Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

‘Five minutes,’ the doctor said, before opening the door. ‘No excitement. The wound needs peace and quiet to heal.’

‘Is the injury that bad?’ Lange asked.

‘The boy was astonishingly lucky not to damage his intestines.’

Lange went inside to find a burly young lad with a pale face lying on the bed. His pained expression didn’t suit him. Lange pulled out his notebook and sat down.

‘You wanted to make a statement, Herr Krahl?’ he asked. The boy turned around.

‘That’s right, Officer.’ The voice sounded strangely weak.

‘Assistant detective. Assistant Detective Lange.’

‘I hope you find that whore soon.’

‘Let’s start from the beginning. What is it you want to tell me?’

Lange pulled himself together. He was sitting at the bedside of a known petty criminal, who had been admitted to hospital with a serious slash wound. When someone like that was ready to make a statement, it was best to proceed with caution. The most pressing question was why someone who’d usually be loath to tell a police officer the time, should suddenly be so eager to talk.

‘I’m here,’ he began, ‘because I have been informed by colleagues that your statement is linked to the KaDeWe break-in. I hope that is correct. I can be pretty nasty when people waste my time.’

‘Alexandra Reinhold,’ the boy said quickly. ‘She’s the one you’re looking for. It was her in KaDeWe.’

‘We know that already.’

‘Do you know how dangerous she is, the little tramp?’

Krahl pulled back the covers and pointed to a heavy bandage they had wrapped him in like a mummy. There hadn’t been quite enough material to go round.

‘She cut me open, the bitch. I had to have stitches.’

Lange pricked up his ears. ‘That was Alexandra Reinhold?’

Krahl nodded. ‘She’s dangerous. You need to be careful, you and your men.’

Lange wasn’t inclined to believe someone so eager to get the police involved, but, when he remembered the wound on Jochen Kuschke’s face, the boy’s statement didn’t seem quite so absurd. This Alex was a dangerous customer, and there was Charlotte Ritter making as if she had just gone off the rails. Was she even aware of the danger Alex posed?

‘Where did you sustain these injuries?’

‘I found her hideout. Some shitty little hovel on the grounds of the slaughterhouse. She cut me open. Without warning, just like that.’

‘Because you found her hiding place? Nothing else happened?’

‘What else could have happened, chief?’

‘That’s what I’m asking you.’

‘Nothing.’ Krahl looked innocent as a fawn. ‘Left me lying in my own blood and scarpered.’

‘Do you know where?’

The boy shrugged. ‘She used to stay in the abandoned axle factory, in Roederstrasse, but not for a long time.’ He made a face as if thinking – a mode of expression that was clearly unfamiliar to him. ‘But,’ he said, ‘there was someone from Welfare or the courts helping her. You should sound her out. The Welfare Office shouldn’t be shielding criminals, should it?’

Lange nodded. He could well imagine what this supposed welfare officer looked like, and he did, indeed, intend to sound her out.

Here she was again. Out of sheer boredom she had ordered a second breakfast, a bread roll with cheese, although she could have had it cheaper at Tietz, where Lange would have paid. She’d been here over an hour now, her third cup of tea and fourth newspaper in front of her, staring at the rain-soaked house front. The writing was still visible on the wall though Kuschke had made every effort to wipe it off, the rain also having played its part. It was still just about legible. REVENGE FOR BENNY S. Pig’s blood, Alex had said. How fitting. It would probably need a new coat of paint, or three weeks’ constant rain.

Let’s be sensible here, Charly thought. The rain has only just stopped. What a dreadful summer! The weather had been better during the Kaiser’s reign, or was she simply imagining it? When he abdicated she had just turned eleven; when, perhaps, all you remembered were the sunny days.

Right now, at any rate, it was pretty bleak outside, and Kuschke still hadn’t put in an appearance. Why should he come out in this weather if he didn’t have to? He was probably taking advantage of his leave to catch up on some sleep. Perhaps he hadn’t even seen the papers?

If he had, would the latest development throw him into a panic? A police report saying a witness was being sought? Lange was gambling on Kuschke trying to find out who this witness was, so that police could collect a little more evidence. That was the theory. In practice all it had achieved was a great, fat nothing.

The CID appeal was carefully formulated. There was nothing to suggest a police officer was suspected of murder; it merely mentioned an important witness who might have observed the fatal incident at Kaufhaus des Westens , and whose description had been provided by another witness. Alongside was the sketch that nearly all papers had printed. Sadly, it really was a generic face. Were Lange’s suspicions justified? Was it possible that this witness didn’t actually exist, that Alex was leading them all on?

Charly didn’t know what to make of the girl. On the one hand she trusted her; on the other, she sensed the deep mistrust Alex felt in return, in contrast to Vicky, who seemed to view Charly as a kind of maternal friend.

Yesterday evening, before she went to bed, Charly had been cautious enough to disarm the Bayard, removing the magazine as well as the rounds still in the chamber, and placing the cold pistol under her pillow. It was an excessive measure, as it turned out. The rounds hadn’t been touched, and the two girls even made breakfast for her when she got up. ‘A little thank you,’ Vicky had said, with a shy smile. ‘For everything.’

Alex said nothing at first, simply poured coffee, a strong brew that Gereon might have liked, but which Charly could barely drink. She complimented them on the jet-black sludge all the same. Finally, Alex spoke.

‘We won’t impose on you any longer. We’ll find somewhere new.’

‘You’re not imposing. Stay a little longer if you like.’

Alex nodded, but didn’t seem to take Charly’s offer seriously. Whether it was the tail end of her mistrust or simply a desire to be independent again, Charly couldn’t say. She’d have to wait and see. Either the girls would still be there tonight – or they wouldn’t. She hoped they didn’t get any silly ideas in their heads. The truth was, it was probably no bad thing for her to keep an eye on Kuschke, in case they had cooked up some plan.

Something was happening in the house opposite! The front door opened and Jochen Kuschke emerged. A little better dressed than yesterday, and he was clean shaven too. He had replaced the bandage on his face with a few, discreet, little plasters. The wound seemed to be healing well. In addition to a light-grey suit, he wore a broad-brimmed hat and carried an umbrella.

Excitedly, Charly folded the paper, almost spilling the pathetic little puddle of cold tea still in her cup, and stood up. She left money on the table again, before retrieving her umbrella and leaving the cafe.

‘You should think about a tab,’ the waitress called after her. ‘Seeing as you’re always in such a hurry.’

Charly didn’t have time to react, because Kuschke was in a hurry too. He moved towards Winterfeldtplatz, using his umbrella as a walking stick. She followed him discreetly from the other side of the road, looking at the displays in the shop fronts whenever his pace slowed, but always keeping him in view. She was becoming a surveillance expert. Perhaps she should start her own agency.