Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

Kuschke feigned indifference. ‘Looked like a boy though.’

‘You saw the second intruder? You’ve never mentioned this before.’

‘You only asked me what happened on the balcony. The little brat was on the street below.’

Lange made a further note in the folder, realising how much it unsettled Kuschke. It looked like there really was a female witness to the incident at KaDeWe. The anonymous caller hadn’t been lying.

‘This girl said something else,’ Lange continued, paying close attention to Kuschke’s reaction. ‘ “It was murder,” she said, “you cops killed Benny.” ’

‘Gereon, here you are at last!’ Gräf vacated the desk. ‘I’ve been sitting here like a cat on a hot tin roof. Can you imagine the fuss Kirie’s been making? Fortunately, a boy took him out. In exchange for a hefty tip.’

‘Lucky for the dog.’

‘But not for me.’ Gräf’s voice was unexpectedly strained. ‘Sorry, no time for a proper handover. I have to pee!’

With these words, Gräf made his exit. Rath shook his head and looked at Kirie, who had made herself comfortable under the desk again. ‘Can you understand it?’ he asked the dog. ‘How can anyone be so frantic?’

Rath sat at the table and opened the notebook he had filled with abstract patterns the day before. Gräf, who suppressed even the urge to pee while on duty, had been more conscientious. Judging by the date and times, he had made notes yesterday afternoon and this morning. He had written down everything that happened in the vicinity of room 301, even timing the appearances of the chambermaid and floor waiter down to the last minute. According to Gräf, Goldstein had only left his suite once since yesterday morning. It looked as if they had managed to spoil the Yank’s stay in Berlin.

Gräf returned from the toilet. ‘I needed that,’ he said. ‘ Just going to pick up the car , were you?’

Rath nodded. The Hanomag hadn’t even managed the journey from Reinickendorf to Kreuzberg without incident. When the lights on Invalidenstrasse switched to green, the engine flooded and resisted all attempts to restart. Cursing, Rath left the crate by the side of the road, walked the few metres to Stettiner Bahnhof and telephoned the garage. It took a while to get hold of the right man.

‘Ah, the fuel line,’ Heinz said. Even on the telephone it sounded like he was eating a sandwich. ‘I thought I’d explained it to you?’ He hadn’t, so only now did Rath learn the whole truth. The Hanomag had a tendency to take on too much fuel and stall, but the driver could reduce the diameter of the fuel line with a clamp stored in the glove compartment. Rath did as bidden, and, after a moment or two of stubbornness, the car sprang back into life. Not that it was any more fun to drive. In neutral, the crate shook from side to side to such an extent that Rath came to fear every red light.

‘Goldstein doesn’t seem to be enjoying his time here,’ he said, gesturing towards the notebook. ‘A real stay-at-home, it looks like.’

Gräf nodded. ‘Probably spends the whole day telephoning overseas, home-sick.’

‘Or looking for a crafty lawyer to get him out of this. To be honest, I’m not sure what else we can do. On paper, he’s a respectable American citizen.’

‘I’ve kept less dangerous men under surveillance,’ Gräf said. ‘I think he’s just fed up. I bet we’ll see a boy wheeling his luggage trolley out of suite 301 before the week is out.’

‘You really want to bet?’

‘A crate of Engelhardt. He’ll be gone by the weekend. At the latest.’

Rath considered a moment before shaking on it.

At that moment, the chambermaid emerged from suite 301 and cast the two officers a curious glance before disappearing down the corridor. ‘Somehow that girl seems familiar,’ Rath said.

‘Of course she does. It’s the same one as yesterday and the day before.’

‘No, I’ve seen her somewhere else, I think. I just don’t know where. How long was she in with him?’

‘No idea.’ Gräf looked in the notebook. ‘I didn’t see her go in. Was it when I was in the toilet?’

Rath shook his head. ‘I didn’t see anything. She must have spent the night with him.’

‘Come off it! Your imagination’s running wild.’

‘You said it yesterday yourself. He had the chambermaid for breakfast.’

‘That was a joke.’ Gräf was outraged. ‘She’ll be out on her ear if this gets out!’

Rath shrugged.

Gräf took his hat and coat. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I’m off to stretch my legs. See you later.’

‘No you won’t. I’ve got an assignment for you – from Gennat himself. You’re to head back to the Castle and report to Böhm. They’ve got a new case. A corpse has been found in Humboldthain.’

He said it as casually as possible, but Gräf froze in mid-motion, his coat only half on.

‘What about you?’ Gräf looked like a scarecrow with his dangling coat sleeves.

‘I’m staying put. Someone’s got to look after the important jobs.’

Charly had already visited three of the Reinhold families in Friedrichshain. At the first door no one opened; the second family, the Reinholds in Romintener Strasse, had only been blessed with sons; and at the third address a woman of at least seventy answered. It transpired that she was unmarried and took the very question of a daughter or granddaughter named Alexandra as an insult.

Here in Grünberger Strasse, the fourth address on the list, Charly was having difficulties even finding the name Reinhold. She compared Gereon’s note with the house number again: Grünberger Strasse 64. The address was right, but there were no Reinholds here, either with a ‘d’ or a ‘dt’.

A man in grey overalls was sweeping the yard, shouting at a few boys playing football. He kept on until they finally picked up their homemade ball and pushed off. Charly went across.

‘The Reinholds haven’t lived here for a long time. They were given the boot around Christmas.’ He had a Berlin accent.

‘The Reinhold family is on the streets?’

Charly was so excited she didn’t realise she was thinking out loud. She had a good feeling about this: family on the streets, daughter neglected. Everything seemed to fit.

‘Don’t look at me like that,’ the man said. ‘I didn’t turf them out! I just keep things tidy, but that’s how it goes when you don’t pay your rent.’

‘But a family… with children?’

‘Are you from Welfare or something?’ Charly looked at him steadily as the words sputtered out. ‘You couldn’t call them a family anymore. They do have one respectable son, Helmut, but he won’t have anything to do with them. If he’s sensible, that is. The younger brother, Karl, is almost certainly in Moscow by now, or wherever it is the Reds are hiding him. He’s a wanted man. Didn’t you know? The Beckmann murder.’

The name didn’t mean anything to Charly, but she hadn’t worked in Homicide for a long time. She shook her head as the man continued.

‘Heinrich Beckmann was the buildings manager here. It was in all the papers. Karl Reinhold’s meant to have shot him dead, that’s what people say. About the rent, maybe, but maybe also because Beckmann was in the SA, and little Kalle was in the RFB, the Red Front. Like father like son and, well… since the murder he’s vanished. His sister as well, maybe she’s involved too, a right little devil, she was. The cops were asking after both of them anyway. And now they’re gone. Strange wouldn’t you say?’

Charly was overwhelmed by the torrent of words, but remembered the story. It had made the headlines around Christmas. The Nazis had made a meal of it at the time but decided that SA-Führer Heinrich Beckmann didn’t have it in him to be a second Horst Wessel. At some point the matter had ceased to interest people. ‘You’re well informed,’ she said.