Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

The knife continued on its way, slowly but with irresistible force, penetrating her chest with a repulsive squelch that seemed to go on and on. Even after the first blow it was as if the air had been taken from her lungs. Kathi’s screaming died immediately, but still it wasn’t over. The knife stabbed again and again, unbearably slowly, but relentlessly until, at last, he could stop. He saw the blade in his hand, now broken, and Kathi’s blood-soaked body as it slid slowly down the tree trunk, covering the bark in a dark, damp red.

He wandered on through the forest until suddenly there was an electric hum somewhere overhead and spotlights came on one after the other, lighting the way. Only then did he realise he was wearing a Royal-Prussian captain’s uniform. The uniform was covered in blood, but at least the knife had disappeared, filling him with an enormous sense of relief.

‘Are you looking for me?’ he heard a woman say.

Vivian Franck stood in front of him, just as he remembered her from Venuskeller, smiling the same smile she had used to try and seduce him.

‘Come on, we don’t have much time.’ With these words she exposed her upper body, revealing her gorgeous breasts, wagged her finger at him enticingly, and twirled round.

When her back was turned, Rath saw the knife. Her pretty dance dress was soaked with blood. He recognised the butt: the same knife he had been holding moments before. He tried to follow the actress and pull it out, but couldn’t move an inch and had to look on helplessly as she swayed, only to recover and take a few more steps before falling to the ground.

Black shapes, barely visible through the mist, scurried to the corpse and tore it apart, tore it in every direction. Rath tried to intervene, but it was as if his feet were nailed to the spot.

‘Have no fear, they’ll look after her! Everything will be all right.’

Even before he turned, he knew who had spoken. He knew her smell. Charly had returned and was leaning against a tree, smiling at him, white as snow, red as blood, black as ebony, her head tilted to one side as if mildly ashamed.

Suddenly all his worries were forgotten, his guilt and fear too.

‘Everything will be all right,’ she had said, and it was true. Charly was there and everything was all right.

‘You’re back.’ He drew gradually nearer to her. She just nodded. How good she smelled!

‘Do you still love me?’ she asked, turning her face towards him.

He was about to reply but could only recoil in terror when he saw the grotesque face staring back. One side, hidden up until that point, was a giant scorched wound; her hair was gone and her features were unrecognisable.

That was the moment he had awoken, heart pounding and gasping for breath, her scent fading as soon as he recognised the contours of his bedroom, the images dissolving like wisps of smoke in the wind. The telephone rang.

Rath looked at the bedside table. The alarm clock had fallen and the time was impossible to read. The telephone rang again.

No, he didn’t have to answer.

It rang twice more before falling silent. He sat up, his head throbbing slightly. The knuckles of his right hand were more painful. A captain’s uniform lay on the chair, not as neatly folded as was customary in a Prussian barracks. He felt a shooting pain when he propped himself up using his right hand. Damn it! Gradually his memory returned. His fist in Brenner’s face. He had given the arsehole a good clout.

Charly’s horrified look on the dance floor. The way she had stared at him. And the cowboy next to her. Rath felt the same stabbing pain as the night before.

Damn it! It was the first time he had seen her with another man. He hadn’t thought it would hit him so hard.

Their brief romance was months ago now. Why had he made such a pig’s ear of it? He had gone behind her back, deceived her and taken advantage of her, without intending any of it. She hadn’t been able to forgive him, just as he hadn’t been able to forgive himself.

Not that that was any comfort. Quite the opposite.

In summer he had tried to win her back, and failed spectacularly. She had talked to him, been cordial, friendly even, but that didn’t alter the fact that she had sent him packing for good.

Avoiding her wasn’t so easy since, alongside her legal studies, Charly worked as a stenographer at Alex, in Homicide at that. Their inevitable meetings had mostly been fine: sober and businesslike. The one time they had fought had been about Wilhelm Böhm, whom Charly idolised and Rath would have sooner wished in hell.

He had watched her deal with all kinds of men at the Castle but this was different.

It was the first time he had seen her looking at a man the way she had once looked at him. The way he wanted her to look at him again.

He had to get her out of his head this instant!

His bare feet stuck to the cold hallway floor as he made his way to the bathroom, where he peed and started up the boiler, before going into the living room to put on a record. His cognac glass was still on the table. He took it into the kitchen and placed it in the sink. The kitchen clock showed half past nine. As he brewed coffee he came upon a sheet of paper: the letterhead of the Greater Berlin Taxi Owners’ Alliance with the taxi driver’s address, which he had placed on the kitchen table before throwing on his captain’s uniform.

The uniform he had to take back!

Already two reasons to leave the house. After finishing his coffee, he returned to the bathroom, cleaned his teeth and turned on the shower. The water never got particularly warm, but it was cold enough to bring him to his senses.

The taxi driver’s name was Friedhelm Ziehlke and he lived in the shadow of the Schöneberg gasometer. It was midday by the time Rath arrived. The drive to Babelsberg took longer than anticipated, with any number of day trippers heading for the country and blocking the road when all he wanted was to return the stupid uniform.

The street in front of the Ziehlke household lay deserted. The stairwell smelled of cabbage. Rath hoofed it up to the fourth floor and rang the bell. He had to wait a minute before a woman in a stained apron opened. The place smelled of onions and fried liver. Rath hated liver. Someone else was responsible for the cabbage odour.

The woman looked at him disapprovingly. ‘What do you want?’ she asked. ‘We’re eating.’

Rath showed his badge and her eyes widened.

‘Cheeky little brat,’ she hissed, ‘and he told me he was at the cinema with his girl!’ She turned back into the flat. ‘Erich,’ she cried. ‘The cops are here. What’ve you done now?’

Rath made a placatory gesture. ‘Please. I need to speak with your husband.’

‘My husband?’ Her eyes were popping out of her head. Before she could say anything more, a young lad of seventeen or eighteen shuffled round the corner. Hands in pockets, he gazed at Rath and his mother defiantly. ‘I was at the cinema! What the hell is this?’

‘It’s OK,’ the woman said, eyeing Rath suspiciously. She looked as though her worst fears had become reality. ‘This gentleman wants to speak to your father.’

Erich disappeared once more.

‘It’s nothing bad,’ Rath said. ‘Just a few questions. Your husband’s a taxi driver, isn’t he?’

Her face brightened. ‘Please come in,’ she said.

Rath removed his hat as he entered. The liver smell was unbearable. The Ziehlke family was sitting at table in the spacious kitchen-cum-living-room, with three more sons sitting alongside the head of the family and Erich, the oldest of the four. Friedhelm Ziehlke was the only one with a beer.

‘Friedhelm,’ his wife said, ‘the gentleman here is from the police and…’