Cay Rademacher - The Murderer in Ruins

He recognised Stave again and shook his hand with a firm grip. ‘Please excuse the fact that there’s no heating,’ the mayor said. He had his own overcoat on, but didn’t seem to be frozen through.

Cuddel Breuer left it to Stave to bring him up to date with the state of affairs.

‘We need to do something,’ Brauer said after listening to Stave’s report. ‘Show we mean business.’

Cuddel Breuer nodded. Stave made do with staring expressionlessly into space.

‘In all my years I have never experienced a winter as hard as this,’ the mayor went on. ‘Nobody has any idea when the frost will end. In another week? Or another month? Even two? How are we to get through this winter? Even in the best of times it would have been an enormous challenge. We have burst water pipes all over the city, electricity pylons falling down, coal ships that can’t get into port, unusable country roads, I hardly need tell you. But in these extraordinary conditions…’

I hear what you’re saying, Stave thought. You’ve just been mayor for three months. People have expectations. The chief inspector would have liked to help Brauer, he had voted for him in November 1946. But what was he to do? He felt like a failure and just stood there in silence.

‘We’ll get some more posters printed, warning people to be careful,’ Cuddel Breuer said in his place.

‘We’ve put as many officers on the case as we can,’ Stave said, finally opening his mouth. ‘The British are cooperating. We’ve gone down more avenues than in any other case since the collapse, even sending out requests to the Soviet zone. And we still don’t even know the identity of the victims. I’ve never seen anything like it.’

The mayor nodded understandingly, smiled even, but remained persistent. ‘Obviously we can’t just go out and make an arrest, I know that. But I read the newspapers. And I hear what the ordinary people are saying. They write me letters. There’s whispering going on, even amongst the city officials.

‘Everybody is afraid, everybody is asking who the victims are – and who the murderer is. Everybody has their own theory, everybody suspects everybody else. There are nasty rumours going round. It’s as if all the misery, the deprivation and humiliations are stoking up a hatred that’s looking for something to focus on. And this faceless murderer is becoming that focus. As long as it remains as cold as this and there is no arrest, that hate and anger will grow. Sooner or later people are going to accuse the police and the whole administration of incompetence. And sooner or later somebody is going to say what I am sure some people are already thinking, that things didn’t used to be like this – under Adolf. I cannot sit here doing nothing while some crazy killer creates a situation where people start to get nostalgic for the Nazis!’

Stave had already heard the same story in one shape or form from Breuer, from public prosecutor Ehrlich, from MacDonald; even Kleensch from Die Zeit had said something of the sort. He stared at the mayor, who looked back at them still with a smile on his face, but the chief inspector realised that he was faced with something else here: an ultimatum. Either they produced something or the mayor himself would take over if only so as not to appear helpless. Stave got the message that what mattered was not necessarily catching the killer but at least making sure that the headlines on the story improved, or, better still, disappeared altogether. As long as people calmed down. As long as they forgot about it.

‘I assume these posters have already been printed?’ Brauer asked.

For the first time since Stave had known him, Cuddel Breuer looked embarrassed. ‘We consider it necessary to try once more to find out the victims’ identities. And to warn the public.’

‘Go ahead, but Stave has told me that he has no great hopes that putting these grim photos up on advertising hoardings all round the city will help in their identification. I suggest that if there are no results this time, in future you conduct your investigation more discreetly.’

‘With no headlines. I get the message,’ Stave said.

Brauer gave a sad smile. ‘My concerns are no longer limited to a few burst water pipes. The hospitals are stretched beyond capacity; they’re seeing pulmonary infections, starvation, oedema, frostbite. Every day more people than our lunatic has killed are dying. Seen from a purely statistical point of view, he’s a much more minor problem. But psychologically, it’s another story. I cannot have this killer become a symbol of our failure. That is all I’m asking of you.’

Breuer and Stave said nothing as they walked back to the Mercedes. Only when the heavy car doors had closed did Stave dare to open his mouth, as if he was afraid they were listening to him in the city hall.

‘What happens if the victims are never identified?’ he asked. ‘And if we never solve the case? If the killer gets away?’

‘Then you’d better pray for a thaw soon,’ Breuer grumbled, turning the key in the ignition, ‘so we don’t freeze our backsides off when we’re put back into uniform and assigned to traffic duty.’

When Stave, hungry and dejected, finally got back to his office, the anteroom was empty. Erna Berg and MacDonald had gone. But as soon as he entered his own office, he stopped dead. Something was missing. It took him a second to realise what it was.

The murder files were gone.

He hurried over to his desk, certain that he had left them there this morning after Mashcke came in with the news of the fourth murder. He hadn’t put them back in his filing cabinet; he’d just dashed out. Had his secretary been tidying up? It had been ages since she’d done anything of the sort. Nonetheless he pulled open the filing cabinet drawer.

It was empty.

Stave looked round in confusion. Don’t panic, he told himself, pull yourself together.

He looked in the anteroom: no sign of them.

He slumped into his chair, breathing heavily. Had somebody stolen the files? Maschke? He’d been on his way back to HQ when Stave went off to see Burger-Prinz. MacDonald, who’d been schmoozing with Erna Berg in the anteroom? Or Erna Berg herself, who had looked at the end of her tether? But why would anybody want to get rid of the murder files?

For a terrible moment, Stave imagined the rubble murderer himself had stolen into his rooms to erase the few traces of his deeds. Absurd, he told himself. Or was it? Somebody was sabotaging the investigation.

What was he to do? Go to Breuer? After the way the mayor had just hauled them over the coals, Breuer would immediately suspend him for incompetence. Ehrlich? The same. I can’t trust anybody, Stave thought. Somebody has it in for me.

He stayed late in the office, going through his notebooks and writing down everything they knew about the four murder cases. He would ask Dr Czrisini to get him copies of the autopsy reports and new copies of the police crime scene photographs. If necessary he could re-interrogate the few witnesses they had. Anna von Veckinhausen. His thoughts turned to her for a moment, but he quickly forced himself to get back to the new development.

When at last he wearily got up from his desk, just before midnight, he knew he could carry on with the investigation, the official investigation into the rubble murderer – and his private investigation into the theft of the files. He would look discreetly for the individual pages, and he would check out the people who up until now he had considered colleagues, even friends.

And he would trust nobody from now on.

Thursday, 13 February 1947

Ice-cold water on his skin and Sunlight soap the colour of clotted bile. Stave was well aware that the Sunlight soap factory in the suburb of Bahrenfeld boiled up bones. Last year he had done an investigation out there, because he suspected a killer had thrown the body of his victim into the vat. He hadn’t been able to prove it, but what did that show?