Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

As the procession started back he kept himself as far as possible from the family. The funeral complex had an additional chapel and further outbuildings. The detectives took up position in the portico leading out of the cemetery, closely monitoring everyone who exited the grounds.

Abe dropped into the throng to gain a little time. He couldn’t leave, not now. Even if the pair hadn’t seen him, they would recognise him as he passed, thanks to that blasted sketch.

He took up position in front of the basins where mourners washed their hands before leaving the cemetery. While he awaited his turn, squinting at the portico out of the corner of his eye, he had a sudden flash of inspiration.

He wasn’t the only guest to make for the toilets, but he found a free cubicle all the same. He bolted the door, sat on the seat and waited. He would have to be patient, but that was OK. Initially, there was still a great hullabaloo, but gradually the noise died, until the only sound was the echo of water dripping on the tiles.

Abe remained where he was for a moment, to ensure the detectives had taken their leave. And what if they hadn’t? He felt for the Remington in his jacket. He shouldn’t have brought it here, but knew his grandfather, if he were watching, would understand.

When he had listened to the water dripping for at least fifteen minutes – it felt like hours – he stood up. He hoped he wouldn’t have to shoot his way out, but wouldn’t hesitate if the situation demanded. His legs had gone to sleep. He waited until he felt them return to life, opened the door and stepped out.

Everything went smoothly until he entered the washroom and almost jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t heard him come in; he must have been stealthy as a ghost.

The man with the black beard and black hat gazed at him in surprise, more curious than hostile, just like a few days ago on the street outside the hospital. He didn’t say anything, but Abe could see from his eyes that Joseph Flegenheimer knew exactly who stood before him.

‘Please excuse the late interruption…’ The caretaker stood outside Charly’s door wasn’t being sincere. He would have called again later, if necessary. ‘Many apologies,’ he said, ‘but I’ve tried a few times this week and no one’s been home.’

‘That’s fine, Herr Maltritz,’ she smiled. ‘It’s not your fault I’m out so often.’

‘My apologies.’

‘You’re only doing your job. Someone has to collect the rent.’

‘If you would be so kind, then. Twelve fifty, please. Your receipt is ready as always.’

‘Just a moment.’

She disappeared inside the flat, not having so much as thought about the rent, which was due on Mondays. Normally she had the money counted out beforehand, to keep the weekly process as brief as possible, but, what with this week’s chaos, she hadn’t thought of such trivial details as the rent. On Monday she had accepted Lange and Gennat’s special assignment, said yes to Heymann and met with Gereon. Life hadn’t been any less busy since.

In the kitchen she opened the crockery cupboard, freezing as she looked inside the earthenware pot. It was empty.

For a moment she considered frantically what she could have done with the money, but soon realised what had happened, and who had stolen it. To think, she had trusted the girls, and all because they hadn’t pilfered her gun. Alex must have taken the money while she was making coffee at breakfast, as Charly naively praised the undrinkable sludge. One hundred and twenty marks! Rent and housekeeping – everything she had set aside for the coming weeks. She had been planning to go shopping tomorrow, buy a guidebook for Paris, as well as a dictionary to brush up on her rusty French.

Alex, you rat!

She went back to the door. ‘This is very embarrassing, Herr Maltritz,’ she said, ‘but I completely forgot I wasn’t at the court today. I won’t get my paycheck until Monday now. If you could possibly wait until then.’

Hans Maltritz didn’t look pleased – he was already a little dubious about two women sharing a flat – but he put a brave face on it. ‘Fine,’ he said, ‘I’ll turn a blind eye this time. Because it’s you. But I need the money on Monday, otherwise I’ll have to charge interest. Backdated!’

‘Of course.’ Charly gave a winning smile. It helped. Maltritz tipped his hat and bid her good night. On the steps he turned around again. ‘Monday,’ he said, and Charly nodded, smiling at him all the way down the stairs.

Damn it, she thought, as she closed the door. Damn it!

One thing was for sure: Alexandra Reinhold was a cunning little minx. Charly had been deceived. What a fine judge of character you are, Fräulein Ritter. Gereon had been absolutely right; Andreas Lange too.

It was a grey morning, even though the sun had risen much earlier, and a thick layer of cloud hovered over the city, threatening rain. The Mühlendamm was humming with activity, with five ships waiting at the locks. The lockmaster chewed on a second breakfast of bread and dripping as he opened the sluice gates for a barge loaded with scrap metal. Since he needed both hands for the job, he held his breakfast sandwich between his teeth. Gradually the vessel moved inside the lock chamber. Four men stood on board and kept the lock wall at a distance with long wooden poles, ensuring the vessel didn’t scrape against the algae. Two of them manned the ropes, mooring the barge in the lock chamber while the lockmaster cranked the wheel to shut the gate.

The lockmaster finished his sandwich, and the iron sluice gates closed more quickly than they had opened until, all of a sudden, they stopped moving altogether. Something was snagged against the gate. Hopefully it wasn’t a piece of scrap metal from the barge. Whatever it was, it resisted.

‘Damn it,’ the lockmaster cursed, cranking the wheel back. Opening the gate just a little usually helped. The things that floated down this way! They had found all sorts: oil drums, a rusty bedstead, a traffic light, the frame of a pram, even a half-decomposed cow. Everything got caught here, at the Mühlendamm, and with some items it was impossible to say how they wound up in the Spree at all. He had no idea what it was this time, only that the river needed cleaning again soon.

Cranking the wheel back seemed to help. Whatever was caught underwater detached itself, and the sluice gate moved with a gurgling squeak.

‘There’s something in there,’ shouted one of the men on the barge, leaning on his staff. The gate was by now almost closed again. The lockmaster gazed into the water, and saw something glimmer just beneath the surface. The optical refraction made it look as though it had been steamrolled. If the lockmaster had known what it was, he probably wouldn’t have looked so closely, but he didn’t realise until he saw the eyes staring back at him out of a face so pale and swollen it no longer looked human. But human it was, the skin waxy and green with algae, hair swaying like seaweed. There was a deep, but bloodless – and therefore all the more hideous – wound on the man’s face, which exposed half his teeth and made it look as though he were snarling. He was staring at a corpse.

His knees grew weak, and he felt his stomach turn. He sank to the floor, retched once, and threw up both first and second breakfasts in the dirty black water of the lock chamber. It was six forty-five on Thursday morning.

The atmosphere was eerily reminiscent of the week before. Again Bernhard Weiss stood on the podium, and again the deputy commissioner made a serious face. Another uniform cop had been killed, in the Hansaviertel this time but not, this time, in the line of duty. He had been stabbed to death while on leave of absence.