Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

‘We need to get him to make mistakes.’

‘Not mistakes other people pay for with their lives.’

Lange nodded and sat down. There were no further requests to speak.

‘Gentlemen, I thank you for your contributions,’ Gennat said. ‘With that, we have reached the end of our meeting. Your tasks for today will be allocated subsequently in Homicide, and we will meet again tomorrow. We will continue to adhere to Herr Böhm’s practice of regular morning briefings, at least for the time being. It has proved to be worthwhile. Good work, Böhm.’

‘Thank you, Superintendent,’ Böhm said, and turned again to face the room. ‘That’s it for now. Any questions?’

That was how the DCI always ended the meetings, yet until now no one had taken his invitation seriously and he didn’t realise at first that Rath had stood up.

‘If I might say something else…’

‘Inspector Rath?’

‘Even if the Franck and Fastré cases have priority, I would nevertheless like to draw your attention back to the Winter case. In my opinion, it has not been solved with the death of Felix Krempin.’ Rath cleared his throat before continuing. ‘I noticed something this morning. Heinrich Bellmann has launched a huge advertising campaign for his new film, in which he is exploiting the death of his lead actress.’

‘That might be tasteless, but it isn’t against the law,’ said Böhm, who was already packing his things.

‘It’s a motive,’ Rath said. ‘The whole time he’s been giving us this sob story, while simultaneously harnessing the media to make headlines out of Betty Winter and her final film. He’s been doing it since the day she died. Now, to cap it, there’s this publicity campaign fronted by a dead woman.’

He had aroused Gennat’s interest again. ‘You mean to say that Betty Winter is of more use to this Bellmann dead than alive?’

Rath shrugged his shoulders. ‘What I want to know is where all that money comes from. This morning alone I saw three giant billboards. Who can say how many more there are in the city? It must cost a fortune. Usually Bellmann promotes his little films with notices in the daily press, so how do you explain that for this one he’s making more of a ballyhoo than Ufa?’

‘Some greedy vulture senses the chance of a lifetime and stakes everything on it,’ Böhm said. ‘That isn’t a crime either.’

‘True, but it is unusual,’ Gennat said. ‘Clearly we should be sounding him out a lot more thoroughly than we have done already. Than you have done already, Inspector Rath, Chief Inspector Böhm!’

Rath wasn’t too worried about Gennat’s parting shot. After all, Wilhelm Böhm was the man in charge of the Winter case. Since taking over, the DCI had been far too focused on Krempin, dismissing Rath’s doubts about the man’s guilt – and finally made sure the case was passed to Gräf, a mere detective who was already overworked. All because he had refused to give it to Rath. That would teach him.

Could Bellmann really have something to do with the death of Betty Winter? Rath had long suspected there were skeletons in his closet, ever since he had threatened him with his lawyers. Sounding the man out, as Gennat had put it, couldn’t do any harm.

After the briefing Buddha took Rath to one side and asked for his thoughts. Rath told him everything Böhm hadn’t wanted to hear: how Krempin’s wire construction worked, and that someone who knew the script had most likely made use of it – only on Betty Winter, rather than an expensive film camera. Which assumed, of course, that same someone had uncovered Krempin’s plan. All of which could certainly have applied to Heinrich Bellmann.

Buddha had listened attentively. ‘I’ll take care of the search warrant for Bellmann,’ he had said. ‘See if you can make any headway with that Chinese lead. See you at two in the morgue.’

Rath sat at his desk leafing through the telephone book for Chinese restaurants. His outburst was irritating him. Even if Gennat had defended him against Böhm, his colleagues hadn’t taken him seriously. Not that he blamed them. Still, in the absence of any tangible leads, this was the sort of thing they were obliged to follow up.

For the time being he couldn’t get hold of anyone at Yangtao. He asked Erika Voss to call the number every five minutes. Shortly before eleven, she got through.

‘Inspector,’ she said. ‘Your Chinese restaurant.’

‘Wen Tian, Yangtao,’ said a soft voice that barely sounded the consonants.

‘Rath, CID. I was at your restaurant recently, with a colleague. Do you remember? I’d like to know where you purchase yangtao for your kitchen.’

‘Want reserve?’

‘No, I’m from the police. I just want to know where in Berlin you can get yangtao.’

‘Monday rest day.’

‘I don’t want to eat.’

‘Better reserve. Yangtao many guests.’

‘I just have a question. I’m not eating.’

‘For two persons?’

Rath gave up. ‘Police here,’ he said. ‘I’ll be with you in a moment.’

‘Monday rest day.’

He hung up.

‘I have to go out,’ he said. ‘Can you look after Kirie, Erika?’

‘It’s lunchtime soon. Don’t you want to take her?’

‘The place I’m going they might put her on the menu.’

She looked at him in horror. ‘My goodness, where are you going?’

‘To the Chinese.’

Before setting off, Rath made his way on foot to the Zentralmarkthalle, which was only a stone’s throw away from the Castle. Things were at their busiest here at the crack of dawn, long before the rest of the city was awake, but right now it was quiet. The Zentralmarkthalle actually comprised two market halls, separated from one another by Kaiser-Wilhelm-Strasse. Horses and carts were parked on both sides of the road, and were a constant source of traffic jams in the early hours. Rath found his way by asking; the fruit and vegetable traders were housed in the northern hall. The best goods had long since been sold, only a few lettuce heads wilted away sadly. Rath accosted a red-faced man with a walrus moustache who was stacking cherries under a large company sign.

‘What you after?’ the walrus huffed.

‘I’m looking for a Chinese fruit and vegetable trader here in the market hall.’

‘Does that look like me?’

‘No, but perhaps you know of one.’

‘Who’s asking?’ Rath showed his badge. ‘Leave the poor slit eyes alone! They have it bad enough already.’

‘I just need a little information about a Chinese variety of fruit.’

The man looked at him as if deciding whether he could trust a police officer, then said: ‘Up on the gallery, just by the middle aisle where the wholesale butchers are, there’s a flight of steps. Ask for Lingyuan, he could be the one.’

Rath tipped his hat and made his way through. It was incredible how much food was on sale, even if most traders were only offering what had survived the frenzy earlier that morning. Rath found the steps and climbed to the gallery. This was where the smaller traders were housed, those who didn’t occupy so much space, and to whom fewer customers strayed. He found Lingyuan’s stand without having to ask again. A large Chinese paper lantern jutting into the aisle showed the way. Lingyuan didn’t just offer exotic varieties of fruit and vegetable, but herbs and spices that Rath had never seen before. A few of the smells reminded him of the Chinese restaurant on Hohenzollerndamm. He felt himself transported to another world, a little piece of Asia in the heart of Berlin. The king of this world was a small Chinese man with a green apron over his grey, Western suit, who spoke accent-free German. He didn’t even have trouble sounding the consonants.