Фолькер Кучер - Babylon Berlin

When he emerged from the kitchen, he had the Lignose in his hand.

‘I don’t believe it! My little pride and joy’s back! To what do I owe the honour?’

‘I thought as much,’ Rath said. ‘It was my colleague.’

‘What the hell? Is he trying to give it back discreetly, or what?’

‘Hardly. DCI Wolter is a piece of shit. He put a bullet through someone’s head with your Lignose and now he wants to pin it on you.’

‘Whose head?’

‘A police officer.’

‘And I’m supposed to believe you?’

‘I’m investigating the case. Discreetly of course. It’s very hard to prove it was the DCI. We had hoped to find the murder weapon at his home. Unfortunately, we were too late. He was able to hide it here just in time. Don’t go thinking he’s coming to collect it. Chances are he’s about to put a team of cops onto you. If I were you, I’d get rid of anything here that isn’t entirely legal. The pistol first of all.’

‘Christ! My prints are all over it now.’

‘You can wipe them away.’ Rath began to doubt that Krajewski was the right man for his plan. Still, he was the only possibility; the only one who would be credible enough. ‘Now listen to me,’ he said. ‘I have a plan for how we can get the bastard, but you need to help me.’

‘Shaft a copper?’ Krajewski grinned. ‘Gladly. I just never thought it would be an inspector who’d ask!’

Rath forced a smile. ‘Happy to oblige.’

‘What do I have to do?’

Rath fetched the note he had written on the train from his pocket. ‘Can you read?’

Krajewski nodded.

‘Good. Everything you need’s here. Call this number and do exactly what it says. Then you’d best burn the note, understood?’

Krajewski nodded and skimmed the lines. He paused in surprise. ‘But… this is your number!’

‘Not anymore. I work in Homicide now.’

‘But you want me to ring it anyway?’

‘Correct. Tomorrow morning, early. Just do exactly as it says.’

The concierge in the Excelsior seemed almost sad when Rath asked for a taxi and the bill the next morning.

‘I hope the inspector will be honouring us with another visit soon,’ he said.

‘Not too soon, I hope.’ Rath was fed up with living in a hotel.

Schäffner seemed to be expecting him when he climbed out of the taxi on Luisenufer with his suitcase and cardboard box in tow.

‘You really do want to move in then? I thought you were joking!’

‘The Prussian CID never jokes, remember that!’

‘Of course, Inspector.’

‘Can I move in then?’

‘But of course! Your colleagues only released it on Sonnabend , but my Grete spent all of yesterday scrubbing like a maniac. Everything’s spic and span.’

Rath nodded contentedly, like a Prussian captain. ‘Good. I’ve got a lot on at the moment.’

‘Because of all the dead bodies?’

‘That too. Then there’s supposed to be a big weapons deal going down in the next few days. It’s causing us a lot of trouble.’

‘I see.’ Schäffner could barely contain his curiosity. ‘You’re going to bust it, are you?’

‘I wish. At the moment, we only know that a consignment is expected in the city. We don’t have a clue where or when.’

Schäffner grinned. ‘Why don’t you try the Reds? They’re always up for a good beating.’

Rath ignored the comment. His little message had hit home, that was enough. ‘Well, my good man, shall we? I must be going.’

Schäffner followed Rath eagerly with his modest baggage. The man hadn’t been lying. The flat smelt like a soap factory. Even the tide mark in the bathtub had disappeared.

Only eleven o’clock! Could the clocks at police headquarters be slower than elsewhere? Gregor Lanke could almost have bet on it. He was bored, on Monday morning already. A good start to the week! If only the DCI would head out he could look at the pictures again. That was the best thing about Vice so far: looking at pictures. Occasionally he had taken a few home in the evening. Strictly forbidden in theory; it was evidence after all. But the other divisions at Alex could only dream of evidence like this, and the guys in Köpenick probably didn’t even know this sort of thing existed.

The telephone on his desk rang. That didn’t happen often. He gave a start.

‘Vice squad. Lanke here,’ he said.

‘Could I speak to Inspector Rath, please.’

‘He doesn’t work here any longer.’

Brief silence at the other end. ‘Then Inspector Wolter.’

‘Detective Chief Inspector Wolter,’ Lanke corrected and placed his hands over the mouthpiece. ‘Sir,’ he called to the neighbouring desk, ‘there’s an oddball who wants to speak to you.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘He didn’t say.’

Reluctantly Wolter rose from his desk. He hadn’t been in the best of moods these last few days so it was a good thing that Uncle Werner was in charge, that way the DCI was unable to vent his ill humour on colleagues. At least not on a certain Gregor Lanke.

‘Give it over then,’ Wolter said, snatching the receiver from his hand. ‘Wolter,’ he said grouchily into the mouthpiece.

For a while he didn’t say anything, simply grabbed a piece of paper from Lanke’s desk and started taking notes. Lanke tried to see what his boss was writing, but he concealed it skilfully with his hulking frame.

‘We can’t discuss this on the phone,’ said Wolter finally. ‘We need to meet. Make a suggestion.’

Ten minutes later, he was on his way and Gregor Lanke was delighted. He could go back to looking at pictures.

Rath spent the whole day dealing with trivial matters, getting as good an overall picture of the Kardakov case as possible. Not for the public prosecutor, as there wasn’t a lot more he could do, but for Gennat, who hoped to learn more about why the two Russians had to die. If the reason why Fallin and Selenskij had killed and tortured was clear, then perhaps it would also be clear why they had been sent to their deaths.

Most people in A Division thought they already knew the killer’s address: Unter den Linden 7 . The Soviet embassy was the seat of the Chekists whom Stalin had smuggled into the country as embassy employees. People like Vadim Troschin.

Rath had a different idea about who might have the two Russians on their conscience, but preferred to keep it to himself. When he engaged in speculation it was to back the Chekist theory, even if he believed it about as much as he believed in Father Christmas. For most of the time he kept a low profile, hiding in his office to make calls. In Steglitz he could only get hold of the housemaid. The master of the house wasn’t expected until lunchtime, nor would he be available at his office. Rath had also tried to call the Hotel Continental in Magdeburg a few times, but always in vain. The commissioner had left the building and hadn’t yet returned, the friendly concierge informed him.

During the lunch break, Rath didn’t go to the canteen or to Aschinger’s. Instead he got hold of a car and drove out to Steglitz.

The housemaid opened the door.

‘The master is at the table, I’m afraid,’ she said.

‘Please tell the Sturmhauptführer that I have a message from Lieutenant Wolter. An urgent message. I can only discuss individual details in private.’

The girl seemed to be used to mysterious visits like this.

‘If you would like to wait in the drawing room.’

She led him into a little reception room. On the wall hung a framed photograph of that Hitler, a strange bird with a Charlie Chaplin moustache, who looked just as devoid of humour as Wilhelm II. On the table lay copies of Angriff and the Völkische Beobachter . Heinrich Röllecke made no secret of his political views.