Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

That was the last time he’d had anything to do with the black hats, but here he was among them again, in Berlin of all places.

The man whose stairs he descended didn’t look like a Jew. At least, he wasn’t wearing a black hat. He was a craftsman in grey overalls, a scrawny man with a receding hairline and a braid of thick locks around his bald skull. When Goldstein entered the shop, which was more of a studio, the man ceased filing an unidentified tool and peered over his wire-rimmed spectacles. He didn’t say anything, no ‘What can I do for you?’, no ‘Good morning’; he just looked up, before going back to his filing.

Richard Eisenschmidt, Werkzeuge , a discreet wooden sign over the entrance said, and Goldstein suspected that the taciturn man was the owner. If so, he was appropriately named. Goldstein continued into the dark room, observing the items on the shelves around him. He saw greasy metal parts as well as various drills and cutter heads, but had no idea about most of the tools. Eisenschmidt watched him the whole time over his file and workpiece. Only when the long shadow of his customer fell upon the lathe did he finally look up. Goldstein gazed into fearless eyes.

‘You come highly recommended,’ he said.

The operation commander sat across from him. Just like yesterday, Police Lieutenant Sebastian Tornow’s uniform was immaculate, and, just like yesterday, they were in Interview Room B drinking coffee Lange had had brought up specially. Everything else was different. The uniformed officer made no secret of his impatience, bobbing up and down on his chair and constantly looking at his watch. Even the stenographer, whose pencil stood at the ready, was infected with his restlessness.

Lange knew he wouldn’t be making any friends by re-commencing interrogations instead of passing the file onto the public prosecutor, but Gennat had given him this assignment and he wanted to treat it as he would any other. He went through the notes he had made after his conversation with the superintendent that morning.

‘It’s a serious accusation you’re making,’ Buddha had said. ‘Sergeant Major Kuschke has discharged his duties with the Prussian Police for a number of years. It is imperative that you rule out all other possibilities before accusing him of anything. You have my full support, but proceed with care.’

Lange snapped the file shut and lit a Muratti. Sometimes they helped with his nerves.

‘You didn’t smoke yesterday, Detective,’ said Tornow. ‘Can you refrain from it today? I can’t stand the fumes.’

‘Assistant detective,’ Lange corrected, going red. ‘If you insist,’ he said and stubbed the cigarette out, without taking another drag. The stenographer, evidently a non-smoker too, looked gratefully at the uniformed officer.

‘What are we waiting for?’ Tornow asked.

‘For the officer present at the time of death. I did request that you inform the man his presence is…’

‘You won’t be able to speak to Sergeant Major Kuschke until tomorrow. He’s taking part in an operation.’

‘And why are you telling me this now?’

‘Because you didn’t ask before.’

Lange cleared his throat. Although only a few years older, the man was several ranks higher than him.

‘Where, if I might ask?’

‘On the streets. Where people like me risk our necks every day so that you paper-pushers from CID can sit around on your fat arses.’

The stenographer blushed and gave an embarrassed little cough. Christel Temme, who normally sat in on Lange’s interrogations, would have noted that last sentence stoically, without batting an eyelash, but her temporary replacement, Hilda Steffens, was obviously too busy listening. Only now did she appear to be considering whether she should commit the shorthand for arses to paper.

Tornow seemed to be enjoying himself. Flash fucking Harry, Lange thought! You don’t look as if you’d risk your neck for anyone. ‘You can spare yourself the rude remarks, Lieutenant,’ he said, realising that his tone was sharper than intended. ‘A police officer ought to remain objective.’

His words had the desired effect. Tornow yielded. ‘Please excuse my ill temper,’ he said, ‘but you’ll understand if I have more pressing things to do than appear before you every day. I thought you had asked all your questions yesterday. So, let’s keep this as brief as possible.’

‘That will depend entirely on you.’

‘And on you – if you don’t ask any questions, I can’t give any answers.’

Lange ignored this fresh dig, and cast Steffens a glance as if to say: now you can start.

‘The operation in KaDeWe,’ he said, and listened as the pencil scratched across the page. ‘There are a few… discrepancies.’ Tornow said nothing, waiting for a definite question. ‘Which officers,’ Lange continued, ‘were on the fourth floor at the time of the fatal incident?’

‘You asked me that yesterday.’

‘It’s an extremely important question. Now, please answer.’

‘As I said yesterday, I positioned two officers on each floor after the intruders sought refuge in the lift. Sergeants Kuschke and Hansen were on the fourth floor.’

‘Where, exactly?’

‘Hansen was monitoring the lifts and stairwell. Kuschke was combing the floor. In the process he discovered one of the intruders outside on the railings. The boy made a foolhardy attempt to escape down the front and plunged to his death. End of story.’

‘You haven’t answered my question. Where exactly was Kuschke when the boy fell?’

‘You’ll have to ask him yourself.’

‘I will, but you were in charge of the operation and wrote the report, so I’d like to hear your assessment.’

‘Kuschke was outside on the balcony when the boy fell. You know that already. He tried to help him, but… Well, he arrived too late.’

‘How would you describe Sergeant Major Kuschke? The officer and the man?’

‘For me, those categories are inseparable,’ Tornow said. ‘Sergeant Kuschke is an experienced officer. A man who keeps his nerve, even when things get dicey.’

‘You’d say he had strong nerves?’

‘What do you think? Kuschke has courage. Balls, if you like.’

Hilda Steffens stifled a giggle.

‘Not the sort of man who disappears when the going gets tough?’

‘No.’

‘And the other possibility?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘In the face of danger, there are two possible reactions: fight or flight.’

‘I don’t know what you’re getting at.’

‘Does Sergeant Major Kuschke have a tendency to lose his temper and – how shall I put it? – act in an unnecessarily violent way?’

‘Not in the least. Kuschke is one of the most level-headed members of my team.’

Lange opened a file. ‘Then you don’t know anything about…’ he began reading from it. ‘Ah, I see that was long before your time.’

‘What was?’

‘Doesn’t matter. Back to our current case.’ Lange snapped the file shut. ‘Did anyone witness the boy’s fall aside from the sergeant major?’

If Tornow was unsettled by Lange’s manoeuvre, he showed no sign of it. ‘I’ve mentioned that already, too,’ he said. ‘No one else from my team witnessed the fall. The same goes for the pedestrians we interviewed on Passauer Strasse.’

‘And the other intruder?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Several officers have stated that the other boy was crouched by the corpse of his friend before taking flight. Perhaps he saw something.’

‘Perhaps, but you’ll have to catch him first.’

Lange nodded. ‘The balcony again. You said Kuschke climbed over the railings to help the boy. Did the boy refuse?’