Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

Rath shrugged. ‘They’ve taken me off the case. I can only advise you to be careful. If you want to keep your involvement in the whole thing under wraps – fine. I won’t stab you in the back, but don’t underestimate the police. If they start grilling your friend…’

‘Felix has always been loyal. Besides, they need to find him before they can interrogate him.’

‘Do you think it’s possible he’s found a new hideout in Grunewald somewhere? In the allotments, for example? Does he know anyone there who could help him?’

‘Don’t ask so many questions at once, otherwise I won’t know which to respond to first.’

‘How about the ones you know the answer to? Apparently Krempin is holed up there somewhere. My colleagues think he’s a murderer, the press think he’s a murderer. I’m the only one who believes he’s innocent. It’s better I find him, and not one of them.’

‘And the accusation of sabotage? Will that go by the board if you find Felix?’

Rath shook his head. ‘If he wants to be cleared of murder, he’ll have to admit to his sabotage plans.’

‘I hope my name can be kept out of all this.’

‘That depends entirely on your friend. I don’t have any influence there.’

Oppenberg stubbed his cigarette out and reached for his cutlery. ‘I have a proposition,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you track down Felix Krempin if you keep looking for Vivian.’

‘If you don’t just help but actually find Krempin, then maybe.’

‘Well, if you don’t stop at searching , but find Vivian for me.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Then it’s a deal,’ Oppenberg said. ‘Did the photos help? Did the taxi driver recognise anyone?’

‘Just Krempin, from the mugshot.’ Rath took the photo of the dark-haired actor from his bag. ‘He said this one was similar to the man who picked up Vivian.’

‘Gregor? Vivian hardly noticed him.’

‘The taxi driver only said he was similar. Do you know anyone else who looks like this? Could be a producer as well.’

Oppenberg shook his head indignantly. ‘I think it’s a waste of time only searching among my people. Why don’t you show this taxi driver a few photos of Bellmann’s lot? Perhaps it was one of them who picked her up and she’s been made to stew in some hovel underground for weeks!’

‘You think Bellmann abducted her to prevent you from shooting your film?’

‘He’s capable of it. Perhaps he paid to have her abducted. There are enough criminals in this city who would do that.’

Rath thought of Johann Marlow. He probably wouldn’t let himself be roped into such a dirty job. But perhaps Dr M. would know someone who might. He must still have his number, the number that wasn’t in any telephone book.

He had already polished off two beers and two shorts when Gräf arrived. The atmosphere inside the Nasse Dreieck was already sticky and the gust of fresh air that blew in with the detective did nothing to change that. Rath gave Schorsch a brief nod, and the bartender put two more glasses under the tap. Gräf took his seat beside Rath at the bar.

‘You’re smoking again?’

‘What makes you say that?’ Rath muttered, lighting an Overstolz. The bartender placed two beer glasses on the counter, along with two schnapps. The pair clinked glasses, drained the schnapps and washed them down with beer. ‘Has Böhm had his hooks in you all this time?’

Gräf shook his head. ‘I had something else to do.’ He took a large brown envelope from inside his coat. ‘My report on the Wessel burial. You can file it tomorrow, but it’s the last time I do a favour like that for you. It was more of a street fight than a funeral.’

Rath opened the envelope, pulling out a stack of folded typing paper. ‘That’s at least ten pages.’

‘Twelve. I did it out of friendship.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’ Rath pocketed the envelope.

‘I can think of something.’

‘All right, all right.’ Rath laughed. ‘The drinks are on me.’

‘Lucky, given how thirsty I am,’ Gräf said.

‘Thanks to your help, I should be through with my punishment tomorrow.’

‘You think Böhm’s going to let you back on the Winter case? I wouldn’t get your hopes up.’

Rath shrugged. ‘If he doesn’t, you can keep me up to date.’

Gräf tilted his head to one side. ‘You’re not planning on going it alone?’

‘I just want to know how everything’s progressing. It was our case, and we were doing pretty well until Böhm interfered. And now? Is he making you scour the allotments in Grunewald?’

‘Work like that needs to be done. Need I remind you that when I was working for you, my main jobs were to sit in the office and fob Böhm off. And if I were to track down our prime suspect… I certainly wouldn’t object.’

‘You think Krempin meant to kill Winter?’

‘Why else would he make himself invisible?’

‘Because everyone thinks he meant to kill Winter: the police, Bellmann, the entire big city press, and with it half of Berlin.’

‘We should never have let Bellmann go through with that stupid press conference.’

‘He would have got his conspiracy theories out there one way or another. Besides, he’s not entirely wrong. Only Krempin is no murderer.’

Rath went through the theory he had only been able to sketch in the most cursory fashion that morning at briefing.

‘And you believe this Oppenberg?’ Gräf asked.

Rath shrugged his shoulders. ‘No less than Bellmann. The pair of them are desperate because a crafty screenwriter sold them the same story twice, and whichever film comes out first could be vital for each firm’s survival.’

‘They’re shooting the same film? I don’t think the author is allowed to do that. There must be a clause in his contract which prevents him from selling the story to other parties.’

‘I’ll know more tomorrow after I meet with him.’

‘I’m starting to wonder who’s keeping who up to date!’

‘I’ll tell you what I find out and you can start collecting points for your next promotion. You just have to make sure Böhm doesn’t take all the credit himself.’

Gräf shook his head. ‘You’re incorrigible, Gereon,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘Only bearable under the influence.’

Ash Wednesday arrived under ash-grey skies. Rath turned over, buried his head in the pillow and closed his eyes – and he didn’t even have a hangover.

Sometimes he wished he could just skip a day. Open his eyes after quarter of an hour to a new dawn and all his problems solved. He wished for that now, but when he opened his eyes the alarm clock had barely advanced by seven minutes. The day still lay ahead, and behind the dark outline of the roofs the same ash-grey sky remained. The fifth of March. He had felt it coming, the way a storm is foretold by oppressive humidity.

Staying in bed was pointless. He got up, thinking: Let’s get it over with, and shuffled wearily into the kitchen to put on water for coffee, then into the bathroom. Before using the toilet, he splashed cold water onto his face and turned on the boiler. Perhaps he’d be in luck and get through the day without being reminded of the date. No one in the Castle knew, apart from the grey figures in Personnel who handled his file.

Back in the kitchen, still half-asleep, he poured the now boiling water into the Melitta filter. Coffee dripped into the little porcelain pot and its smell comforted him. There was one consolation: things could hardly be worse than last year, when he hadn’t even left the house.

Only a year ago, but already that time was so remote, so foreign, as to feel like someone else’s life, like someone else’s nightmare. With his face in all the papers he had stolen through town like a beaten dog, hat pulled over his forehead. When, that is, he had dared to venture outside at all.