Фолькер Кучер - Goldstein

She knew how sensitive it was to accuse a colleague of murder. Because that was what it boiled down to. He couldn’t be a harmless witness if it was the same man who had ransacked Kuschke’s flat.

Damn it! She’d have felt happier with Gereon onside. Just with him being there at all.

She could always resume her search for Alex, but there was too much going on inside her mind since she had seen Sebastian Tornow smile and experienced her moment of insight.

The telephone rang.

Perhaps it was Gereon? Despite her rage she was happy to call it quits. It was all getting too much for her, and she could use him by her side. Then why , she asked herself, did you send him packing yesterday evening, you silly goose? She had wanted to borrow money off him, too, since Maltritz would be back tomorrow for the rent. Very well. If he wanted a reconciliation he could have it. Just not right this minute…

Come on, don’t be childish, don’t keep him in suspense. He’s already called five times. She lifted the receiver. ‘Yes?’

‘Charlotte Ritter?’ It wasn’t Gereon’s voice.

‘Speaking.’ In the same instant she wondered whether it was wise to confirm her identity. ‘Who is it, please?’

‘I’d like to speak to Gereon Rath.’

‘He isn’t here.’

‘Then please excuse the interruption.’

‘No problem,’ she said, but the caller had already hung up.

Rath slammed his fist down and swore. Engaged! Did she have to be on the phone at precisely this moment? He hung up and the ten-pfennig piece jangled onto the change slot.

Marion Bosetzky had disappeared inside the church, and he was still standing in this telephone booth trying to reach Charly. He had to speak to her, now, as soon as possible, quarrel or no. He couldn’t help thinking back to last night ever since he had heard Tornow’s voice on the line. It didn’t make any sense, but something here was rotten. His argument from yesterday resurfaced: Tornow hasn’t been in uniform for almost two weeks now . But that wasn’t true. There was a day last week when Sebastian Tornow had been in uniform, even if he was still a long way from the Hansaviertel: Schönholz Cemetery in Pankow, at Emil Kuhfeld’s funeral.

He took the ten-pfennig piece from the coin return and put it back in the slot. Hopefully she wasn’t speaking to the grinning man, or else this could take forever. Keeping the church portal in view he gave the number. Still no sign of Marion Bosetzky, illegal nightclub dancer, chambermaid and gangster’s moll. At last, the dial tone! Charly picked up.

‘Yes?’

Well, of course, she never gave her name, unless she was at work. Now he remembered why he found it so annoying. ‘Charly,’ he said quickly. ‘Gereon here. I hope you’re not still mad.’

‘Gereon! I… what a coincidence. I was just…’

‘Listen,’ he interrupted. ‘I’m in a rush. I’m sorry about yesterday. I’m a total imbecile.’

‘You’ve finally realised?’

‘Listen,’ he said again. ‘I need to know exactly when you saw Tornow in the Hansaviertel. What day? What time?’

‘Wednesday about half past twelve.’

A fit! The funeral started at eleven, at which point he had said goodbye to Tornow. After that he hadn’t seen him. The cemetery was right next to the S-Bahn. Changing once or twice, it would take no longer than half an hour, forty-five minutes, to get to Tiergarten.

‘I think it really was Tornow you saw in the Hansaviertel,’ he said. ‘Something’s not right. It’s just possible he had something to do with Red Hugo’s death too, and Rudi the Rat.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Two gangsters. Right now I’ve got something else to take care of, but I can be at yours in an hour. Wait for me there.’

‘But…’

‘Just wait. An hour tops. Then we can get something to eat, and I’ll tell you everything.’

He hung up, left the cramped, stuffy booth and walked quickly towards the church. On the way he debated how he could provide Charly with a plausible explanation for his knowledge of the Hugo Lenz case. Under no circumstances could she discover that he was working for Johann Marlow. He thought about Henning and Czerwinski. Unlike him, Plisch and Plum were actually involved in the case, and Charly knew that the three of them often worked together. Whether she believed him or not was of secondary importance. What mattered now was that they pooled their knowledge of Kuschke, Lenz and Höller.

Things here could be tied up quickly. Once he had Marion Bosetzky, everything else would follow. If need be, he could always cuff her and take her back to the station. After all, why shouldn’t an inspector just stumble upon a woman who had been the object of a police search warrant for more than a week? Perhaps it would be enough to lean on her a little so that she led him to Goldstein’s current pied-à-terre. In that case he’d save his handcuffs for the Yank and let Marion go. Both would earn him points in Gennat’s eyes, although the Goldstein variant was clearly preferable. Something like that could make him quite a name at the Castle, especially since the man had twice given him the slip.

He entered Saint Norbert’s through the middle door, crossing to a little anteroom before reaching the nave. He saw the holy water and, without thinking, dipped his fingers in it to make the sign of the cross. He hadn’t been inside a church for a long time, but the rituals of childhood soon took over. He had never been sure about his faith, but there was no doubt in his mind that he was Catholic.

He took in the familiar smell of a Catholic church, the same the world over, everywhere you went a slice of home and childhood. Perhaps they were the same thing: childhood and home.

It was pleasantly cool as he made his way through the nave alone, his steps echoing against the white walls. There was no sign of Marion Bosetzky. Where on earth had she got to? He looked inside the confessionals: empty. He even popped into the sacristy: again, no one. Perhaps in the organ loft? She had to be in here somewhere, or he would have seen her leave. He climbed to the upper floors, to the section of building overlooking the street. It looked more like an office than a priest’s quarters. Rath gazed around curiously. Had Marion Bosetzky disappeared inside one of the rooms? Was she paying the priest a visit?

He knocked on one of the doors. No one answered. He pressed down on the handle, finding the door unlocked. He opened it slightly and looked inside. The room was similar to their offices at the Castle: desk, telephone, roll-front cupboards, even a typewriter and a smaller table by the window. Only the large crucifix and pictures of the Madonna and the saints made it look any different from police headquarters. Instead of the obligatory Hindenburg portrait was an oil painting depicting a saint in Norbertine habit holding a monstrance. Out of his chalice crawled a spider. Rath could vaguely remember a legend in which Saint Norbert of Xanten had drunk a spider that fell into his communion chalice, displaying both death-defying courage and an unshakeable belief in God. It was one of many hagiographies that had been drummed into him as a child. He glanced out of the round-arched window. Below on Mühlenstrasse, his Buick glistened in the sun.

Aside from a saint with a spider in his chalice, there was nothing unusual here. He left the office and knocked on the door opposite. Again, no response. The room was dark. He was groping for a light switch when something jumped at him.

The blow to his chin didn’t strike him flush, but only because he had turned his head to one side. A blow like that to the point of the chin would have knocked him out but, as it was, he just felt a hellish pain in his jaw and fell backwards against the doorframe. The figure was on him, dealing a second blow to the solar plexus that left him short of breath, before making for the door. Rath stuck out a leg and, in the light from the corridor, caught sight of his attacker.