Cay Rademacher - The Murderer in Ruins

Stave believed her story. It all fitted together. If the shape she had seen was the murderer, then Anna von Veckinhausen must have happened along just after the crime had been committed. The old man was already dead, and probably had already been stripped. That meant it had still been daylight when the old man set out, maybe indeed crossing the ruins on the footpath. Or he had been killed somewhere else and carried there by the killer. But would the murderer try something like that before it was dark?’

‘Did this unknown figure see you?’

She hesitated, put her arm across her body again. ‘I had hidden quickly. I moved into cover, as a soldier would say. I had the impression that the figure did the same. But I can’t be sure.’

Shit, Stave thought. If that’s true, not only was Anna von Veckinhausen the only witness to the murder, but the murderer knew there had been a witness.

‘Anything else come back to you?’

She thought for a minute. ‘There was a smell in the air,’ she said eventually. ‘In this cold air, it doesn’t pay to breathe in too deeply, but even so I got the impression that there was a smell of tobacco in the ruins.’

‘The unknown figure was a smoker?’

‘Not necessarily, I mean, I didn’t see a cigarette, no glow, but there was just this smell of tobacco. And then it went away.’

A carton of cigarettes, Stave pondered. Maybe the old man had a load of cigarettes and that’s why he was killed. Maybe it was a mugging, for goods to sell on the black market.’

‘I’m going to type up your statement. If you would wait and read it through and then sign it for me, unless you have anything more to add or changes to make.’

She nodded, then said, hesitantly, ‘What about my looting? Will you have to mention that?’

Stave managed a smile. ‘I think we can just say you were walking along the path.’

He took her to the door and pointed to a seat in the anteroom, ignoring Erna Berg’s inquisitive look. Then he typed up the statement with one hand, pulled the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and read through the text. It wasn’t much, not the type of witness statement that could send someone to the gallows. But then the murderer didn’t know that.

She’s bait, Stave thought to himself, realising as he did that it weighed on his conscience. Nonetheless, he would ring the journalist and tell him this new development. No names, obviously. No details about her age, or where and what she had seen. Simply that the police had a witness. That would be enough to make the killer nervous. And then he might make a mistake.

He lifted the receiver and asked to be connected to the editorial section of Die Zeit . He asked the operator at the other end to put him through to Kleensch. There was a click on the line. Seconds ticked by. Hurry up, Stave thought.

Eventually Kleensch came to the phone.

‘There’s been a new development in the rubble murderer case.’

‘I see you’re not one for small talk, are you, Chief Inspector,’ the journalist said, laughing so loud that the line echoed.

But Stave could hear in his voice something that he wanted to hear: the call of the hunt. He could imagine the man reaching for his notebook and pencil, hungry for a news story.

‘We are now certain that there is just one killer. A witness saw a figure near one of the crime scenes. A figure in a long coat with its head covered. More details may follow.’

‘At which of the crime scenes was this?’

Stave hesitated. Would he be putting Anna von Veckinhausen in danger if he told him? On the other hand, there was always the possibility that the killer would return to the scene of the crime to eradicate any traces. Hardly a good idea, but sometimes murderers did so. He didn’t have enough men to have all three crime scenes watched, but he could manage one.

‘The ruins near Lappenbergs Allee. Where the old man was found.’

‘So who is your mysterious witness?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t release any further details.’

‘I understand.’ Silence, save for the crackling of the telephone line.

Was there somebody else on the line, Stave suddenly wondered. Then he pulled himself together. Nonsense.

‘I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you for now.’

‘Can I rely on you to keep me posted?’

‘Yes.’

Stave put the receiver down. Let’s wait and see what happens, he thought. Then he looked up at the closed door to his office, and called Anna von Veckinhausen in. His only witness. His bait.

She read through the statement carefully, the corner of her lip twitching once or twice.

‘You’re not exactly a poet, but it’s surprisingly good prose for a policeman.’

‘The public prosecutor says the same thing,’ Stave grumbled. ‘Do you recognise your own words?’

Her answer was a fluid signature at the bottom of the page, followed by the date.

‘Can I go now?’ she asked.

‘May I accompany you?’

Stave was surprised by his own words. They had just popped out without him thinking.

Anna von Veckinhausen gave him a look of astonishment.

‘We go the same way,’ he added quickly. ‘I’ve just got a bit further to go, as far as Wandsbek.’

She smiled briefly. ‘If we hurry we can just catch the last tram,’ she replied.

Stave got to his feet, grabbed his coat and hat, and held the door open for her. Erna Berg was staring at him in confusion.

‘Send someone for me if anything important crops up,’ he told her.

That was all the explanation he gave her. Stave felt a spring in his step he hadn’t felt for years, even though he knew he was behaving like an idiot and looked like one too.

They both broke into a quick pace as they left the building. They had to get to Rathaus Platz, where the trams left from, in time to catch the last one. They only ran for a few hours each morning and afternoon, to save electricity. Stave and Anna leaned forwards into the wind, her scarf and headscarf wrapped tight, his collar pulled up high and his hat low over his eyes. There was no time for them to talk. Stave didn’t mind. He was busy enough concentrating on walking without his limp showing.

Don’t go falling in love, he told himself; don’t make a fool of yourself. She’s your only witness. Bait, without even knowing it, for an unscrupulous killer, bait that you yourself laid. Or maybe she could even be the murderer herself? You can’t rule that out. You know nothing about her, not even whether or not she’s married. Maybe there’s a husband and children waiting for her in her Nissen hut. Children! What would Karl think, if he ever came back? His home in ruins, his mother dead – and the father he’d fallen out with before the war living with another woman? It was unthinkable.

They almost ran across the windy Rathaus Platz, Anna’s cheeks red from the cold and the effort of walking so fast. Delicious, thought Stave to himself, then turned his eyes to the ground.

The three tramlines intersected in front of the city hall. The lines had been repaired and cleared of debris. The carriages were battered, people everywhere pushing and shoving. Black marketeers with their lackeys pushing their way in with huge, heavy crates of coal or carrots. Weary postmen laden with packages. At least there was no rubbish on board. In the mornings the trams were used for carrying waste out to the dumps on the edge of the city. How else was anyone to get rid of it?

And in between the crates and boxes were the people: black marketeers, office workers, shop workers, all of them going home at the same time because of the electricity cut-off.

Stave clumsily tried to forge a way through for Anna von Veckinhausen, to help her up the step on to the tram. But she was better at it on her own; she did it more often. The carriage was stuffed, stank of wet overcoats, old shoes, sweat, bad breath, cheap tobacco.