhere getting drunk,’ Wittkamp said.

‘Not when he’s arranged to meet Herr Weinert here. And he hasn’t been in touch with us either, even though his secretary must have told him we called. Something’s not right and perhaps we can work it out!’

She gave Weinert a look that brooked no argument. ‘Do you want to stay here in case Gereon comes home?’

Weinert nodded. ‘I’ve got nothing better to do. Besides, the beer in the Nasse Dreieck tastes pretty good. Perhaps he’ll turn up there. Otherwise I’ll try my luck every half-hour on Luisenufer.’

‘If he should appear, please telephone the station and ask for Charlotte Ritter.’

‘If you should hear anything, just get in touch here at the pub. The Nasse Dreieck. Easy to remember. Don’t be surprised if the landlord doesn’t say anything. It just means you’ve got the right number.’

A throbbing pain fetched him back. He opened his eyes in darkness. Grey contours gradually emerged from the gloom. He couldn’t discern much, just the outlines of two large windows, but the night outside was almost as black as the room itself. He couldn’t see where he lay, perhaps on a bed or a sofa, at any rate he was comfortable. If, given his situation, one could speak of comfort at all.

He tried to remember. Before being plunged into darkness he had seen the face of a dead woman. Jeanette Fastré, large as life, and so vivid that, briefly, he thought she was standing in front of him. Even Kirie had been deceived and barked at the photo.

Where was the dog? He sat up with a start, worried that something could have happened to her. His head responded with acute pain. He touched it with his hand, almost surprised it was possible. He wasn’t bound. The blow had left a large bump.

Wolfgang Marquard had knocked him out, sure enough.

Marquard, the sound film hater.

Marquard, the cinema killer.

What was he up to? Where had he brought him? He couldn’t seriously believe that his problems would be solved by striking a police officer?

For the time being though, Rath was the one with the problems. His headache was abating, albeit gradually.

Suddenly, he sensed he wasn’t alone. A silhouette in front of the window moved, he heard the rustle of material and then a voice.

No, not a voice, more of a wheeze, a strange hiss, a kind of panting.

It sounded like a laugh without a voice.

‘Welcome to my prison,’ it said from the darkness.

‘Who are you?’

‘You still have your voice, that surprises me!’

‘Do you… are you an actress? Did he remove your vocal cords?’

The voiceless laugh wheezed through the darkness. ‘You wait,’ she hissed. It was meant to be loud but he had to strain to hear. ‘You’ll see.’

He heard furniture squeaking and steps in the darkness. There was a click and then the room was light. He blinked and looked around at a dark, wood-panelled room with old-fashioned furnishings, but luxurious nevertheless. A woman was standing in the door. Despite her snow-white hair, she couldn’t have been much older than fifty. She returned to her chair and gazed through the window into the night, which, thanks to the light in the room, had become no more than an impenetrable dark mass.

He sat up and his headache launched another attack.

‘I’m his mother.’

She continued to gaze through the window as she spoke. In the light, Rath could understand her whispered speech even less. Listening was a strain, and with each attempt his head grew more painful.

‘What’s wrong with your voice, Frau Marquard? Did your son…?’

‘I would like so very much to go out to the lake again. He doesn’t let me.’

‘Did he… did your son remove your vocal cords?’

‘He doesn’t let me out anymore. Sometimes I stand in the tower and gaze at the lake and dream that I’m down there in the wind.’ Her whispering grew quieter with each sentence, as if even this mode of speech would soon no longer be possible. ‘I’m condemned to wait here for death, without having sat by the lake again and felt the wind in my hair.’

Rath felt his headache getting worse. He stood up, and for a moment everything went black and he had to lean against the wall. He went to the next door and opened it.

‘You won’t get out of here, merely enter the next cell of our golden prison.’ She turned to face him, looking straight at him. She had a flawless, beautiful face and skin so fair it appeared almost transparent.

‘Why do you think you are up here with me? No one gets out if Wolfgang doesn’t want them to. You can’t even open the windows.’ She gave her panting laugh again. ‘It’s a good prison. My husband built it for Wolfgang. It was him who locked the boy up, not me, but I’m the one he takes revenge on. Strange, isn’t it?’ When she laughed she looked like the evil stepmother in Snow White , before she became the rapidly aged but still beautiful woman once more.

He had to support himself on the door frame. His hand shook for a moment, but the moment passed. There was cold sweat on his forehead.

‘You need sugar. Otherwise you’ll die.’

‘Sugar? Am I… Did he…?’

‘He gave you an injection. That’s why he brought you here.’ She shook her head as if she couldn’t understand such dim-wittedness. ‘People are only brought here to die.’

‘Then give me some sugar.’

‘I’d like to enjoy your company for a little while longer. It’s so rare that I have visitors. Just a few old ghosts.’ The old lady smiled. ‘It would be very nice if you could stay, but that’s not in my hands. Soon you’ll be gone, and I’ll be alone again.’

‘You must be able to bring me something! Don’t you have any chocolate, or take sugar in your tea?’ Rath felt his panic growing. ‘Fruit, sweets, juice, there must be something to hand, damn it!’

‘I’m afraid I can’t help you. There has never been anything sweet up here, no chocolate, no fruit, no sugar, nothing. That’s the reason this prison was built in the first place.’

When they entered the Homicide office, Reinhold Gräf was at the duty officer’s desk reading the evening paper. Behind him a young officer Charly didn’t recognise sat brooding over files.

Gräf put his paper aside and stood up. ‘Charly,’ he said, and cast her companion an inquisitive glance.

‘Paul Wittkamp,’ she said. ‘Gereon’s old school friend from Cologne – Reinhold Gräf, Gereon Rath’s colleague and partner.’

The men shook hands.

‘Delighted to meet you,’ Gräf said. ‘Partner isn’t quite right though. Böhm broke us up, and for the time being Gennat hasn’t done anything to change it.’

‘Then you don’t have any idea where he could be?’

Gräf shrugged apologetically. ‘He isn’t in his office anyway. I just telephoned, but there was no one there.’

‘Do you still have a key?’

‘Do you think he’s fallen asleep over a mountain of files?’

Charly laughed. ‘I’d be very surprised, but you never know.’

Gräf went to the hatstand and rummaged in his coat pocket until a key ring jangled in his hand.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Should I come with you?’

‘Not necessary. I still know my way around.’

The office was locked. ‘He even has his name on the door,’ Paul said appreciatively. ‘I never knew Gereon was so important.’

Entering, Charly turned on the light. The secretary’s desk was tidy in a makeshift way. She went straight into Gereon’s office and Paul followed. One desk was a gaping void; the other was submerged in chaos.