Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

‘You saw them?’

‘Through the peephole,’ she said, apologetically. ‘Two well-dressed men. An older man, and a younger man.’

‘Would you recognise them if you saw a photograph?’

She hunched her shoulders. ‘I think so. Do I need to go to the station?’

‘That won’t be necessary for the time being. May I come in?’

She gazed into the stairwell, nodded and stepped aside. He entered the flat and she closed the door behind them, leading him into a meticulously tidy living room. A tea table with two chairs stood by the window overlooking Spenerstrasse. He could see his Buick at the corner. He sat and took a photograph from Tornow’s personal file, which had been passed to his office by Warrants.

‘That’s a police officer,’ Brettschneider said as she looked at the image which showed Sebastian Tornow under a shako wearing his best smile. ‘I thought this was a kidnapping.’

‘Was this man present?’

She nodded. ‘In plainclothes, not uniform.’

‘Undercover operation. Do you see?’ He gave her a conspiratorial smile and she nodded.

‘Are you… Is that why you’re in Fräulein Ritter’s flat from time to time?’ she asked. ‘Are you undercover as well?’

He nodded. ‘Keep it between us.’

‘Why should she have been kidnapped?’

‘I can’t talk about that.’ Rath lowered his voice. ‘Official secrets.’

Irmgard Brettschneider gave an eager nod. ‘I won’t say a thing, Inspector!’ She was beginning to flourish; she ought to have been a secret agent. ‘I have a number plate too,’ she whispered, as if her flat was being bugged. ‘I always take down the registration of whoever parks outside. You never know. It was a black sedan. I can’t give you the make, I’m afraid, I’m not so good with cars. But I do have the registration if that would help?’

Rath nodded, wondering how often Frau Brettschneider must have watched him coming and going, in the stairwell, perhaps even on the street outside.

‘That would be a great help.’

It was dark when he parked on Luisenufer, right outside the house this time. He had spent over two hours at the Castle trying everything to get into Road Traffic, but it was all locked on a Sunday, like most offices at headquarters. He didn’t dare use official channels and call in the division chief or the public prosecutor. What, after all, could he tell them?

He stepped inside the smoky hallway, hoping that Charly might have returned; that she had spent the last few hours waiting for him while he prowled around the station and her flat. Only when he stood at the kitchen door did he realise what was confusing him about the smoke. It didn’t smell of Junos. In fact, it didn’t smell of cigarettes.

It smelled of cigars.

Thus he was less surprised than he might have been, as he entered the kitchen and saw Johann Marlow with a cigar between his teeth, tickling the back of Kirie’s head. The dog didn’t appear to have moved since Rath had left the flat. On a second chair sat Liang. Two more men in summer coats stood by the dresser.

Marlow looked up. ‘There was no one here when we rang the bell, so we took the liberty of letting ourselves in.’

‘I see you’ve made yourselves at home.’

‘As far as we could, but it’s not exactly tidy in here.’

‘It was the men who killed Hugo Lenz,’ he said. ‘They got wind that I’m onto them.’ He took the photograph of Tornow from his jacket and laid it on the table. ‘Sebastian Tornow. The other one’s already dead. A Sergeant Major Jochen Kuschke.’

‘Respect,’ Marlow said. He looked at the two men by the dresser and said: ‘You could take a leaf out of this man’s book.’

‘So far, there’s no official investigation against Tornow. The evidence is pretty thin, and I’ve only just discovered he’s responsible for the whole thing. Clearly, he’s trying to provoke conflict in the underworld. He probably killed Rudi Höller too.’

Marlow nodded thoughtfully. It suited him that police headquarters still didn’t know. ‘Where might I find this Tornow?’ he asked.

‘That’s just it. I’m afraid he’s taken someone hostage.’

They were right. Sleep deprivation was the worst torture you could inflict on someone without actually injuring them.

So far, it was only one night, but they were just getting started. Charly had slept badly the night before too, as she always did when she fought with Gereon. What she wouldn’t give for a little nap, but whenever she was about to nod off someone shook her awake.

They had alternated during the night: Tornow, Scheer and Klinger, and other men she didn’t know. For hours at a time they had sat in front of her asking the same questions over and over. What do you know? What does Inspector Rath know? By their style of questioning, she knew they must be police, but it just didn’t fit. She had always thought of police officers as the good guys – with the odd exception.

She couldn’t help thinking of Gereon, the way he had reacted yesterday (or was it the day before? She could no longer remember), his disbelief when she told him about Tornow and what she had seen. He would scarcely believe this, either. What about the others: Gennat and Böhm? What if everyone she accused could provide an alibi? Perhaps Tornow and Scheer were right and no one would believe her. On reflection Gereon might, perhaps. What had he said on the telephone yesterday? Or the day before? Today? Her thoughts went round in circles as she began to doze.

Her body longed to fall into blissful sleep.

Until she was shaken brutally awake.

‘Where did Gereon Rath get this telephone number?’ a voice asked. Not Scheer, or Tornow, but one of the other voices that had been tormenting her. She didn’t have any idea what they were talking about, otherwise she might just have blabbed.

The Road Traffic Department opened at eight thirty. Rath had been sitting on the wooden bench outside since quarter past. Shortly before half past, a man in his mid-fifties came down the corridor, moving irritatingly slowly. Furrowing his brow, he looked at Rath waiting outside his office, and took a bunch of keys from his pocket.

‘Good morning,’ Rath said, receiving no response, not even a greeting.

Once the man had opened the doors, he tried to follow him inside, but was forbidden from doing so.

‘If you would be so kind as to wait,’ the man said. ‘We open in one minute.’

Other employees came down the corridor, other doors were opened, but still Rath had to wait until eight thirty on the dot, when the first officer poked his head through the door. ‘Good morning,’ he said.

All smiles now that work’s started, Rath thought, showing his identification.

‘A Division,’ he said. ‘I need some information. The owner of this vehicle.’ He passed the officer a handwritten note.

The man put on his reading glasses. ‘Have you put in an official request?’

‘No, but I’m in a hurry. Exigent circumstances.’ This was usually enough, but the man shook his head doubtfully. ‘It’s urgent,’ he said. ‘If you could help me out.’

‘OK, I’ll turn a blind eye this time.’

Rath waited at the desk, but the man showed no sign of moving.

‘What is it? Was there something else?’

‘The owner of the vehicle?’ said Rath.

‘Things don’t move that fast. I’ll call you.’

‘Would you please hurry up! This could be a matter of life and death.’

The officer was unperturbed. ‘Pretty much par for the course in Homicide, isn’t it?’

Rath hoped the situation wasn’t as serious as all that, but he didn’t know. He hadn’t slept. Uncertainty ate away at his insides. What had Tornow and his men done with Charly? They seemed to have their backs against the wall, and were responsible for at least two murders, probably more. He had told Marlow his theories yesterday evening: that a group of police officers was intent on sparking a gangland war between the Nordpiraten and Berolina. Evidently, some were prepared to commit murder. Murders , plural. All of which they hoped to pin on the mysterious American gangster the press already had its claws into – thanks to Stefan Fink.