Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

‘There was a man there,’ Alex said.

‘What man?’

‘The one who called the ambulance. He saw everything.’

Alex hadn’t been able to give a perfect description, only that he wore metal-rimmed spectacles, and looked a little like that American with the boater who was always in the cinema, just that he wore a bowler, not a boater.

‘Harold Lloyd,’ Andreas Lange said when Charly called, before requesting that Alex provide the police sketch artist with a description.

Charly looked at Alex and how she held her cup of tea. As if it were her only comfort. ‘The policeman I just spoke to wants to send this Sergeant Kuschke to jail.’

‘He belongs on the scaffold, not in the clink.’

Charly was constantly amazed by how many petty criminals advocated the death penalty.

‘First, he belongs in a court that will convict him.’

‘They’ll acquit him! Birds of a feather flock together.’

‘If we have sufficient evidence and witness statements, he’ll be convicted, I promise. Our judicial system will see to it. Besides, a judge isn’t a police officer; there’s a big difference between the judiciary and the executive. They’re completely different beasts.’

‘Between what?’

‘It’s called the separation of powers. What I really mean, is that we need you to get to Kuschke. You saw everything, you can testify to it.’

‘Who’s we?’

‘Myself and Assistant Detective Lange.’

‘I thought the police and courts were separate. Isn’t that what you just told me?’

The girl was hard work. ‘They are, but I want to see this Kuschke convicted just as much as Herr Lange. I think that’s where our interests align. Am I right?’

‘I don’t want to see him convicted. I want to see him whining and whimpering and begging for his life. That’s what I want.’

‘You’re talking about vigilante justice.’

‘I don’t care what you call it. I call it revenge, and I’ll get it. I owe it to Benny.’

‘Please don’t do anything rash.’

‘Rash? You wouldn’t believe how much thought I’ve given it.’

‘It was you and Vicky who painted his house, the police station too, wasn’t it?’

‘What if it was?’

‘If anything happened to Kuschke, suspicion would fall on you two pretty quickly, if not Vicky then you at least. So please, for your own sake.’

Alex fell silent, thinking.

‘You’ve already slashed his face. Isn’t that enough? Let the police take care of the rest. And the courts.’

‘I’m not going to the cops. They’ll only lock me away. As for my witness statement, do you really think any judge is going to take what I say in court seriously? It doesn’t matter whether I’m the witness or the accused, they aren’t going to believe me.’

Charly fell silent. Alex had touched a nerve. The girl wasn’t the most trustworthy witness, even if they dressed her in new clothes for the court. A suspected (and, by that stage, possibly even convicted) thief would hardly be the best weapon in the murder trial of a police officer.

‘You could be right,’ she said finally, ‘but they might take your man with the metal-rimmed specs more seriously.’

‘If he had anything to say, he’d have done it ages ago, wouldn’t he?’

Charly shrugged. ‘Maybe he has his reasons, who knows? If we issue an appeal and throw in a description, perhaps he’ll come out of his hiding place.’

‘Then why don’t you? You don’t need me for that.’

‘Actually we do. You need to describe the man to a sketch artist. You don’t have to come to the station. There’s a cafe on the next street.’ Charly looked at her watch. ‘We’re meeting there in exactly twelve minutes.’

Alex froze.

‘Don’t worry. He’s not a police officer, just a sketch artist.’

Rath didn’t crack the champagne, but placed it in the cupboard and reached for the cognac instead. Kirie lay asleep at his feet, the sun having long since disappeared below the clouds. He could see his reflection in the windowpane, sitting freshly showered and dressed in his Sunday best, a glass of cognac before him alongside an ashtray. Just smoking and drinking and listening to music; thinking. Rarely had he looked so good in the process.

He guessed Charly hadn’t let him in to spare him a moral dilemma. She was housing a fugitive sought by the police, and the way things looked, she wasn’t about to give her up. He couldn’t help but smile: Charly of all people, who had always criticised him for failing to do things by the book. In some ways he was glad, but at the same time it hurt that she didn’t trust him. As if he’d have squealed! He wouldn’t even have tried to talk her out of it. He’d have let her go right ahead, only to make damn sure he reminded her of it next time she questioned the legality of his investigative techniques. Always a stickler for the rules, it seemed that Charly had finally realised the law wasn’t the decisive factor.

The decisive factor was the result.

He felt pleasantly drunk, and, thinking about such things, reached a decision. He left Kirie where she was, the dog squinting briefly as he rose from his chair, and grabbed his hat, coat and car keys.

Quarter of an hour later, he stepped out of his car onto Dircksenstrasse. It was stormy outside. He hadn’t parked in the atrium since he wanted to draw as little attention to himself as possible, something that the Buick, understandably, didn’t allow. It was also why he used one of the southern stairwells, where the greatest risk would be encountering someone from the motor pool, or perhaps a guard from the detention wing.

The wind was cold enough to sober him in the few metres between the car and the southwest entrance. He checked his shoe soles in the stairwell, to make sure they were dry, before entering the long corridor of E Division. It was deserted. That was good. If anyone was doing overtime, or in Vice for any other reason, he’d have some explaining to do, especially now, as he crept into the dark office and closed the door behind him. This was definitely breaking and entering, even if he hadn’t needed to force any doors. In the confusion surrounding his transfer to Homicide two years ago, no one had thought to ask for his key back, and even he had forgotten he still owned one, until it occurred to him again that evening.

It was eerily quiet, with only the rain drumming on the windowpane for company. Rath switched on Lanke’s desk lamp, which cast its dim, green-yellow light into the room, and searched for the key to his old desk. Even that still worked.

The light was sufficient. He rummaged in the drawers, searching for something that looked like an address book or index file. Nothing doing. Greaseproof paper rustled between his fingers. He found pencils, empty cigarette cartons, a half-eaten apple, everything under the sun except what he was looking for. No sign of Marion Bosetzky. Not even an idiot like Gregor Lanke was daft enough to keep a file on an unofficial informant.

The lowest drawer contained nothing but pornographic photos. Lanke junior, like his uncle, worked for Vice squad, where this sort of thing was used as evidence, but there seemed to be an enormous amount of evidence gathered here. Some of it was worn, covered in fingerprints. Rath skimmed through the images. The collection was unbelievable!

It looked as if Lanke had picked out his favourites from each arrest and kept them for himself. Rath even came across the odd photo he had confiscated himself: a Hindenburg double engaged in close combat with Mata Hari. Nevertheless, it wasn’t these images that grabbed his attention, but a different set entirely. A series of private snaps, taken by an amateur, showed the same naked woman in action, photographed from the perspective of a man whose erect penis was the only part of him visible, and even then not entirely, since it was mostly inside some bodily orifice or other. Though lacking intimate knowledge of Lanke junior’s anatomy, Rath was certain that the detective had taken the pictures himself. This confirmed his hunches on two counts: one, that Gregor Lanke was the dirtbag he’d always taken him for, and, two, that Marion Bosetzky wasn’t simply engaged as his informant, but also in an entirely different capacity – even if it looked like one she didn’t always enjoy.