Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

He hung up, turned the record over and poured himself a cognac. He tried to think: about Jeanette Fastré, whose disappearance was ominously reminiscent of Vivian Franck’s, even if Böhm wouldn’t admit it; about Felix Krempin and his unhappy death; but his thoughts kept coming back to Charly. Should he call her? Control yourself, he thought. Bad enough that you almost ambushed her at her house earlier. You’re seeing her tomorrow, and that will have to do.

Just don’t show any weakness, don’t lay yourself open – was that something he had from his father, Police Director Engelbert Rath, the man who always knew how to save face? He was pouring another cognac when the doorbell rang.

Rath looked at the time – almost nine. A little late for a visit. He stood up and opened to find a telegram boy in leather gear, motorcycle goggles pushed onto his forehead.

‘Telegram for Gereon Rath.’

‘Thank you.’ He fished two ten-pfennig pieces out of his trouser pocket and gave the boy a tip. As soon as he had closed the door he tore open the envelope and read. Sent from Cologne Hauptbahnhof barely four hours ago:

arrive tonight 22.35 potsdamer bahnhof STOP staying at hotel excelsior STOP time for a beer STOP look forward to facing your (w)rath STOP paul

He hadn’t seen Paul since his birthday last year and now here he was coming pell-mell to Berlin. He still had an hour and a half in which he searched out a fresh suit, quickly showered and changed. He had hoped to leave Kirie in the flat, but the dog kicked up such a fuss that he had to take her with him.

‘They should call you Clingy, not Kirie,’ he said, once the dog had taken its place on the passenger seat, panting away happily. ‘It’s much too late for little things like you.’

This time he was in luck, finding a parking space directly in front of the station, despite the chaos at Potsdamer Platz. By twenty past ten, Rath was already at the barrier showing the conductor his platform ticket. He had no idea which car Paul was in, so stayed at the start of the platform.

‘Sit,’ he said to the dog and, contrary to expectations, she obeyed. One cigarette and the train would be here. Rath picked an Overstolz out of his case and immersed himself in his thoughts.

It was on this very platform that he had stepped from a train a year ago himself. No one met him at the station. Scarcely anyone knew he was in Berlin. He felt lonely, but freed of a burden as he made his way down the platform, everything around him as unreal as a dream. The station spat him into the cold night and, gazing at the lights, the cars and the people on Potsdamer Platz, he understood that this was the start of his new life. Now, for the first time, someone from his old life was coming to visit him in the new.

The train rolled in a few minutes early and came hissing to a stop. What a welcoming committee, Rath thought, as he caught sight of his reflection: an exhausted inspector and an abandoned dog.

He trod the cigarette out. The doors opened and between one moment and the next the platform contained twice as many people. He scanned the milling mass pushing towards the exit and eventually found Paul, who looked the same as he always had: blond hair that resisted any effort at grooming and was kept in check by a hat, a nose that was slightly too big, and an impudent grin.

Paul had long since spotted his welcoming committee, and his grin grew wider as he approached. They stood looking at each other as the crowd pushed and shoved around them, surveying one another, as if neither wanted to be the first to grow sentimental.

‘No flowers?’ Paul said.

‘The dog ate them,’ Rath replied.

They embraced a little awkwardly and clapped each other on the shoulder a little too hard.

It is pitch-black in the yard, but he has no intention of striking a light. If it remains dark, no one will see him. He switched his headlights off on the road outside. No one saw him open the gate and drive the car into the courtyard. Now the gate is closed again, and he has switched off the engine. He is safe here, no one can wander in or see inside. There might still be a few night owls passing the main entrance, but they won’t see what is happening behind the billboards.

He finds the keys even in the dark. The company has so many he simply took the ones that looked right and sorted them out before coming. He hasn’t used them in a long time, there have been no films shown here since Christmas.

The moon, his friend, finally appears from behind the clouds, sketching pale contours in the night. The lock is a little stiff, but the key turns. Slowly and carefully, so that the hinges don’t creak, he moves one leaf of the heavy steel door, which once served as an emergency exit, into the auditorium. Only now does he open the van. There she is, lying between empty film cans, peaceful in the moonlight that falls upon her face. It’s a shame he can’t film this moment.

He feels very close to her as he carries her up the six steps to the auditorium. Only once he has closed the door again does he switch on the flashlight. He has already assigned her a space, and it is there that he now carries her.

He doesn’t just lay her down. No, he makes a bed for her so that she looks more beautiful than ever. He pulls a little at her dress to arrange the folds, takes a step back and looks upon his work with satisfaction. That is what she is now: his work.

They needed too long to find the first. How long will they need this time?

He must tear himself away. He wants to be at home when the early risers emerge from their houses. He locks the door carefully as he leaves, and goes straight to the gate, checking the road before steering the car out. All is quiet. Not a soul nearby. He is satisfied with his work. In the car he removes his leather gloves.

Before he goes to bed he will open a bottle of wine and watch her films over again.

Something warm and damp slobbered on Rath’s cheek, rousing him from a deep, dreamless sleep. Kirie was crouched next to the pillow, smiling at him with her tongue out. He started when he saw the black, shaggy hair and held his head in his hands. A throbbing pain protested the speed with which he had sat up.

He didn’t have the energy to chase the dog out of bed, but Kirie jumped out of her own accord, wagging her tail and barking at him gamely. ‘Not so loud,’ he said. The dog gave a short bark before pitter-pattering out of the room.

He tried to recall but there was nothing. He must have left the door open when he came to bed, but where had the dog slept? Hopefully not in bed with him! His alarm clock showed half past eight.

In the bathroom, he splashed cold water on his face and washed an aspirin down with half a litre of water. He hadn’t been this bad for a long time, but it was no use; he had to take Kirie out. There was no time for coffee. He threw on yesterday’s clothes without taking a shower and put her on the lead.

He wasn’t the only Sunday stroller on Luisenufer, but he was the only unshaven one. The morning sun had already enticed a few people out, above all dog owners. He had arranged to meet Charly at eleven, and needed to be on top form by then. His head was still pounding, but it was set to be a fine day.

What on earth had happened last night? He must have been drinking the wrong stuff, and far too much of it. Yet they had started with beer in the Europa-Pavillon, right next to Paul’s hotel. They had stayed there, precisely because he didn’t want to run the risk of coming a cropper somewhere after touring the local pubs. That much he could still remember.

As they strolled northwards through the gardens the memories rose to the surface. Yes, they had started with beer, which ought to have told Rath where the night was heading. It probably had, too, only he had deliberately ignored the signs. Perhaps because he was in the mood to get drunk as they listened to the sounds of the Manhattan-Band playing pretty decent American jazz. At some point, Paul ordered the first cognac.