Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

If there was something in the Deutsche Kraft affair, then he would be doing not only Marlow a favour, but his colleagues too. He thought about why a Ringverein should be involved in a film company, and realised he only knew one type of illegal film. Perhaps he should alert Superintendent Lanke from Vice.

There was an Aschinger at Stettiner Bahnhof too. Rath ate a Bulette on the hoof and drove towards Hannoversche Strasse. He was late. He would have to throw himself into his work to avoid thinking about Charly, and what that cowboy was still doing rattling around her flat.

Dr Karthaus had already begun when Rath swept into the autopsy room. Böhm glanced reproachfully at his watch, but Gennat continued listening to the pathologist.

‘…your suspicion has been confirmed,’ he said, giving Rath a nod of greeting. ‘The vocal cords have indeed been removed.’

‘Just like Vivian Franck,’ said Rath.

Gennat sounded as if he had been expecting the news. ‘Whether we like it or not, we should get used to the idea that we’re dealing with a serial killer.’

Böhm grunted at the phrase.

‘To avoid a second Düsseldorf and a fresh wave of hysteria,’ Gennat continued, ‘we should keep this to ourselves and continue to handle things as you have done so far, Böhm. The press has done enough damage already. If we were to confirm the serial killer theory now…’

‘What do you mean, confirm?’ Böhm said. ‘The press is on completely the wrong track. They’ve thrown together two cases that have absolutely nothing to do with one another.’

‘Apart from the strange coincidence of the Chinese gooseberry,’ Gennat said.

‘You know what I think of that nonsense.’

‘On that note. Did you find anything, Herr Rath?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact.’ Rath cleared his throat, only to be cut off by Dr Karthaus.

‘Far be it from me to interrupt CID business, but aren’t you gentlemen here to listen to me ?’

‘Of course, Doctor. Rath, come to my office immediately afterwards to make your report.’

‘I… uh, at three… my appointment with Zörgiebel.’

‘In that case come straight after your appointment.’

‘Might I continue?’ Karthaus asked, sounding slightly agitated.

‘On you go, Doctor, on you go,’ Gennat said.

Karthaus cleared his throat. ‘Seeing as you’ve mentioned these yangtao that Dr Schwartz found in Betty Winter’s stomach…’ He made a dramatic pause so that the three CID officers realised he had read the Winter case notes as well as the Franck file. ‘…I have examined the contents of the deceased’s stomach and can only say that she didn’t eat very much before her death, fruit mostly. There is nothing to suggest the presence of Chinese gooseberries…’

‘I’ve brought a few along with me,’ Rath said, reaching in his pocket for the yangtao the Chinese man had given him.

‘Looks like a furry potato,’ Gennat said.

‘You have to cut it open,’ Rath said to Dr Karthaus. ‘That’s your area of expertise.’

Karthaus took the scalpel, and parted the unremarkable-looking fruit to reveal a bright green centre with small black seeds arranged in a radial pattern.

‘Looks very pretty from the inside,’ Gennat said.

‘Tastes good too,’ Rath said. ‘And it’s healthy.’

‘As I said,’ Karthaus continued. ‘I didn’t find evidence of any such fruit in her stomach, but she had eaten other kinds of fruit, albeit many hours before she died.’

‘The cause of death? Drugs? Poison?’

‘Wrong on both counts,’ Karthaus said. ‘Ultimately, I can’t tell you what she died of.’

‘Just like Franck,’ Böhm growled. ‘Can you at least venture a guess?’

‘The examination revealed an excessive acidity of the blood. That’s normal with dead people, but the results were uncommonly high…’

‘Get to the point, Doctor. You must have a hunch.’

‘That’s really all it is, and I have no other explanation. She could have died of hypoglycaemia, but I can’t prove it.’

‘Never heard of it,’ Gennat said. ‘What is that?’

‘Extremely low blood sugar.’

‘And it can be fatal?’

‘Absolutely. However, it usually only occurs in diabetics who treat their illness with insulin. If the insulin dose is too high or the body isn’t supplied with enough sugar, then it can lead to low blood sugar.’

‘Was Fastré diabetic?’ Gennat asked.

Karthaus shook his head. ‘I requested her files from her doctor. She was fit as a fiddle, but there are these injection sites. On closer inspection, I found a number of subcutaneous injections, not so easy to uncover.’

Gennat nodded. ‘But this stuff…’

‘Insulin…’

‘…is something only diabetics take?’

‘That’s right.’ Karthaus nodded. ‘It’s saved the lives of many people. If I may, I should like to propose a little theory.’

Gennat grinned. ‘So, you’re finally letting the cat out of the bag.’

‘Someone administered a number of insulin jabs, either against her will or without her knowledge.’ The pathologist paused and watched the reaction of the police officers. ‘Subcutaneous injections, as I said. That is, in the subcutaneous fatty tissue, where the active agent slowly enters the bloodstream. She received these injections over several days.’

‘Without her knowledge,’ Gennat muttered thoughtfully.

Karthaus nodded. ‘Nevertheless, her doctor was unable to tell me of any medication she had to take by injection, so it would have been difficult to trick her. Which leaves against her will, although I’ve found no trace of violence. The final dose, at any rate, was so high it was fatal; and the woman must have slowly but surely gone into insulin shock. After that she clearly didn’t get any more sugar.’

‘Sugar?’

‘The only thing that could have saved her life once the insulin was in her body.’

About half an hour later Rath set off again, with Böhm and Gennat remaining to receive Grunwald, Fastré’s producer, who would identify the body. He made good progress and was parked in the atrium by ten to three. Kirie greeted him enthusiastically when he entered the office. He crouched and patted the dog who, in her exuberance, knocked the grey felt hat from his head and started chasing it round the room. Only with the help of Erika Voss and a few cunning tricks did he manage to get it back.

‘Any calls?’ he asked, as he hung it, now moist and slightly misshapen, on the hook.

Erika Voss reached for the list on her desk. ‘Your father said he’d call back. Then a woman who didn’t want to leave her name, probably something private…’ She looked at him expectantly, but Rath’s features were as if chiselled in marble. ‘And Frau Klang… to remind us about your three o’clock. What’s it about, do you know? Why does the commissioner want to speak to you?’

‘Goodness knows…’

‘Is it about Brenner?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I’ll cross my fingers for you.’

Rath suspected that the whole station knew about his clash with Brenner. The rumour mill in the Castle was working full-steam, and the canteen was its pressure cooker. Erika Voss spent every lunchtime in there, and it couldn’t just be for the food.

Before seeing Zörgiebel, Rath splashed a few litres of water on his face to freshen up. He needed a clear head; just maintain his composure and everything would be fine. He positioned himself in front of the mirror and combed his wet hair into shape. The man staring back at him didn’t look too shabby. He couldn’t be such a bad guy; surely the commissioner would see that.

Brenner was sitting in Zörgiebel’s outer office when Rath entered, holding a magazine awkwardly in his left hand. Reading wasn’t so easy with your right arm in a sling. The plasters on his face were a little much, Rath thought, sitting as far away as possible. Zörgiebel was clearly still busy; the leather-upholstered door to his inner sanctum was closed. Rath examined the old Berlin cityscapes on the wall with interest, and tried to avoid making direct eye contact with Frank Brenner. Dagmar Kling typed unperturbed, as the two men gave each other the silent treatment. It was safe to say that The Guillotine, as Zörgiebel’s secretary was known, had seen worse than two quarrelling inspectors.