Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

‘Perhaps he inherited it from his father. At any rate this sheath goes with a trench dagger, I’m one hundred percent positive.’

‘Which means…’

‘In all probability, the man was stabbed to death with his own weapon.’

‘So, I’d say it was a fight that spiralled out of control,’ Grabowski said. He was just about to photograph the man’s injured foot. ‘Did you see?’ He pointed towards the deceased’s right hand, which was clasping a knuckleduster.

Böhm gave another grunt of appreciation.

‘But if I’ve understood correctly,’ he said, ‘the fight didn’t take place here.’

Kronberg nodded and led the DCI to the meadow where they had found the bullet. Here, too, forensics officers were looking everywhere for clues. Early walkers strolling through the park watched them curiously, but at least stayed on the path.

‘We should cordon this area off too,’ Böhm said. Moments later two uniformed officers were forcing passersby to make a detour.

Most of the clues were to be found in the middle of a clearing surrounded by bushes and trees. The gravel path only passed directly by the meadow on one side.

‘A struggle seems to have taken place here.’ Kronberg pointed towards the spot in question. ‘There are a number of footprints and a few people also seem to have fallen. We found blood in the grass. A trail of blood leading from here to the church.’

‘Sir!’

Kronberg looked around. One of his men had found something. Böhm and Kronberg went over to see what.

A cigarette butt, in a pair of tweezers, still damp from the morning dew. CAMEL the stub said in big letters.

‘Who smokes those?’ Böhm asked.

‘Not too many people, I hope. I wouldn’t have called you over if it was a Juno.’

They went back to the church where Böhm checked his watch. Barely a minute was needed to cover the distance. With a shot-up foot, perhaps a little longer.

In the meantime Dr Schwartz, the pathologist, appeared.

‘Finished taking photographs?’ Böhm asked Grabowski, who had already folded away the tripod.

‘Making way for the doctor.’

‘Good, then I have something else for you. Could you check which tobacconists in Berlin sell the brand… Camel, was it?’

‘It’s pronounced Cämmel,’ Grabowski said. ‘It’s American.’

‘Spare me the linguistics lecture and get down to work. Put the camera back in the car and take the next train to Alex. I don’t need you here for the time being.’

Grabowski swallowed whatever he was about to say and turned back to the camera. Böhm left him and went over to Dr Schwartz, for whom they had already pulled the corpse a little out from the bushes.

‘They cut him like a wild sow,’ Schwartz said, displaying his customary empathy. ‘Must have damaged a few internal organs in the process.’

‘How long has he been dead?’

Schwartz shrugged.

‘I’m not going to hold you to it.’

‘Less than ten hours, I would say.’ The doctor looked at the corpse unwaveringly, as if trying to bring it back to life. ‘Though that isn’t to say he didn’t sustain his injuries much earlier. It probably took him a while to bleed to death. Judging by the amount of blood he lost, his heart must have kept beating for some time.’

‘And the shot to the foot?’

‘Harmless.’ Schwartz sounded as if he were talking about a sniffle. ‘Would hurt a bit, and there’s a good chance you’d walk with a limp for the rest of your life, but otherwise… the man could have hobbled to the nearest hospital and got treatment. However…’

‘What do you mean, however?’

‘I don’t know that they’d have been happy to take him in.’

‘What are you saying?’

Schwartz gestured towards the swastika. ‘The nearest hospital,’ he said, ‘is the Jewish Hospital.’

Böhm nodded. Just then it started to rain. The doctor gave the undertakers, who were waiting impatiently, a wave, and the mortal remains of Gerhard Kubicki disappeared inside a zinc coffin.

The garage was somewhere in the north, but the thought of being able to drive again made the long train journey more bearable. Second-class wasn’t especially full; most people travelling on this line were content with third.

Rath took his cigarette case from his coat, lit an Overstolz and thought about Böhm’s report at briefing. So, Kallweit was tortured before his death. Did Berolina have a secret the Nordpiraten were trying to extract? If so, it could mean than Hugo Lenz was sitting in a cellar in north Berlin being strong-armed by the Pirates. He was suddenly grateful to Johann Marlow for giving him a little investigative work. At least with Red Hugo’s mysterious disappearance he had something to think about while he twiddled his thumbs in the Excelsior.

For a moment he actually thought Gennat would give him the corpse in Humboldthain, but Böhm got it after all, in addition to his dead fence. Weiss seemed to have issued Buddha with a clear brief: on no account is Inspector Rath to be handed a homicide case. This, despite all the deaths A Division was currently investigating. Charly was probably right: the Goldstein operation was a punishment Weiss had meted out personally.

He displayed his police identification to the conductor instead of a ticket. He was already at Wedding, and would continue to the final stop at Seestrasse. From there it was another two kilometres by tram. Jotwede , as the Berliners said. Bloody miles.

Rath didn’t reach his destination for another half hour. In the light of day, the garage looked dirtier than he remembered. He crossed the courtyard and entered through a wide-open steel door. No one paid any notice. A Mercedes stood on the hoist. Below was a mechanic with a screwdriver. Another four men were gathered around an engine block discussing some technical problem. Rath gave a polite cough but, again, no one paid any attention. He took a large spanner from an oil-smeared table and tossed it on the concrete floor. Now the men turned around.

‘What do you want? Orders are next door in the office.’

‘I don’t want to put in an order, I want to pick up my car.’

‘Next door for that too.’

The office was deserted. Rath looked at his watch. Time was getting on and he couldn’t leave Gräf in the Excelsior for ever. He rang the bell on the desk and, after what felt like an eternity, heard a toilet flushing. A bored-looking man with a car magazine in his hand emerged from the back. ‘Steady on,’ he said.

‘I’m here to pick up my car.’

‘Order number?’

‘No idea. The Buick I brought to you the night before last. An emergency. It was supposed to be ready this morning, your colleague said.’

‘What colleague?’

‘Blond type. Clean-shaven. It doesn’t matter.’

‘A Buick, you say?’

‘Model 26 ES, sand-coloured.’

The man leafed leisurely through the mound of papers on the desk. ‘No Buick here.’

‘The car’s outside. I saw it myself.’

‘Then it hasn’t been repaired.’ The man reached for the telephone. ‘Heinz, can you come here?’ he said into the mouthpiece.

‘This can’t be right,’ Rath said. ‘The car was supposed to be ready by today. Your colleague promised. I need it professionally.’

The man shrugged his shoulders and Rath had to fight the urge to give him the hurry-up with his Walther. The same boiler-suited man who had hounded him out of the shop appeared, chewing a sausage sandwich.

‘The Buick?’ Heinz asked himself, looking through a second mound of papers. ‘That’s right,’ he said, as if only now had it occurred to him. ‘The carburettor!’

‘What do you mean, the carburettor? I needed four new tyres, new headlights and a few spots of paint. Nothing more!’