Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

‘You’ve got to keep a close eye on those Reds, best to know who’s living in your building.’

‘I take it you’re not a Communist then…’

‘Do I look like one?’

‘The sister, you don’t happen to know what she’s called?’

‘Alex. Well, Alexandra, actually. You must have that in your files.’

He still thought she was from Welfare. ‘Of course,’ she said, and smiled, ‘but do I look as if I’ve brought my filing cabinet?’

Kopernikusstrasse was lined with tenements, and the mouldings were crumbling on the fronts. The building where Helmut Reinhold lived was the only one to have been given a lick of paint since the war. Charly had come by a few hours ago but no one had been home; now the door opened first time. A woman looked at her out of tired eyes amid the smell of fried onions.

‘Good afternoon, I’d like to see Helmut Reinhold, please. Am I in the right place?’

The woman nodded. ‘My husband’s eating at the moment. What do you want from him?’

‘Just a few questions about his sister. It won’t take long.’

The caretaker didn’t know where the rest of the Reinhold family were staying, but he’d given her the older brother’s address, so Charly had returned to the flat where she’d stood in vain that morning. Beforehand she had sat in a little cafe at Boxhagener Platz and treated herself to a cup of tea and a read of the papers. The headlines of the regional section were dominated by the fatal shooting on Frankfurter Allee. There was no mention of a girl who had escaped from Lichtenberg District Court.

‘You wanted to speak to me?’

A powerfully built man in his mid-twenties stood at the door. Helmut Reinhold was just as reluctant to ask her in as his wife.

‘You’re Alexandra Reinhold’s brother?’

The man nodded. ‘That’s the reason you’re here, Martha says.’ He eyed Charly suspiciously. ‘From the Welfare Office, are you? Well, you could have saved yourself the bother. I haven’t seen Alex in almost a year.’

‘Apparently she’s living on the streets…’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘Could she be staying with your parents?’

‘Typical Welfare, no idea about anything!’ Helmut Reinhold was another who associated a woman asking questions at his doorstep with the Welfare Office. He shook his head. ‘Do you know why Alex has been living on the streets all this time? Because my dear old father kicked her out a few days before Christmas.’

‘Then why don’t you take her in?’

‘If only I knew where she was. But she won’t come to me, she’s too proud for that.’

‘You sound as if you don’t care much for your parents.’

‘I can’t see how that’s any of your concern.’

‘In as much as it concerns your sister.’

‘My father hasn’t spoken a single word to me since my wedding. I invited my parents but they didn’t come. Mother sent a card, that was all. His signature wasn’t on it.’

‘Your parents are homeless. Isn’t it time to bury the hatchet?’

‘I went out to see them,’ he said bitterly, ‘to this camp on the Müggelsee, and was about to offer them a bed with me and Martha, but…’ He fell silent. ‘He can go hang for all I care.’

‘Is it possible that Alexandra is there?’

‘What do I know? Listen, I thought this was supposed to be a brief chat. I’d like to finish eating. I need to go back on shift soon.’ He slammed the door in her face.

There were many more questions Charly could have asked, about the missing brother, the Beckmann murder, about Alex’s friends and acquaintances, places where she might have found shelter, but the closing of the front door left her in no doubt that it would be pointless coming back. At least she knew where to find Alex’s parents.

She took the U-Bahn to Magdalenenstrasse. The way to Wagnerplatz seemed steeper than usual, the walk more arduous. Everything had changed since yesterday. The District Court building appeared strange and forbidding. The window on the first floor was open, and, for a moment, she thought it hadn’t been closed since yesterday.

It felt almost as if she was entering for the first time. Like that day six months ago when, heart pounding, she had stepped through the doors and her gaze had fallen on the marble slab in the lobby that had survived even the revolution: Wipe your feet/No smoking/Use a spittoon. Three commands, etched in stone, that told visitors in no uncertain terms what was expected of them in this building. Charly had never felt comfortable here thanks to Weber, who was the living embodiment of those expectations.

She jostled past a few people and climbed the stairs, needing to get the news off her chest, to rehabilitate herself in front of her boss. Now that she was back on Alex Reinhold’s tail, she felt hope again.

Weber looked surprised as she entered. ‘Fräulein Ritter? I thought I had relieved you of your duties.’

‘Some good news, Sir. I wanted to let you know.’

He eyed her suspiciously, none too pleased that she was back just one day after the incident. ‘ You have something to tell me ? When I’ve been trying to contact you for hours.’

‘I was out the whole morning.’

‘Yes, I noticed.’

‘That doesn’t matter now.’ Charly pulled herself together, trying not to sound too euphoric. ‘I’ve managed to identify the girl; I think it’s only a matter of time before I… before we track her down. Her name is Alexandra Reinhold and…’

Weber interrupted her. ‘Great news. So, you know the girl’s name.’ Charly’s euphoria disintegrated like a dry leaf. ‘Since you’ve taken the trouble to come here, allow me to confide something in you: I know what she’s been up to.’

‘Pardon me?’

Weber shook his head, as if unable to comprehend her dim-wittedness. ‘My dear Fräulein Ritter…’ she hated it when he spoke to her like this, mixing false sympathy and contempt. He shook his head as he spoke, and repeated his opening line in the tone of a psychiatrist dealing with a patient. ‘My dear Fräulein Ritter… It seems the girl who escaped your custody yesterday is the second member of the KaDeWe duo. You remember, of course? Sonnabend. The dead boy.’

Charly felt the blood rising to her face as Weber continued. Though it had since been replaced by a new dressing, it was now apparent that the girl’s bandage was in fact a rag torn from the dead intruder’s shirt. The original had been retrieved from the 81st precinct’s ash can, where suspicions had subsequently been confirmed. CID had launched a further investigation and discovered that the girl’s blood group matched that of the sample left by the KaDeWe duo at the display cases. Everything pointed to the fact that an unidentified girl who was being sought citywide had fallen into police hands by chance. This same girl had then managed to escape from the Lichtenberg District Court, of all places, which, of course, hardly showed the authority in a positive light. Charly listened, but felt all at sea, as if Weber were speaking to another person.

‘At any rate,’ he concluded, ‘Inspector Nebe from Robbery Division wishes to speak with you urgently. After which you are to contact Homicide…’

‘Homicide?’ It was the first word Charly managed to get out. What did her old colleagues in A Division want?

‘An Assistant Detective… Lange,’ Weber continued. ‘I’d advise you to be on your way as soon as possible. Best before they finish for the day.’

He no longer attempted to conceal his grin.

Reinhold Gräf brooded over the file Böhm had left him. It was from Section 1A, the political police: the politicals hadn’t kept a file on Gerhard Kubicki, but had been monitoring the storm unit he had joined several months ago, detailing a few fights with Communists, but nothing more serious until now.