Jakob Arjouni - Brother Kemal

‘Exactly,’ I said.

‘Yes. Well, yes. Anyway, I’ll send you the schedule for those three days with the signed contract, and a pass to the Book Fair.’

‘And the threatening letters.’

‘Oh, yes, the threatening letters. Of course.’

‘I’ll see you on Friday next week, then.’

‘Friday next week, Herr Kayankaya, thanks.’

The advance payment came into my account at the end of the week, and by post I received the signed contract, Rashid’s schedule for his visit to Frankfurt, and a pass to the Book Fair. No threatening letters. Those were either a pure invention or a ridiculous insult, but in any case nothing that Katja Lipschitz could show me or wanted to show me. And fundamentally it made no difference. Rashid was getting a bodyguard for promotional purposes. A Gregory job. As long as Maier Verlag was paying.

On the Monday I visited the Harmonia Hotel. A typical middle-class dump with worn fitted carpets; cheap and brightly coloured sofas; little halogen lamps; a bar with beer, spirits and cheese crackers; and a collection of signed postcards on the wall from B-list celebrities who had once stayed at the Harmonia. I bought a bad espresso and got the waiter to show me the back door and the emergency exits. ‘Because of my father. He might be staying a couple of days here next month, and he’s terrified of fire.’

On Tuesday I made my official statement on the Abakay case to the police.

On Wednesday I had a call at the office from a man called Methat who said he was Sheikh Hakim’s secretary. He began by speaking Turkish, until he gave me a moment to explain that I’d never learnt the language. After an incredulous pause, a Turkish curse — at least, it sounded Turkish — and a few contemptuous lip-smacking sounds, he finally went on in German with a strong Hessian accent, and I had to ask three times before I got his drift, which was that His Magnificence wanted to see me.

‘Who wants to see me?’

‘Is Nificence.’

‘Munificence?’

‘No, no! Nificence!’

‘Sorry, try again.’

‘Is Nificence! Like nificent view!’

‘Ah, I get it. His Magnificence.’

‘Don’t pretend you …!’

‘Er … who is His Magnificence?’

‘I ave said I am secretary of Sheisch Hakim!’

‘Okay. Then please tell Sheisch Hakim that if he wants to see me he’d better make an appointment by phone or email. He’ll find my address in the Yellow Pages. I’m travelling a lot just now and I’m only occasionally in my office.’

‘You must be crazshy!’

He was getting on my nerves. ‘I assure you I’m not,’ I said, in as heavy a Hessian dialect as I could manage. ‘But I’m bizshy! So tell him to make an appointment, saying what it’s about. As I said, I’m busy at the moment and I have to hang up.’

I cut the connection before he could call me any more names.

So it was only one day before Sheikh Hakim heard of my statement to the police. I decided that when I got the chance I would tell Octavian that not only did he ‘know a great many people who prefer to save their own skin over the punishment of a criminal’, he also had at least one officer at police HQ who preferred a small fortune in cash, a bag of heroin, a free visit to a brothel or some other inducement within Hakim’s or Abakay’s reach to the punishment of the said criminals. I firmly believed that Octavian did not know who it was, or who they were, but someone was keeping Sheikh Hakim up to date. I didn’t believe quite so firmly that he would do anything to unmask the person or persons concerned. It probably depended on what height he or they had reached in the pyramid of police power. When Octavian took me to the door after I’d made my statement the day before, his quiet words of farewell had been, ‘You’re doing this at your own risk, I hope you realise that. When all this is over, we can see each other again, but until then I guess we’d better not. My promotion will be decided in the next few weeks.’

‘I tell you what, Octavian, maybe we’d better not see each other again, full stop.’

‘Oh, don’t come over like that! I’d get another thousand a month, and I have family to support in Romania.’

‘Don’t we all?’ I said.

‘You don’t,’ he said coolly.

‘I’ve seen the girls in Abakay’s catalogue. They’re my Romanian family.’

‘Don’t turn sentimental.’

‘Is it sentimental to feel ill when I think of thirteen-year-olds on sale for fucking? Is it sentimental to want to nail the man who’s offering them? You’ve been in the Vice Squad too long, Octavian, it’s bad for your morals.’ And with that we left each other without further goodbyes and went our separate ways.

On Thursday Valerie de Chavannes tried to reach me on my mobile. I was sitting in the wine bar with Deborah, eating tripe sausage, drinking red wine and reading the sports pages, and the first time the phone rang I ignored the call, the second time too. Then she sent a text message: Please call back as soon as you can! Urgent! Danger! I finished my sausage, emptied my glass, went into the little courtyard behind the wine bar and called back.

Valerie de Chavannes answered at once.

‘Herr Kayankaya! At last!’ Her voice was shaking, and sounded nasal, as if she’d been shedding tears. Now and then I heard her breathing heavily again as she struggled for air.

‘What’s the matter, Frau de Chavannes?’

‘A man called Methat rang just now! Had I set a private detective on Abakay?’

‘And what did you say?’

‘What you told me to say — I said I didn’t know what he was talking about.’

‘Did he believe you?’

‘No idea. He threatened me!’ She struggled for air. ‘He said if I’d hired you then I must get you to withdraw your evidence against Abakay as quickly as possible or my daughter’s life would be in danger!’

Maybe it was because I imagined that sentence coming from Methat in his heavy Hessian dialect — life in danscher — but anyway, I didn’t take the threat as seriously as I probably should have done when talking to Valerie de Chavannes. I said, ‘Oh yes?’

‘What do you mean, oh yes? I told you Abakay would still be dangerous even in prison!’

‘Well, then you must decide: either you want him in prison or you don’t.’

‘You know exactly where I want him!’

She spoke from the heart, furious, resentful, implying: I told you that you ought to kill him!

‘Take it slowly. We’re talking on the phone, there could be someone listening in. And after all, I’m a witness in a murder case — so don’t say anything that might be misunderstood. Of course I know that you want to see him in prison … ’

A pause, more heavy breathing.

I didn’t really think that the police were listening in on me or Valerie de Chavannes, but the thought of a bugged phone — you know exactly where I want him! — made me feel queasy for a moment.

After a while, regaining some measure of control over herself, she said, ‘And now what? What do we do?’

‘Well, Frau de Chavannes, we don’t do anything. Remember? You hired me to bring your daughter home.’

‘Oh, and now you’re wriggling out of it like a coward!’

‘You’re welcome to ask me to take on another job for you — protecting your daughter, or you, or both of you. But I’m convinced that the best and also the cheapest thing I can do for you at the moment is not to show myself near you.’

‘That’s what you said last time!’

‘Because it was true last time. I suggest the following. You tell Marieke’s school that she’ll be absent, sick, for another week, and you stay at home with her. If Methat rings again, or the police, or anyone else, don’t let them persuade you to do anything. No one but you and I know about our connection. Even Marieke knows only a police officer called Magelli. If someone rings the doorbell, don’t open the door, and if that someone doesn’t go away, then call me. If you’re still being pestered in a week’s time, I’ll deal with it.’