Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

Böhm seemed positively cheerful as he opened the door to Hannoversche Strasse, and they emerged from that unprepossessing brick building that housed more of the dead than living. ‘I don’t mean to boast,’ he said, ‘but did you see how much you can learn from just a brief conversation? The same witness you interviewed three or four hours ago, when he said no more about this private investigator than he did about the stranger in Wilmersdorf.’

‘What are you trying to say?’

‘Don’t be offended, Inspector!’ Böhm looked Rath in the eye. ‘That wasn’t meant as a criticism of your interrogation methods, but you should understand that your colleagues can get results too. Even your superiors.’

Only now, in the fresh air, did Rath realise how hungry he was. It was almost four o’clock.

Böhm seemed to read his mind. ‘We won’t get anything in the canteen now,’ he said. ‘We’ll make a stop at Aschinger. My treat.’

Rath was speechless. What had he done to deserve this? Was it a thank-you for allowing Böhm to dispense advice without interruption? Less than quarter of an hour later, they were sitting together at a dimly lit corner table, breathing in the fug of beer and studying the menu.

‘Try the rump steak,’ the DCI said cheerfully. ‘With chips. I can recommend it.’

Rath decided to do his unexpectedly jovial boss a favour and ordered the steak, although he felt more like schnitzel. They even allowed themselves a glass of beer, on duty at that! The man wasn’t nearly as Prussian as he looked. Böhm raised his glass. ‘ Zum Wohl ,’ he said, and drank. Rath did likewise. If anyone from A Division could see them now: raising a glass to each other over a beer!

Böhm set his glass down and for a time there was an awkward silence before he cleared his throat and began to speak. ‘Time we had a little heart-to-heart, Rath,’ he said. ‘I want to be open with you. I don’t like the way you operate and never have, but you are part of my division and that means we have to get along.’ The waiter brought the food and Böhm tucked the serviette into his collar. ‘Bon appétit.’

‘Thank you for inviting me,’ Rath said.

He was confused. What did Böhm want from him? Time we had a little heart-to-heart.

For a while they ate in silence. Eventually Böhm took up the thread again. ‘If we are to get along with one another you need to change certain aspects of your behaviour.’

‘I don’t know what you…’

‘I am prepared to show some goodwill!’

‘But I…’

‘But you need to do something too! It’s time to show you are part of this police force. Start doing as you’re told. Work with and not against your colleagues. And above all,’ he said, ‘play with an open hand!’

‘Sir…’

‘Do I make myself clear?’

‘I’d like…’

‘Have I made myself clear?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Good.’ Böhm pushed his plate to the side. ‘Stick to what I’ve told you and we’ll… well, perhaps we won’t be friends exactly, but we’ll get along just fine.’

Rath nodded silently. The bulldog was actually offering him a peace pipe. It must have been Gennat’s idea; there was no other way to explain this discussion, which in reality had been more of an address.

Böhm waved the waiter over and asked for the bill.

Outside they were greeted by all the noise and chaos Alexanderplatz had to offer at four in the afternoon. On the other side of the road, in front of the station, a paper boy was proclaiming the day’s news. ‘Second actress dead! Second actress dead! Murderer strikes again!’

Böhm marched silently over, fished a few coins from his pocket and pressed them into the boy’s hand, taking a B.Z. from the pile in return. The headline was even worse.

Another dead actress! Is there a serial killer on the loose in Berlin?

Böhm walked on without looking up from his news-paper. He came to a halt at the tram stop and slumped onto a bench. A quick sidelong glance at Rath was enough to suggest that he had a good idea whom to thank for this unwanted media coverage. Rath had had his suspicions the moment he heard the paper boy, and when he saw which newspaper it was he also knew who had written the article. Stefan Fink. He sat next to Böhm and tried to catch a glimpse.

The front page featured a photo of Vivian Franck in all her glory. Alongside it, a little smaller, was Felix Krempin’s mugshot and below it, smaller still, an up-to-date photo showing the dilapidated façade of the Luxor cinema. The murder wagon was still parked outside, which could only mean that Strelow had alarmed the press while Böhm was still in the cinema. No wonder the bulldog was riled.

The cinema owner was of the same mind as Heinrich Bellmann: headlines at all costs. Media coverage was bound to have a positive effect on business one way or another.

Strelow had provided the information readily, even the meagre details Dr Schwartz had passed on to the DCI in the cinema. Böhm should never have spoken to the pathologist in the presence of the two civilians, despite how little Schwartz had given away. Rath felt a certain sense of satisfaction now that Böhm knew how it felt to be at the mercy of these ink-slingers.

The article Stefan Fink had written was as bad as it could get, above all on account of that one term: serial killer.

It was the one phrase Böhm had wanted to avoid. The fact that it was a completely far-fetched theory, that there was neither any evidence of a sexual crime, nor any similarity between the victims’ causes of death, didn’t matter to the journalist. The victims were actresses and Krempin had known both, so that had to be enough. The hunt for the fugitive would now take on hysterical proportions.

Still, perhaps it would help them finally capture the man and resolve the Winter case. Gennat’s reports on the infamous Düsseldorf murders had stated that the series of murders, but above all the press reports, had triggered fully-fledged psychoses amongst elements of the population.

When Rath and Böhm returned to the Castle the article was the only topic of conversation and, for the time being, no one was interested in the results of the autopsy. B.Z. am Mittag was the only paper that had carried the story, but it was only a matter of time before the others would be singing in chorus, first the evening editions, with the rest joining in tomorrow morning.

In fact, the first journalists had called when Rath and Böhm were on their way to the morgue, meaning that copies of B.Z. had already reached the editorial offices of its rivals still damp with printer’s ink. Lange and Henning had gamely held the fort, pleading ignorance to all callers. Not that it would be of much use; the story was simply too juicy not to be written. Besides, there was still Strelow to provide ready information. Böhm tried to reach the new leaseholder of the Luxor Cinema, but was put off by a secretary who had the riot act read to her in return.

The next few days would be spent fielding calls and issuing denials. Rath wondered if he should exploit his connection to Weinert so that there would be at least one press voice to query the serial killer line.

Fink’s headline had thrown Böhm completely off course. He seemed all at sea as Lange reported on his conversation with the taxi driver, and Henning on the search of the Franck apartment. Fortunately, Christel Temme was taking everything down, her pen scratching across the pad at the merest cough or slip of the tongue. Only when he was reporting on the results from the morgue did Böhm appear a little more focused. He included Oppenberg’s latest statements, which partially corresponded to those of the taxi driver.