Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

Erika Voss came in, eyes fixed guiltily on the floor, said hello and hung her coat on the stand.

‘What’s all this? Why are you knocking? And why are you only here now?’

‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but – I…’

‘Lucky for you you’re usually on time,’ Rath said.

She lowered her gaze again, a shy gesture that didn’t at all suit her cheeky Berlin demeanour, and sat at her desk.

‘Then see to it that I’m not disturbed in the next hour,’ Rath said and closed the door.

He heard her telephoning quietly, most likely her sister again, but didn’t take her to task. Barely five minutes later, there was another knock.

Rath reacted brusquely. ‘What is it?’

The door remained closed, there was another knock. He lost patience, ran to the door and tore it open.

‘Did I not clearly say that I didn’t want to be…’

Pop! A champagne cork ricocheted off the lampshade with a metallic clang and hit the wall before coming to rest between the waste-paper basket and the desk.

The champagne bottle fizzed wildly as Reinhold Gräf endeavoured to collect the jet of liquid in a number of glasses. Next to him stood a beaming Erika Voss, and behind, looking a little embarrassed, Plisch and Plum. They began to sing. A reluctant four-voice choir gave him a birthday serenade. Their intonation wasn’t exactly secure, but they sang with heart.

Rath hated displays like this, especially on his birthday, but on this occasion he was touched that they had taken the time and effort.

Reinhold Gräf stepped forward, two champagne glasses in his hand. ‘Happy Birthday,’ he said, holding one out to Rath, who toasted all four of them.

Erika Voss dropped a curtsey. ‘Congratulations, Inspector.’

‘All the best from us, Gereon,’ Czerwinski said, raising his glass at the same time as Henning.

They drank. The stuff was sticky sweet, but goodwill was all that counted here. ‘I’m flabbergasted,’ he said. ‘How did you know?’

‘Simple detective work,’ Gräf said.

‘My sister works in Personnel,’ Erika Voss said.

‘You’ve got the right date, anyway. Your sister didn’t let you down.’

‘We thought you were keeping your birthday quiet because you didn’t want to buy any drinks,’ Gräf said. ‘But you won’t get away with that here!’

‘I might have known,’ Rath said, feigning remorse.

‘But first here’s something from us, Inspector!’ Erika Voss fetched a bright red package from the depths of her drawer and passed it to him. ‘From all of us.’

Rath tore the red paper to reveal a metal cigarette lighter and case. Normally he smoked straight from the packet, but it wouldn’t hurt to have something more stylish. For occasions like yesterday evening, for example.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Word got around quickly that I was smoking again!’

‘A development we wish to encourage,’ Gräf said. ‘You’re less irritable when you smoke.’

‘Well, you’ll be shot of me in a moment anyway – expect for Fräulein Voss. How come you’re here in the first place? Don’t you have to scrape and bow to Böhm?’

‘We were all here anyway,’ Henning said. ‘We’re assuming, of course, that you won’t tell Böhm where we went after the briefing.’

‘There was another briefing today?’

Gräf shrugged. ‘Böhm has one every day now. He wants to bring the Winter case to a quick resolution.’

‘I heard he’s even offering a reward for Krempin.’

Czerwinski nodded. ‘If we find him, the case is solved. If we don’t, it looks ominous.’

‘Does that mean no one’s conducting enquiries anymore? That you’re all just looking for poor Krempin?’

‘How do you mean, poor?’ Czerwinski hunched his shoulders. ‘If he hadn’t killed anyone, no one would be chasing after him.’

‘Good luck,’ Rath said. ‘Finding Krempin, I mean. Perhaps you’ll catch the murderer at some point too.’

‘You’re pretty much on your own with that theory, Gereon,’ Gräf said. ‘Most of us think it was Krempin.’

‘That’s why he’s hiding. He knows he’s got no chance against all your prejudices.’

‘We’ll get him,’ Czerwinski said. ‘Then the truth will be revealed.’

The three CID officers were gradually becoming restless. ‘Time to go,’ Rath said. ‘I don’t want to be responsible for you getting into trouble with Böhm.’

A short time later, he was sitting at his desk tinkering with his report. ‘Your sister, Fräulein Voss?’ he asked his secretary, ‘does she have access to doctor’s notes and certificates, things like that?’

‘Could do. I’d have to ask.’

‘If you would, but discreetly please. I’d need to know what kind of injuries Detective Brenner has.’

‘Why? I’m not sure if I’m allowed.’

‘I’d like to apologise. I’m sorry about what I did to him. I never intended it.’

She looked at him sceptically.

‘I’d only need a quick look, that would be enough. I just want to know how he’s doing.’

‘I’ll ask Franzi, but I’m not making any promises.’

The porter was sitting in his lodge behind the revolving door.

‘I have a meeting,’ Rath said, wondering which name would make the greater impression, ‘with Herr Heyer…’ the porter furrowed his brow ‘…and Herr Weinert.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know these gentlemen,’ the porter said, ‘but you could take a look among the non-swimmers.’ He gestured towards the big room to the right of the entrance, which was full to bursting. Rath took off his hat and coat and looked around at not so many writers as onlookers trying to catch a glimpse of writers. That was his impression. Weinert was nowhere to be seen, and if one of the figures sitting at the tables chatting, reading the papers or simply staring into space was Willi Heyer, or if he was one of the many more scribbling in their notebooks, Rath couldn’t say.

He looked for a table on the glazed veranda, which was mostly populated by tourists hoping to do some celebrity spotting. Rath ordered a coffee and requested a copy of Tageblatt from the newspaper waiter. It was very pleasant in this glass case; the view of Berlin life as it raged around the stoic mass of the Gedächtniskirche was spectacular. The coffee was good too, and even came with a glass of water. Rath smoked a cigarette with his coffee, leafed through the newspaper and waited.

At shortly after one, Berthold Weinert entered the glass case together with a lean, tallish man who couldn’t have been much older than thirty, but whose hair was already thinning. He wore thick glasses and hadn’t shaved for at least two days. Weinert saw Rath, showed his companion to the table and made the introductions.

‘You write screenplays?’ Rath asked.

‘And you put murderers behind bars,’ Heyer replied. ‘Berthold told me about your work. Perhaps I can ask for your advice next time I’m writing a crime film.’

‘It wouldn’t hurt. The crime thrillers I’ve seen have precious little to do with real police work.’

The men took their seats at table. Weinert ordered a glass of Bordeaux, Heyer a vodka Martini. Rath sipped on his coffee, a little envious of the others’ drinks. He offered Heyer a cigarette but Weinert, the dedicated non-smoker, wasn’t afforded a look at Rath’s new case.

‘Let’s cut to the chase,’ he said, while lighting Heyer’s cigarette. ‘You sold the same story twice. Is that normal in your line of work?’ Not a good start, Rath noted, realising he had touched a sore point.

‘I don’t know what’s normal in this line of work,’ Heyer said. ‘It seems normal, at any rate, to take a story from an author and pass it on to a complete stranger.’