Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

According to Forensics, Felix Krempin had plunged almost a hundred metres from the railings on the north side of the viewing platform onto the roof of the restaurant. He was most likely killed on impact, and would not have felt his body slide across the surface of the roof and thud into the concrete slabs at the foot of the Funkturm.

‘The man was heavily made up, had bleached his hair and was wearing a false moustache,’ Böhm said, ‘but we have nevertheless been able to identify the deceased beyond any doubt as Felix Krempin.’

‘Case closed,’ Czerwinski said. ‘And the Free State of Prussia gets to save on prison costs as well.’

‘Despite the wishes of Herr Czerwinski here,’ Böhm continued, and the laughter that had accompanied Czerwinski’s outburst evaporated, ‘we will not be discontinuing our investigation.’ Czerwinski mumbled something into his beard.

Böhm announced that Kronberg would make a full report. A few officers yawned as a preventive measure. ED had been on the roof and managed to locate both the exact point of impact and the trail the body had left on the roofing felt. They had also taken photos, some of which Kronberg would presently show. Before they could hear what else would make up Kronberg’s monotone report, however, the door swung open and Kleinschmidt, a colleague from Missing Persons, burst in.

Böhm didn’t grumble. He had asked to be notified at once of any missing actresses, and that was exactly what Kleinschmidt was doing. The missing woman’s name was Jeanette Fastré. She hadn’t turned up to the premiere of her new film yesterday evening, and her producer had notified police this morning.

‘She’s not at home; we’ve already checked. Nobody’s opening, but there’s a dog barking behind the door.’

‘And that’s why you haven’t gone in?’

‘With respect, Sir, the flat might still be of interest to Forensics. It was you who asked us for help.’

‘OK,’ Böhm said, ‘I’ll send two of my men out.’ He looked around. ‘Rath, Lange,’ he barked, ‘take a look at this Fastré’s flat, and make sure the press doesn’t get wind of it. Report back immediately upon return.’

Rath would have preferred to listen to Kronberg, but clearly Böhm meant to punish him for not being present yesterday when news of Krempin’s death reached Alex. The DCI was passing the buck. If anything about this case should make the papers, they’d have a scapegoat in Gereon Rath. That was the real reason Böhm wanted all cases with missing actresses on his desk. Not because he imagined a serial killer to be at work, but because he didn’t want to provide the press with any further ammunition for their theory.

Rath and Lange left the conference room like pupils condemned to sweep the schoolyard. At least now the bulldog couldn’t ask him about Oppenberg’s sleuth. Rath still hadn’t managed to think of a credible story.

Jeanette Fastré lived in Friedenau, a little away from Kaiserallee. Two officers from Missing Persons were sitting in their car outside the door. Rath, who had made out the green Opel straightaway, went over and knocked on the windscreen.

‘You can go back to the station,’ he said, showing his identification. ‘Homicide are taking over.’

‘Kleinschmidt didn’t say anything about that,’ the driver said.

‘No, but I did. Go to the canteen and take your morning break. What floor does this Fastré live on?’

‘You can find that out for yourself.’ Before Rath could reply, the car screeched away. He jumped back, to make sure the rear mudguard didn’t graze him.

‘What an arsehole!’

‘You could have been a little more diplomatic,’ said Lange.

The actress’s name wasn’t amongst those on the mailboxes. They had to ask the caretaker. ‘Vanhaelen, second floor,’ he said. ‘Are the cops asking for her on the hour now?’

‘Do you have a key to the flat?’

‘Why?’ The accent was local.

‘So I can pick your nose with it. Why do you think?’

‘You are obliged to assist police in such matters,’ Lange said. ‘Or risk prosecution.’

The caretaker mumbled something that sounded like ‘give me a moment,’ before disappearing into the flat.

‘Sir, I don’t want to interfere,’ Lange said while the man was away, ‘but if you can’t shake off your bad mood, perhaps you should leave the talking to me.’

Rath couldn’t help but grin. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ He thanked the caretaker politely when he returned with the keys. The man gazed after them with a shake of the head as they climbed the steps.

It wasn’t until they reached the stairwell on the third floor that they heard the dog, not just barking but yelping and whimpering. As they approached it began to scratch from the inside. Vanhaelen , it said next to the door. That was all.

‘Do you know anything about dogs?’ Rath asked. Lange shook his head.

The scraping increased as the key turned in the lock.

‘I was, more or less, raised in a dog pound,’ Rath said, as he unlocked the door. ‘My father has had German shepherds ever since I can remember.’

‘I’ve got two cats at home,’ said Lange.

‘Then just pray you don’t smell too strongly of them, and that the dog behind that door isn’t too big.’ Lange swallowed and reached for his service weapon. ‘Don’t start spraying bullets everywhere,’ Rath said. ‘Leave the beast to me.’

With that he opened the door, slowly and carefully. Lange followed and the barking grew louder until it was replaced by a low but menacing growl. Lange started, but the attack didn’t materialise.

Rath opened the door completely, revealing the author of these menacing sounds: a black ball of wool that growled vehemently while at the same time wagging its stumpy tail and slowly retreating from the intruders.

‘It’s just a puppy,’ Rath said. ‘The poor thing seems to be completely beside itself.’

‘My God, it stinks in here,’ Lange said, holding his nose.

‘There was a butcher’s downstairs. See if you can fetch a few pfennigs of offal.’ Lange looked at him as if Rath was asking him to sell his grandmother. ‘Come on! The poor thing’s starved. I’ll pay you the money back.’

Lange disappeared while Rath tried to console the dog, which made a sudden sally, darting between his legs into the next room. He followed it in.

The flat was as elegant as a film set, but stank like a kennel that hadn’t been cleaned for weeks. There was dog mess everywhere and little puddles that polluted the air with their stench. The scratch marks weren’t confined to the door. Rath found a drinking bowl in the kitchen, which he filled with water. The dog must be about to die of thirst, if, that is, it hadn’t drunk from the toilet – but it was too small for that. On the living room table was a glass bowl full of mouldy fruit, which the animal had nibbled at. No more than that; it was too much of a carnivore.

Rath placed the bowl on the tiled floor of the bathroom and withdrew slowly, keeping his movements as steady as possible. The dog, which had been staring at him the whole time, darted back and forth from a respectful distance. Half-crazy with thirst but still fearful, it waited until he had left the bathroom before drinking the water.

Amidst all the slurping and splashing noises, Rath continued to look around. He tried to sniff out the smell of decay among the dog stench, scanning every room, ready to stumble upon Jeanette Fastré’s corpse at any moment. Fortunately, he was out of luck: keeping a third dead actress under wraps would be next to impossible.

As he finished scanning the rooms the doorbell rang. He took care that the dog couldn’t escape before opening to Lange, who was carrying a large paper bag through which blood was seeping. He made a disgusted face. ‘Give it here. I’ll see that the beast is fed.’