Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

‘You had a good view of all this from down there?’

‘Define “good view”. The front was illuminated by the neon sign, and there was light coming through the windows. So, I saw what I saw. My eyesight’s pretty good, even if I do wear glasses.’ He took his glasses off with his right hand and pointed with his index and middle fingers at his pupils. ‘Long-sighted.’

Gennat nodded as Lange took notes, neglecting his Herrentorte as a result. They had made do without a stenographer to keep the number of people involved to a minimum. Charly could have taken on the role – indeed, she had been expecting to – but Buddha had pressed the notepad into Lange’s hand.

‘What happened after that, Herr Thiemann?’ she asked, as though Gerald Thiemann was a storyteller, and she were listening to him over coffee.

‘The boy cried out a few times,’ Thiemann continued, ‘until at some point he fell.’ He closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. ‘Terrible. As he fell, he didn’t make another sound, didn’t cry out, nothing.’

‘And the girl?’

Thiemann shrugged. ‘I wasn’t looking at her, but I think she stood stock still, like me. She ran to him straightaway, as did I. She shouted at me to call an ambulance.’

Charly thought of the Alex she had come to know. Yes, that was a fit. ‘That’s what you did?’

‘First, I had to look for a telephone booth. The closest one’s on Wittenbergplatz, so it took a while. And, well… when I came back, your colleagues were there, standing over the boy. I think he was already dead. The girl was gone.’

‘What about you. You weren’t questioned by our colleagues?’

‘No one paid any attention to me. I was just another rubbernecker. I waited for the ambulance to arrive and went on my way without speaking to anybody.’

‘You should have, Herr Thiemann.’ Gennat pushed his cake plate aside and looked at the witness through friendly eyes. ‘What you have to say is important. Why didn’t you mention anything at the scene?’

Thiemann sat helplessly, rake-thin and disappearing inside a chair that was far too big for a single person. ‘I didn’t want any trouble. I had spoken to the girl, a criminal, remember, and I didn’t stop her, I just let her go. Because I went looking for the nearest telephone booth to call an ambulance.’

‘No one could reproach you for that.’

‘Maybe. But… there was something else. That man…’ He pointed at Kuschke’s portrait. ‘I was afraid of how he looked at me.’ He swallowed, as though it were tricky to utter the next sentence. ‘And I was pretty muddled after everything that happened; I didn’t know where I stood any more. With you… with your colleagues, I mean.’

Gennat gave an understanding nod. ‘Why didn’t you contact us later? When you were no longer so muddled, I mean.’

‘Perhaps I still am,’ Thiemann said. ‘As a child,’ he continued after a time, ‘as a child, I always learned that the cops are the good guys, and the robbers are the bad guys… that was how we always played it anyway…’ He looked around suspiciously. ‘But maybe things have changed since the Kaiser’s reign…’

‘I don’t think so,’ Gennat said. ‘We’re still the good guys. The exception proves the rule.’

Rath parked at the same spot as before. The only thing distinguishing Saint Norbert’s from the adjacent buildings were the two church towers and gable front that rose above the five-storey apartment houses which otherwise dominated Mühlenstrasse. The left-hand tower was kinked slightly to follow the bend in the road, and bordered directly on the neighbouring Norbert Hospital. The lower levels, with the round-arched portals (one of which served as the entrance to the courtyard), were veneered with dressed stone, while on the upper floors the façade was broken by a row of windows which seemed to conceal a number of rooms, perhaps where the priest had his quarters.

He had taken an Opel from the motor pool and left the Buick at the station. His visit yesterday had startled young Flegenheimer, who later visited the church. Why? The only thing that seemed halfway plausible was a dead letter box. Somewhere in the church, Flegenheimer had left a message for his cousin.

He thought back to Christine Möller’s flat. The Venuskeller ’s main attraction had indeed betrayed Red Hugo, though she had stressed, again and again, that she had no idea she was sending him to his death. He still didn’t know if he could trust her, but it seemed more likely that her instructions had come from the police than the Nordpiraten. She hadn’t been able to give a name, or even a description; everything had been done anonymously, and mostly over the telephone. The only face-to-face meeting she’d had was with Gregor Lanke, who arranged the initial contact with this ominous stranger – or, at least, his telephone voice. Lanke had pressured her, telling her if she didn’t do him this favour he’d have her sent down on drugs charges. Someone must have told him she took cocaine as he had shown up at her house one day and uncovered her supply. She had been paying for it ever since, less with information than with regular services. She didn’t have to go into any more detail.

After months of sex in return for silence, Lanke had tried to engage her as an informant. ‘He must have heard about me and Hugo,’ she said, ‘even though I’d only been with him a few weeks.’ The instructions she received over the telephone were precise, which was how she’d been able to set up a meeting without Hugo connecting it to her. Red Hugo must have met his killer twice; the third meeting had ended fatally. Christine had never seen the man, but she still remembered the number she had called. Rath looked in his notebook: STEPHAN 1701. He had tried it just now in the telephone booth. No one picked up, but at least he had something to go on.

The booth was on Schöneberg’s main drag, a few metres down from Mühlenstrasse. He looked at his watch and thought about trying again. Watching the church for over an hour, he’d seen no sign of Joseph Flegenheimer or Abraham Goldstein.

After checking to make sure he didn’t recognise anyone on the street, he got out of the car. Walking down Mühlenstrasse he gazed into an undertaker’s window that reflected the church façade. Saint Norbert’s was still visible from the telephone booth if he opened the door and stepped outside. He chose not to, however, even though the flex was long enough. It felt as if he were wasting his time here. He asked for STEPHAN 1701 and let it ring a long time. No luck: not a police station, then.

He lit a cigarette, gazing through the window at the coffins, and wondered whether it wouldn’t be better to give up smoking. The prospect of returning to a cramped, smoky Opel was less than appealing. If the mountain wouldn’t come to Muhammad…

Barely three minutes later, he stood in front of the Flegen-heimers’ front door, determined to interrupt their mourning for a second time. It took a moment before he heard footsteps and a woman he hadn’t seen before opened.

‘This is the Flegenheimer residence, isn’t it?’ he said, a little confused.

She looked him up and down. ‘Yes.’

‘I’d like to speak to Joseph Flegenh…’

‘He’s not here,’ she said, before he could finish his sentence.

‘Who is it, Rikwa,’ Rath heard a familiar voice. Lea Flegenheimer was home. Two seconds later she stood at the door surveying Rath like a troublesome insect. ‘Haven’t you pestered us enough already?’

‘I’d like to speak with your son, Frau Flegenheimer.’

‘I’m afraid you’ve chosen the wrong day.’

‘Pardon me?’