Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

‘We had your car on the hoist. The carburettor needs replacing, nothing we can do there. Didn’t you notice anything while you were driving?’

Rath shook his head. The carburettor! Bloody hell. Well, the Free State of Prussia could foot the bill. ‘When will you have it fixed?’

‘We’ll need to order replacement parts,’ said Heinz, taking another bite from his sandwich and scratching his head. ‘That’ll take time as it’s an American model.’

‘I’m glad you’ve noticed. So, when can I have my car back?’

‘Thursday could work.’

‘Woe betide you if I come out here tomorrow and…’

‘Tomorrow? Heinz put on his most idiotic face. ‘Not tomorrow, Thursday week.’

‘You’re pulling my leg? I need my car professionally!’

‘We can offer you a replacement vehicle,’ the man at the desk said. ‘Heinz, will you provide the customer with a car please.’

Heinz shoved the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and led Rath into the courtyard, past the damaged Buick. All four tyres were still flat.

‘Did you really have the car on the hoist?’ Rath asked, but Heinz wasn’t listening. He moved past all the vehicles Rath could have pictured driving away in, essayed a sharp turn by the shop floor and came to a halt. ‘Here she is, the Hanomag,’ he said.

Rath thought he was dreaming. A cyclops was staring back at him, a cyclops that had been shrunk to the size of dwarf. ‘What on earth is that?’

‘A lick of paint and she’ll be good to go.’

The one-eyed car standing in the corner, all shy and reserved, was the polar opposite of Marlow’s Duesenberg. It wasn’t just the paltry ten horsepower, but the fact that its designer had only given it one headlight and a single door.

‘You’re not serious!’

‘It’s a reliable car,’ Heinz replied indignantly. ‘German craftsmanship.’

‘Do you have any others?’

‘It’s this one or the BVG. Your choice.’

With a heavy heart Rath opted against making the return journey by public transport.

The uniformed officer was barely recognisable. A bandage ran across his face from below his eyes, held in place by sticking plasters. Lange calmly arranged his files, scribbling notes and making ticks in the margin. He and the man hadn’t exchanged a word after a brief greeting. Hilda Steffens looked forlorn with her notepad and pencil.

None of his colleagues were interested in the case, making his presentation at morning briefing a resounding success. He had reeled off a series of platitudes, agreed in advance with Gennat, and no one had asked any questions. No one in the Castle could guess that Assistant Detective Andreas Lange suspected a police officer of murder. Before any information leaked out, the public prosecutor had to have all the evidence, and it needed to be watertight.

First he had to be sure he was on the right track. It wouldn’t do any harm to keep the man in suspense. He was already on edge, that much was clear from his face, even if he was making every effort to hide it.

‘Looks pretty nasty, that injury of yours,’ Lange began finally, out of the blue, gaze still directed on his files. ‘How did it come about?’

Kuschke started as if he had been awoken, and Hilda Steffens’ pencil began scratching across the page. Kuschke looked at her in irritation. ‘Is this an interrogation?’ he asked.

‘Witness examination,’ Lange said, fixing the man with a stare.

This observation seemed to displease Kuschke, who was here for the second time. Recovering himself he decided to fight back.

‘In the line of duty.’ He leaned back provocatively. ‘The sort of thing that wouldn’t happen to you. Unless little Miss here’s ever pricked you with her pencil?’

The scratch of the pencil ceased for a moment. Lange ignored the attempt to provoke him. ‘What duty, exactly?’ he asked.

‘I thought this was about KaDeWe.’

‘Don’t think, just answer.’

Lange had found the right tone. Evidently a man like Jochen Kuschke needed to be treated with the arrogance of a Prussian officer.

‘Some coked-up little fag boy from Nolle who got a little edgy when I tried to ID him. I couldn’t know he was packing a knife.’

‘Then I’ll be able to read all about it in your report.’

‘There isn’t one yet.’

‘Then please submit it,’ Lange said, making a little note to himself. ‘What did you do with the assailant?’

‘Nothing! He was long gone, but if I see him again, he’s finished.’

‘Meaning?’

‘That he needs to be held to account. Can’t go around stabbing officers.’

‘But you won’t be overseeing the punishment personally…’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Well.’ Lange opened the folder and looked through the file. ‘There are colleagues among us who occasionally… anticipate judicial proceedings.’

‘How do you mean?’

Lange read from the file: ‘April 14th 1927, violent infringement whilst on duty. Grievous bodily harm proceedings discontinued in September of the same year, but internal warning, noted in your personal file.’

‘As you say: proceedings discontinued.’

Lange read the next entry: ‘May 3rd 1929.’ He paused and checked to see that Hilda Steffens was noting everything down. ‘On that day you beat a passerby, later identified as a journalist, unconscious with your baton…’

‘I’m not someone who shirks his duty when things get hot,’ Kuschke said. ‘There are no prizes in this job. Either you’re shot by the fucking Commies – like we’ve just seen – or some arsehole dobs you in.’

‘The complaint in ’29 came from one of your colleagues. You had to be restrained in order to prevent further injury.’

‘I didn’t say that some of my colleagues weren’t arseholes. They wanted to land me in the shit.’

The man had a gift for provocation, that much was clear.

‘What I’m trying to say, Sergeant Major,’ Lange said, ‘is that you have a tendency towards violence. I’m starting to wonder what really happened on that balcony in KaDeWe.’

Kuschke jumped to his feet, his face under the snow-white bandage somewhere between bright red and violet. Hilda Steffens’ grip tensed, the notepad sagged under the weight and became scored.

‘What are you trying to say?’

Lange looked at the sergeant as an entomologist might regard a newly discovered species. Kuschke sat down again.

‘Do you know how it feels to put your arse on the line for this system, and then be treated like this?’

‘What system are you talking about? Do you mean our state? Our democracy?’

‘Draw your own conclusions.’

‘We’ve established the identity of the dead boy,’ Lange said. ‘He was just fifteen.’

There was no trace of remorse, guilt or sadness in Kuschke’s face, not even consternation.

‘Benjamin Singer. Does the name mean anything to you?’ Kuschke shook his head. ‘He ran away from the Maria Schutz orphanage about a year ago to live on the streets. A difficult boy, apparently, but he wasn’t known to police.’

No reaction from Kuschke.

‘We were only able to identify the deceased thanks to an anonymous telephone call. A girl gave us the name and demanded a proper burial. That’s how we stumbled on the orphanage. One of the nuns came to the morgue. Sister Agathe identified him straightaway.’

Lange paused and gazed at Kuschke as he sat on the condemned man’s chair. It made him look like a hardened criminal.

‘This girl who telephoned could have been the second KaDeWe intruder, don’t you think?’ Kuschke didn’t think anything. ‘I’ve spoken to our colleagues in Robbery. They now assume the deceased’s accomplice was female.’