Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

‘But nothing.’ Gräf sipped at his beer.

Rath already regretted the question. Gräf would see Tornow as competition and, besides, no one liked being used as a spy. That hadn’t been his intention, but now he was curious. ‘You don’t sound like you’re convinced.’

‘Some of his opinions are a little out there. I think if it was up to him, he’d put all criminals away without trial.’

‘That’s exactly what you said the other day in the canteen.’ Rath realised he was defending Tornow, but there was no way Gräf could know the baggage the man carried around.

‘Maybe. It’s frustrating when someone gets away with something. Or when you can’t get them even though you know they’re guilty. Last week, we had Goldstein on a plate, and now that we can actually prove he did something, he’s disappeared.’

‘It’s something you have to get used to in our line of work. Where would we be without the rule of law?’

‘Then I fear young Tornow has a lot to learn,’ Gräf said.

‘Are you about to do the dirty on a colleague, or what is this?’

‘You did ask.’

Rath gazed ruefully into his beer. ‘I’m just surprised. I thought the two of you were getting on well.’

‘We were until he started asking these strange questions.’

‘What kind of questions?’

‘Well, what I think of the fact that there are so many criminals at large, for one.’

‘Questions like that always bother young officers. More experienced ones too. It’s good that he asks questions. It means he wants to learn.’

‘It felt more like he was sounding me out. As if he wanted to see if I shared his opinions.’ Rath looked at him quizzically. ‘He asked me if I thought a good police officer should be able to kill.’

Watching the churchgoers streaming out of mass, Rath felt something akin to guilt that he hadn’t fulfilled his Sunday duty. Now that cynicism was his only creed, he rarely gave it a second thought, but these people had a different perspective. Believing in something other than the Great Big Nothing, they aroused his envy and scorn in equal measure. He scorned them for their naivety; he envied them their faith.

Having faith made you strong, which was precisely how he didn ’ t feel this morning. Worse, he was unsteady on his feet. He had left the Buick at his new permanent parking spot, outside the undertaker’s and diagonally opposite the church front. He couldn’t request an Opel from the motor pool today without arousing suspicion. He was off duty so, whatever he did here, he was doing it for himself and, since his business didn’t concern anyone in the Castle, it felt wise not to have his signature beneath today’s date in motor pool records. He checked his watch. Sunday Mass had ended promptly. He surveyed each member of the congregation as they emerged. Joseph Flegenheimer wasn’t among them, but of course not, he hadn’t visited the church because he harboured Catholic sympathies.

Rath’s head was still fuzzy from last night. In truth his quarrel with Charly suited him just fine. He had better things to do than idle the day away with his girlfriend and his dog. He had left Kirie with the Lennartz family, knowing that he couldn’t expect her to sit in the car all day. He didn’t fancy it much himself, either, but sometimes you just had to bite the bullet. The word ‘bite’ reminded him of his rations, and he took his first apple from the picnic basket. He still hadn’t been at his observation post for five minutes.

An hour later his food supplies were dwindling and there was still no sign of Joseph Flegenheimer. One hour! It felt more like three. He looked down on a solitary sandwich and a hard-boiled egg. Boredom made for hungry work.

He opened the car door to take a stroll down to the main drag. It was pleasantly warm, a gentle breeze was blowing, a beautiful Sunday, and here he was dividing his time between the inside of a car and a telephone booth.

He sighed. He had no choice but to do Marlow’s bidding if he didn’t want to find himself in serious trouble later tonight. True, he had made progress since his conversation with Gregor Lanke’s informant, but he had no desire to throw Christine Möller under a bus. Better to give Marlow a concrete lead on whoever was actually responsible for Red Hugo’s death. If he had one by then, that is. If need be, he could always serve up Lanke, but even there Rath had his scruples. The man might be an arsehole, but he didn’t deserve to end up in Dr Mabuse’s claws. Rath didn’t want to be responsible for another two people getting killed; didn’t want any more demons haunting him at night.

He needed a concrete lead, but the only thing he had was the telephone number from Christine. How many times had he tried it now? And all because this mysterious number wasn’t to be found in any telephone book. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, his mother always used to say. He just had to keep trying.

It was stuffy in the glass booth, a real greenhouse. Rath lifted the receiver and put in a ten-pfennig coin when a face on the other side of the street justified his choice of observation post. In the meantime the operator spoke on the line.

Rath automatically reeled off the number: ‘ STEPHAN 1701 please.’ At the same time he kept an eye on the pretty lady turning into Mühlenstrasse. She must have got off the tram, and it couldn’t be a coincidence that she was hanging around here. He followed her with his eyes until she disappeared from his field of vision. He opened the door of the booth to watch as she made for the church. A slightly scratchy voice announced itself on the line.

‘Yes.’

He was a little taken aback. He hadn’t been expecting to get someone on the line so quickly, after all the failed attempts yesterday and the day before. Back inside the booth, he closed the door, muffling the noise from the street. ‘Who am I speaking to, please?’ he asked. This idiotic custom of answering the telephone without saying your name! Just like Charly!

‘Who am I speaking to?’

The subscriber refused to be intimidated. Damn it, Rath wasn’t prepared for this. He had hoped whoever it was would give their name, so that he could hang up and take care of everything else through the civil register. Perhaps the name might turn up in the files of the Berlin Police…

‘I find it incredibly rude not to give your name,’ he said. He couldn’t think of anything more intelligent to say.

‘Gereon?’ the voice at the other end said, and Rath felt something like an electric shock pass down his spine. It was no coincidence that the voice had felt familiar from the moment he first heard it. ‘Is that you?’

He hung up with his mind racing. He lifted the receiver a second time and waited for the operator. ‘Operator,’ he said. ‘Would you be so kind as to repeat the number you just connected me with? I’m not sure I gave you the right one.’

‘ STEPHAN 1701 ,’ a mildly irritated voice said. Rath looked down at the scrap of paper he had used to write the number. There was no doubt. The telephone number provided by Christine Möller, which concealed the man who almost certainly had Red Hugo on his conscience, had been answered by a colleague.

Charly paced around her flat like a tiger in a cage. Even at breakfast she hadn’t been able to sit still. She simply didn’t know what to do. Telephone Lange on a Sunday? Or Gennat? It was unlikely to be a problem, but she wasn’t sure it was urgent enough. Gereon’s misgivings had driven her so dotty that she no longer quite believed what she had seen in the Hansaviertel. Had there actually been a uniform cop? And had he really looked like Gereon’s new colleague? She was furious with him. He could never back her, not even this one time. He always had to play devil’s advocate!