Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

The dog had stayed in the bathroom but, when it smelled the meat, it ventured out a little. Rath placed some of the offal in a food bowl from the kitchen. The dog dashed out of the bathroom, beside itself with hunger, time and time again making little advances, jumping to the bowl before withdrawing again, a strange dance that didn’t end until Rath placed it next to the empty drinking bowl on the floor. This time the dog started eating before Rath could take his hands away. He stroked the animal as it ate, and refilled the drinking bowl.

‘You’re being nicer to dogs than people today,’ Lange said.

‘What makes you think it’s just today?’

‘I didn’t mean to offend you. Did you find anything?’

Rath shook his head. ‘A load of dog mess, but no woman, neither dead nor alive. No trace of a struggle either. Anything that looks that way was probably caused by the dog.’

‘What do we tell Böhm?’

‘Either that a completely unscrupulous woman is neglecting her dog while she does a runner, or that we’re dealing with something more serious. People who get themselves a puppy but decide that they don’t want it anymore might abandon it in the woods. They don’t leave it alone in their flat. You can see where that leads.’

‘I can smell where that leads.’

The dog barked. Rath looked to find the bowl empty and the animal gazing up at him, head to one side and tail wagging.

‘Well then, Greedy Guts,’ he said. ‘There’s more, but only a little. We don’t want you upsetting your stomach.’ He refilled the bowl and the dog started eating straightaway.

‘Let’s get back,’ said Lange. ‘I think the flat’s best left to Forensics. Perhaps they’ll find something.’

Rath nodded as he watched the dog. ‘It’s a nice image,’ he said. ‘Kronberg’s people packing dog turds into little bags.’

‘Surely ED aren’t going to be as meticulous as that. There hasn’t been a murder.’

‘You don’t know Kronberg.’

‘Not as well as you do.’ Lange went to the front door.

‘Where are you going?’ Rath asked.

‘Alex, of course.’

‘We’ll come too.’

‘Surely you don’t mean to take the dog?’

‘I certainly do.’

‘In the car?’

‘He’s not going to be sick.’

Lange made a disgusted face.

There was a lead on the coatstand. Rath attached it to the dog’s collar and it followed them eagerly down the stairs.

When they returned the key, Rath took the opportunity to give the caretaker a piece of his mind. ‘There’s a dog barking here for days and you don’t do anything about it?’

‘Listen here! Firstly, the cur wasn’t barking any more than usual. Secondly, I can’t just go wandering into every flat. I only have the key for emergencies. For the cleaning lady when someone’s on holiday, that sort of thing.’

‘You don’t regard a dog that’s practically dying of hunger and thirst as an emergency?’

‘I couldn’t have known that Fastré was letting it starve to death!’

‘You should pay a little more attention to what’s going on around you, my man,’ Rath said. ‘There have been more people jailed for negligence than you might imagine.’

Erika Voss was thrilled when Rath returned with the little black ball of wool on its lead. ‘Isn’t he sweet?’ she said.

‘I take it you mean the dog,’ Rath said, and Lange blushed.

The secretary didn’t seem to notice; she only had eyes for the dog.

‘Be careful, he’s not very clean,’ Rath said, as she stroked the shaggy, matted fur.

‘Where did you find the poor little thing?’

‘He was cooped up in a flat for days. He’s already eaten. I think he needs a bath. Do you think you could take care of that?’

‘Leave it to me, Inspector. I have an idea.’

‘You could ask the canine unit if they have space for a puppy. I don’t think he’s even a year old.’

‘All in good time. I’ll give him a bath first, then make him a little basket so that he can sleep. He’s obviously exhausted.’

She took the filthy little dog in her arms. ‘Little rascal! Mummy will get you all cleaned up,’ she said, as she disappeared through the door.

Rath gazed after her, shaking his head. His secretary, in whom he had so little confidence initially, continued to surprise him. ‘Let’s report to Böhm,’ he said to Lange.

‘What are we going to say to him?’

‘We’ll tell him what we saw. That the flat looked like it had been left in a hurry.’

‘But that doesn’t mean Fastré’s lying dead in some cinema.’

‘No, but it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to check all disused cinemas in the city.’

They encountered a couple of civilians whispering excitedly to one another in the corridor on the way to the DCI’s office: a fat man in a striped suit accompanied by a rake-thin woman in a yellow rain jacket. The fat man looked up, and for a moment his gaze met that of the inspector.

There was a flicker of recognition, but Rath couldn’t quite place him. It was only when they reached the Homicide office that he realised the fat man had been at the Funkturm yesterday afternoon. He was one of Böhm’s witnesses. Hopefully there weren’t any more sitting behind the door. As a precaution, he entered the office a little behind Lange. It was like a waiting room, but he didn’t see any other familiar faces.

Böhm was in the middle of an interrogation, so they had to wait. No one paid them any notice. A missing actress was of no interest at that moment; Felix Krempin’s fatal leap was far more spectacular. For Rath too. He would have liked very much to know what was said at briefing that morning, but of course Böhm had sent him away, probably to make it clear, once and for all, that the Winter case was no longer his.

At that moment one of the doors leading from Homicide opened and Reinhold Gräf entered, looking harassed and handing a stack of papers to a secretary. When he saw Rath his face brightened and he went over to his old partner.

‘Gereon,’ he said, ‘back again! How does it feel to be subcontracted to Missing Persons?’

‘It’s a dog’s life,’ Rath said. ‘Do you have a moment? Coffee in the canteen?’

Gräf nodded.

Rath turned to Lange. ‘Is it OK if you report to Böhm alone?’

‘You’re the boss,’ Lange said, shrugging. ‘What should I tell Böhm if he asks where you are?’

‘Meaning: what I am doing? Gathering important information, of course. See you in my office at one. OK?’

‘OK.’

There wasn’t much happening in the canteen at this hour – the calm before the lunchtime storm. Rath and Gräf balanced their coffee cups through a sea of tables. Only two were occupied, by a group of young uniformed officers who were relaxing after an operation.

‘Why shouldn’t the Commies and the Nazis bash each other’s heads in?’ one of them asked. ‘It would save us a lot of work.’

‘You can’t lump them all together,’ another responded.

‘You can. Pack ’em in a bag and start pounding. You’d strike lucky every time!’

A few officers laughed, but by no means all.

Police were still dealing with the aftermath of the Wessel funeral. In almost all workers’ districts, conflict simmered between members of the red and brown proletariats.

As Rath and Gräf approached their table, conversation ceased.

‘Good day to you too,’ one of them said as they walked past. This time his colleagues all laughed.

Uniform had been ill-disposed towards CID ever since their chief Heimannsberg had come off second best in a long-running debate with Vipoprä Weiss, and been forced to acknowledge that Uniform was not an independent branch but subordinate to the commissioner and his deputy. Magnus Heimannsberg and his officers were therefore accountable to Zörgiebel and Weiss’s CID, a fact that was chipping away at Uniform’s self-confidence.