Фолькер Кучер - Babylon Berlin

Now at last Herr Rath had his killers. There was no doubt the Russians had tortured their two fellow countrymen, and they had probably killed them too. A storage shed with a cellar had been rented in Nikita Fallin’s name on the site of the Anhalter goods station. ED had found traces of blood on the concrete floor, in addition to various tools, among them a large sledgehammer, likewise stained with blood. There were large quantities of heroin hidden in a spare tyre, and in the warehouse above they had found a number of cars, all stolen, some with fresh paintwork. The Russians seemed to have been running such a lucrative car dealership that they had been prepared to use one of their own stolen vehicles to plunge their first victim into the canal.

Unfortunately, that part would have to remain a mystery. Zörgiebel wouldn’t mind: who needed a motive? The important thing was that the murders were solved!

Nevertheless, it looked as though someone had had a major hand in both their deaths. An electric hairdryer didn’t fall into the bath of its own accord; and the banister in Yorckstrasse had been prepared in advance.

Reinhold had been obliged to eat some humble pie for letting the woman escape. He couldn’t even describe her properly, because he had only caught a brief glimpse of her in the gloomy stairwell, most of it spent staring into the light. To atone for his error he had stayed at the Castle until Gennat had almost booted him out. Quite unlike Gereon Rath, whose whereabouts were still unknown. The man was taking too many liberties, even for Buddha, who usually gave his officers plenty of leeway.

But reporting a corpse and hanging around the crime scene, only to leave others to do the dirty work, wasn’t how to endear yourself to Gennat. Or Böhm for that matter, but he couldn’t stand Gereon Rath anyway.

There was a knock on the bathroom door. Greta poked her red head through the crack in the door.

‘Charly? Are you decent?’

‘Just about. Why?’

‘Visitor for you.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Someone from the station.’

She examined her face in the mirror. Good enough for someone from the Castle. Did Reinhold want to have a cry on her shoulder? The assistant detective could be a little sensitive at times. Especially when he had made a mistake.

She emerged from the bathroom to discover the man she had least been expecting to see standing in the hall. The man who had been missing in action at the station today. Gereon Rath.

He looked a shadow of his former self. Pitiful. Dark circles under the eyes, sunken cheeks, as if he hadn’t eaten or slept for days. What was the matter with him? He had tracked down the last of his killers, hadn’t he? Even if only as a corpse.

Upon seeing her he smiled in embarrassment, almost apologetically in fact.

‘Good evening, Inspector,’ she said coldly, and the smile on his face faded.

‘I’d forgotten we were addressing each other formally,’ he said. ‘To be quite honest, I don’t want to play these games anymore.’

‘Who said we were playing games?’

Greta cleared her throat. ‘Charlotte, I’ll be in my room if you need anything.’

Now they were alone. What did he want? At least he hadn’t brought her flowers; she’d have beaten him over the head with them.

‘Can we sit down somewhere? I need to talk to you.’

‘I wasn’t aware we had anything to talk about, Inspector! I must ask you to leave.’

‘And if I don’t want to?’

‘Then I’ll leave. And fetch the police. You ought to be familiar with the crime of trespassing.’

She reached indiscriminately in her wardrobe for a coat and stormed past him. The pig-headed fool!

She was already down by the front door when she heard his footsteps behind her on the stairs. Well, if he wanted a chase, he could have one!

He had known it wouldn’t be easy, but he hadn’t thought she’d actually run away from him. For a moment he thought it was just a stupid joke and she’d be right back, but what if she took a little longer and returned with a few cops? The nearest police station was just around the corner in Paulstrasse. Rath uttered a quiet curse as he ran out after her. When he emerged onto the street he gazed around searchingly. On one side of Spenerstrasse rose Moabit prison, on the other the lines of the city railway. There was no sign of Charly.

Rath ran to the nearest corner. Melanchthonstrasse. The link road to Paulstrasse: the 28th precinct was right on the corner, but she hadn’t gone in this direction. He turned round, catching sight of her black coat disappearing into Calvinstrasse. She was running down to the Spree. He sprinted after her, at least now he knew where she was, and caught up with her just before the bridge leading to Bellevue station.

He held her tight so she couldn’t get away again.

‘Let me go,’ she hissed. ‘You’re hurting me!’

At least she hadn’t called him ‘inspector’. He almost smiled.

‘Now listen to me, dammit!’ he wheezed, completely out of breath. She struggled like a wild horse. A few people were staring at them. ‘You can’t just run away from me!’

‘Yes I can! You repulse me!’

‘If that’s your way of saying I’m the one who messed things up between us – thank you, but not necessary! I’m well aware of it. If I could turn back time, I would. My secrecy was…’

‘You sounded me out! You used me! Pretended to have feelings for me! Are you surprised that I don’t want to see you? Get away from me! It’s enough that I have to put up with you at the station.’

‘Just listen to me, that’s all I’m asking. I shouldn’t have treated you like that, I should have been more open with you. That’s exactly what I’d like to do now, be open with you! I want to tell you everything! Hit you with so many secrets it’ll make you dizzy.’

‘If you want me back and this is some cheap trick to talk me round, then forget it!’ Her eyes flashed at him.

‘I only want to talk to you. It’s not about us. It’s about me. I don’t know what to do anymore.’

‘Why do you think I’ll listen?’

‘I can only ask you to.’

‘Why me, of all people?’

‘You’re the only person in this city I trust. I’m in such a fucking mess. I…’

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Gereon, but that’s how you look too: a fucking mess.’

He must have gazed at her in surprise. For a moment, she was serious. Then, gradually, the corners of her mouth turned upwards, her dimple appeared and he knew she would listen. How long he had waited to see that smile!

In the hotel room he had paced up and down like a caged tiger, feeling himself gripped by fatigue as the cocaine gradually wore off. Yet he found no peace. He still hadn’t got over his meeting with Bruno Wolter, his anger at Uncle, at his own impotence. He was at his wits’ end. What should he do? Look on from the sidelines as a murderer went about his work at the station as if nothing had happened? Smile as he played the model police officer? Or should he make an accusation against him?

The public prosecutor would demand evidence and Rath would have to incriminate himself. In the end Wolter would fix it so that they pinned the Jänicke murder on the self-confessed killer, Gereon Rath. A motive would be easy enough to find: the assistant detective had figured out that Inspector Rath had buried Saint Josef, and so Rath had killed him too. It wasn’t any more far-fetched than the truth. If anything it was more plausible.

Rath was at the end of his tether. He couldn’t fight the lone fight any longer. He needed help. There was only person he knew he could trust, and so he had pushed his pride to one side and driven out to Charly.

As they strolled through the castle grounds on the other side of the Spree, dusk was already falling and they could have been mistaken for a pair of lovers as they walked side by side.