Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

‘Why would you?’

‘To bring the truth to light. Detective Inspector Frank Brenner has been submitting bogus certificates.’

‘Are you implying that I’ve been issuing bogus certi-ficates?’ Dr Borghausen turned a glowing violet above his white collar. The man really ought to do something about his blood pressure.

‘I’m not implying anything,’ Rath said, still calm and friendly. ‘I’m merely advancing a theory, as detectives are wont to do. Perhaps Brenner submitted a forged certificate after deceiving his old friend Dr Borghausen.’ Rath now had the doctor’s undivided attention. ‘Let’s suppose that you are in the habit of placing a few blank, signed certificates in the charming Roswitha’s desk so that she can take care of such matters for you? The thing is – and you know this because you keep an exact count of these blank certificates – only today you realised that a few forms, or perhaps just one, I’ll leave that to your imagination, had been stolen. The first thing you do is report the matter to the police, and the local station sends someone round. This officer asks you for the time frame in which the theft might have taken place. You give a time during which, among other patients, Frank Brenner was seen at your practice. And things take their course without any damage resulting to you.’

Rath sensed that this was a straw Dr Borghausen might just grasp.

‘If you’ll excuse me, I have a house call to make,’ the doctor said. ‘And then I must go to the police – to report a theft.’

Rath came home to a surprise he hadn’t in the least been expecting. In the centre of a lovingly laid dining table a birthday cake stood regally on a pristine white tablecloth, flanked by two candlesticks. Kathi was standing by the table. She must have heard him in the stairwell as the candles were already lit. ‘Happy Birthday, Gereon,’ she said and smiled.

He almost felt a little sorry for her, and for a moment would have liked nothing more than to take her in his arms. At the same time, he felt angry, his anger growing the longer he stared at the cake and the flickering candles.

What was she thinking just turning up like this, after she had stood him up? After he had begun to forget about her! Why was she making it so hard? ‘Still here, I see,’ he said bluntly.

Her smile faded, and her face crumpled up like a paper bag.

‘Where have you been these last few days?’ he demanded. ‘You vanish without a word, and then reappear as if nothing has happened.’

‘You mustn’t be angry! It was nothing. I…’

‘I’m not angry. I’m just wondering what these games are about. Walking out on me, not getting in touch for days, and then turning up again out of the blue.’

‘No games, Gereon. We’re free to live our own lives. You said so yourself.’

That was true, but only to warn her not to expect too much from him. Yet those cold words hadn’t driven her away; quite the opposite. ‘Of course they’re games,’ he said. ‘Why invite me to a costume ball only to go and disappear on me?’

‘Oh Gereon! You kept saying you were coming, and then you didn’t. I thought you’d stood me up again.’

‘So that’s why you left with another man?’

‘It’s not what you think. Herbert…’

‘I don’t care what his name is!’

‘Gereon, don’t get so worked up. You mustn’t be jealous, I…’

‘I’m not jealous. You’re right: we’re free to live our own lives. This thing is over, I’ve come to realise that in the last few days.’

She gazed at him disbelievingly, her lower lip gradually starting to tremble.

‘What thing? You mean our love? Is that a thing to you?’ Tears flooded her eyes. ‘Is it something to just throw away?’

Someone has to be the arsehole, he thought. Might as well be me. ‘Did you really think I’d let myself be treated this way?’ he shouted. ‘Take your cake and scram! Go to this Herbert, go to your sister, go to hell!’

It was like a bad film: The Betrayed Lover. He was a rotten actor, truly rotten, and rotten was how he felt.

‘It’s your birthday cake, I…’

‘I don’t want your damned cake!’

Behind the tears her eyes flashed. ‘It’s your damned cake ! I made it for you, whether you like it or not!’

She opened the door and made for the hallway, silently retrieving her coat from the stand. Suddenly she began shaking, and the tears started again. He could hardly bear to watch but had to resist the urge to go over and comfort her. He went to the window and looked outside.

Listening to her gathering her things from the bathroom, his heart nearly broke. It took an eternity for the front door to click shut. Her steps echoed on the stairs, and he watched her red coat glow in the murky gaslight of the courtyard before disappearing through the gate for the final time.

He had a lump in his throat. Why did she have to come back? Why hadn’t she spared him that scene? Perhaps him behaving like an arsehole had made things easier for her, but he didn’t really believe that.

His birthday candles were still lit. He blew them out and took the cake from the table, resisting the temptation to hurl it against the wall. Instead, he placed it in the cupboard, before overturning a chair and kicking the dresser. He couldn’t stand it any longer in the flat, so he fetched the bottle of cognac from the living room, threw on his hat and coat and went out into the stairwell. He didn’t meet anyone on the way up. The only people who lived here were the Liebigs but they went to bed early; the Steinrück flat still stood empty.

It was cold in the attic. Rath took a swig of cognac before opening the skylight and climbing outside. Liebig’s doves cooed quietly as he sat on the narrow ridge beside the dovecote. He hadn’t been here since October. Strangely, he experienced none of the giddiness that usually seized him when he ventured too high. Perhaps it was because the precipice was a few metres away and he couldn’t see the ground. From here he could make out the house fronts at the other end of the large playground which the city council had built in a filled harbour basin. To the left, the slender dome of Sankt Michael rose as a dark shadow into the night sky.

Up here he could breathe freely, drink and gaze out over the roofs of the city. Kathi was out there somewhere now, on the way to her sister. All roads seemed to lead away from him. In truth it had always been that way. He had never been able to hold onto anyone, nor had he ever wanted to – except for one.

Cheers, Charly, he thought, and raised the bottle. To solitude! Because that’s what it all boils down to in the end. For you, for me, for every one of us.

He drank and gazed into the night. Gereon Rath, you sentimental arsehole, he thought. Time to stop feeling sorry for yourself.

The murder wagon raced westwards across Leipziger Strasse. None of the four occupants spoke a word.

Rath gazed out of the window, immersed in his thoughts, which now no longer concerned Charly. He had been expecting a quiet day at the Castle, with time to collect the list of Ford employees from Westhafen, but news came in during the morning briefing: a female corpse had been found in a disused old cinema in Wilmersdorf. Böhm quickly halted proceedings, before issuing instructions and forming a new homicide team on the spot.

Alfons Henning sat behind the wheel with Christel Temme, the stenographer, alongside him. The padded rear seat was reserved for the two most senior members of the team: Inspector Gereon Rath and its leader, Detective Chief Inspector Wilhelm Böhm.

Rath was still racking his brains over Böhm’s decision to hand the Winter case over to Gräf, a detective, rather than himself, a detective inspector. It seemed that Böhm meant to keep him off the case at all costs, perhaps as punishment for his insubordination. It was certainly true that the closer together they worked, the better Böhm could keep him in check. In the car, he had the unpleasant feeling of being watched, even though Böhm hadn’t so much as glanced at him. He had been silent the whole journey and nobody else had dared open their mouth.