Cay Rademacher - The Murderer in Ruins

‘A customer, perhaps?’ He didn’t need to add, on the black market.

The two of them quickly exchanged glances, then decided they would answer the question properly: ‘It’s not all that easy to remember faces, if you know what I mean,’ the taller one said. ‘So I can’t be 100 per cent certain, but I don’t think I’ve seen her.’

‘She was certainly pretty,’ the other one remarked, as if that had anything to do with it.

Stave closed his eyes. He believed the two black marketeers, and also the landlord – this wasn’t going well. ‘Thanks,’ he said amicably. As he got to his feet he realised how tired he was. He would have preferred to stay there, drinking a round or two with the two of them. Absurd.

‘We’ll ask the girls, then we’re out of here,’ he told MacDonald.

‘What about the boozers over there?’

‘Fine, you go talk to four heroes. I’ll talk to the girls.’

‘I’d have preferred it the other way around,’ whispered MacDonald, but he gave a little smile and walked over to the men with the glasses of ‘water’.

‘What’s up then, Master of the Watch?’ the older of the two asked as Stave came over.

She’s been watching me, he thought, and knows I’m no punter. Smart girl. He studied the girls for a moment or two. The older girl grinned cheekily back at him, the younger looked embarrassed. They were early or mid-twenties. About the same age as the murder victim.

‘Your colleague there looks keen,’ the older one said, pointing towards the window.

Stave followed her gaze and spotted Mashcke towering over some elderly miserable-looking prostitute.

‘I recognise your man with the red hair. He stops every woman who might be wearing a trace of lipstick because he can’t tell the difference between an elegant young lady and a streetwalker. One of these days he’s going to arrest the mayor’s daughter. But I don’t know you, nor your English companion.’

Stave didn’t bother showing them his ID, or telling them his name, but just pulled out the photograph. The older girl was moved, but the younger one went pale and held up a hand to her mouth in shock.

‘What bastard did that?’ the older one asked. Her accent was broad, and she drawled. From East Prussia, Stave reckoned.

‘That’s what I’d like to know,’ he replied. ‘But I’d also like to know who the victim is.’

‘Never seen her.’

‘What about you?’ Stave asked handing the younger girl the photo.

‘I feel sick,’ she groaned. ‘I feel like throwing up. Take that away from me.’

Stave didn’t move. ‘You can throw up if you like, but only after you’ve told me whether or not you’ve ever seen this young woman.’

‘No,’ she almost screamed, then got to her feet and ran, bent over, to a grubby door to the rear of the room.

MacDonald leapt to his feet. To his horror Stave saw that the Brit had pulled a gun. Damned quick on the draw, he thought to himself, waving at the man to put it away. The lieutenant sat down again with the men, who’d all gone pale and were staring at him in terror.

‘Hildegard’s only been on the game a week,’ the older girl whispered, almost apologetically. ‘Where she comes from, they don’t see stuff like that every day.’

‘But you do?’

She gave a harsh laugh. ‘I came here in a refugee column from Breslau. I’ve seen so many corpses that a photo has no effect on me. Do you think she was a streetwalker?’

Stave had been about to answer gruffly that it was none of her business. But he could hear a kernel of fear underlying the cheekiness in her voice: the fear every street girl had that the next punter will want more than just a quickie round the corner.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked instead.

She hesitated a second, then whispered, ‘Ingrid Domin. As far as most of my customers are concerned, I’m Veronique. It sounds more erotic. French, you know?’ She made a scornful expression.

Stave thought back to the way Maschke had addressed the two street girls earlier. Then he dismissed the thought, tore a leaf from his notebook and scribbled on it: Tel 34 10 00. Extensions 8451-8454, and then his name.

‘Do me a favour: if you hear anything call me. Or come by the office.’ He added the number of his office. ‘Whatever, no matter how hysterical or crazy it might seem, just tell me. Promise?’

She agreed and quickly shoved the piece of paper into her handbag.

The chief inspector got to his feet. ‘I have no idea whether or not this woman was…’ he found himself looking for a suitable word, ‘…whether or not this lady belonged to your trade. Up until a few minutes ago, I had assumed so, but now I’m not so sure, which doesn’t mean that I’m ruling it out. So keep a look out. And talk it over with the other girls.’

‘I’m a tough girl, I can look out for myself,’ she said quietly. And smiled at him again

‘Looks like you’re lucky with the ladies,’ MacDonald said as he came over.

The corner of Stave’s mouth twitched. ‘One of them ran straight out of the room to throw up,’ he reminded the lieutenant.

‘But the other one was a lot nicer to you than the four old boozers over there were to me.’

‘So that was a waste of time too.’

‘Absolutely. Never seen her, though, that said, at least one of them was so drunk he wouldn’t have recognised his own mother.’

‘Happens more often than you might think – that children don’t recognise the corpses of their own mothers,’ Stave replied.

‘What now?’

‘We hit the next joint. Then the one after that, then the one after that…’

‘Good job there aren’t so many left then,’ MacDonald said. ‘Never thought I’d be so grateful to our Air Force comrades for their bombing raids.’

Stave said nothing, just pushed open the door.

An hour and a half later the pair of them walked through the door of Kamsing, the last venue on their list, with nothing to show. They had questioned half a dozen landlords, a few guests, at least 20 street girls, as many pimps and a few black marketeers. But not one of them admitted to knowing the dead woman.

‘Let me buy you one of these dreadful Chinese soups,’ MacDonald said. ‘They probably serve up monkey brains and rats’ tails.’

‘As long as it’s hot,’ Stave muttered gratefully and plonked himself down on a wobbly chair next to a little round table. Then he took a look around.

The restaurant was full, or at least fuller than the other places they’d gone round. Eight well-dressed young men were playing cards – poker – at a large table in an alcove. The notes on the table in front of them were thousand Reichsmark notes.

Bastards, Stave thought to himself, though he was only too well aware that his indignation was mainly fired by envy. Black marketeers gaming away their nights, gold watches on their wrists. His colleague called them the black marketeers’ Iron Cross and had told Stave that they hid ration cards under the collars of their overcoats, and traded jewellery and medicine over the tables, wrapped in newspaper. But not yet, it was too early for that. Anyway, it wasn’t his problem. He slurped at his soup.

‘No idea what they use to spice this,’ MacDonald said between spoonfuls. ‘But it’s at least as warming as a single malt whisky.’

Stave didn’t bother telling the lieutenant that it had been years since he’d tasted even a drop of whisky. ‘Indeed,’ he muttered. At least he felt warm for the first time all day. His mouth was burning and numbed by exotic spices. He felt as if every muscle in his body was unwinding. If I don’t get to my feet, I’m going to fall asleep here and now in front of MacDonald, he thought as he forced himself to stand up.