Cay Rademacher - The Murderer in Ruins

What about the missing files? Was that part of it? They had mentioned Hellinger by name, a name that had merely been languishing in the records of the Search Office and in a police station somewhere. But there were readers for the murder files: Stave, Maschke, right up to Cuddel Breuer and public prosecutor Ehrlich. That increased the possibility of somebody at some time making the link between Hellinger and MacDonald. And then there was that puzzling English word on the piece of paper Hellinger had dropped: ‘Bottleneck’. That had been in the files too. So maybe the lieutenant, who for some reason or other wanted to conceal his relationship with Hellinger, had got rid of the files. Obviously he would have known that he would get Stave’s attention. But he would also have known that in the circumstances, it would hardly have sent Stave running to his superior officer. Here and now in his quiet little office he could imagine it: a way to stop inquisitive eyes taking another look at the files. It was certainly a motive.

Did he have the opportunity? MacDonald had been hanging around with Erna Berg frequently enough, including at times when Stave wasn’t in his office. It would only have taken a second for the files to have disappeared into his greatcoat. Or maybe his secretary had been in on the act and had stolen the files for her lover. If she had had a bad conscience about it, Stave would hardly have noticed, given how distraught she had been about her other personal circumstances.

Then he turned his thoughts to the dead woman’s earring. A Parisian jeweller. Very expensive. When might the victim have been in the French capital? Before the war? Ten, at most fifteen years ago? As a young adult? Would a woman in her early twenties have worn jewellery like that? He tried to think what Margarethe would have thought of it. But the idea was absurd; when they’d been young and in love, she’d dreamed of other things. A bigger apartment. New toys for Karl. Another child. In any case, Anna von Veckinhausen had said the earrings had been made before 1914. At that time the fourth victim would have been too young to buy them or have anybody buy them for her. So maybe she had inherited them? But who in Hamburg had French jewellery? Least of all these days? Rich families. But surely somebody would have made a robbery or missing persons report?

The investigation was getting somewhere, but Stave still didn’t see where. He watched his breath in the cold air, little blue clouds rising from his lips like cigarette smoke.

Which brought him back to Maschke.

Yesterday, he had been happy to have him as far away as possible. Today was different. Up until now he had reckoned that he could have relied on MacDonald to find Maschke and bring him back whenever it suited him. But now he felt he couldn’t trust the lieutenant any more either. So it would be better if he had the vice squad man back where he could keep an eye on him. He needed to get hold of him on the phone, and not give anything away, he realised. He would have to find an excuse to break off his questioning of the doctors and get him back to Hamburg as soon as possible.

He pulled his heavy overcoat on awkwardly. Overnight a fine layer of ice had formed on it and when he pulled it over his shoulders it fell to the ground in a glistening cloud. It was a size too big for him now anyway. I’ve got so thin, he thought. All the clothes I have are now a size too large.

Stave pulled on his hat, scarf, gloves, picked up his gun, his torch. Why do I even bother? Why do I go out into the cold, battle against the wind, spend my time with people like MacDonald, Ehrlich, Maschke or Erna Berg, who all have their own agendas? Agendas in which I’m nothing more than a nuisance?

But what else was there to do? Sit alone in his grey apartment, thinking about the wife who’d burned to death? Or his estranged son who might or might not one day come home? If he was even still alive?

I am 43 years old, Stave thought to himself, and I don’t have a lot to show for my life. And then he left the flat, locked the door as carefully as always, walked down the stairs and out on to the street where the freezing wind hit him in the face like a fist. As it always did.

‘How are things?’ he asked Erna Berg, when he got to the office an hour later.

‘The baby is doing well. The doctor says I’ll begin to show in a week or two.’

So, no abortion. Stave wondered what decision she’d come to. Would she confess all to her husband? Would she break things off with MacDonald? But it was all personal stuff, not his business. He closed the door to his office behind him.

He spent his time on the phone, but still couldn’t get hold of Maschke. It worried him that he couldn’t find a hotel where Maschke might have spent the night. Don’t let him have done a runner, he prayed, wondering if he might have given away that he was on to him. Eventually he got to his feet, left the police HQ and walked the few hundred metres to the public prosecutor’s office.

Ehrlich ran a hand over his bald pate but seemed happy to see him. It smelled of tea in his office as always. Earl Grey, Stave reckoned.

‘What can I do for you?’

You could arrest my colleagues, was what Stave would have liked to say. But he wasn’t at that stage yet.

‘I’m afraid I’ve got nothing more to report in the rubble murderer case. But I’ve been doing some other investigations for which I’d appreciate your support. In a few administrative matters. Discreetly.’

‘Discretion lies at the heart of a public prosecutor’s duty,’ Ehrlich said, smiling.

‘I need to see some files. I don’t want to tell you just yet about the case they relate to because it might not even be a case. I’m at a very early stage in my investigations,’ the chief inspector said, hoping his face didn’t give away the fact that he was lying.

‘You might give me at least some general idea of the direction your investigations are taking. Is this a political matter?’

Stave thought for a moment. ‘Possibly, eventually. Primarily it requires me to make some discreet inquiries about my colleagues.’

Ehrlich looked at him with those pale bright eyes.

‘Do you mean colleagues who are also involved in the rubble murderer investigation?’

‘If I told you that, I would already be setting you after those involved. This needs to be discreet in the utmost.’

‘Understood. What files do you need?’

‘Oradour. A town in France where the SS committed a massacre in June 1944.’

‘I’ve heard of it,’ the prosecutor broke in. ‘The massacre, that is.’

He stared long and hard at Stave. The chief inspector stood there, feeling like he was on trial himself. He squirmed uncomfortably in the chair while Ehrlich just sat there looking at him.

‘The office next to mine is empty today,’ the man said at last. ‘I’ll have the files brought to you there. You can study them as you will, but you can’t take them away with you. There isn’t a lot in any case.’

‘Wasn’t there an investigation?’

‘Of course there was, but there were no suspects. Immediately after the massacre, Field Marshal Rommel tried to set up a court martial, but Hitler himself cancelled it. After that, the issue simply disappeared. The SS unit was in any case wiped out fighting the Allies at the end of June 1944. Wiped out completely.’

‘No survivors?’

Ehrlich gave him a bleak smile. ‘Up until a few minutes ago, I thought there had been no survivors. Now I’m not so sure.’

Stave smiled back. ‘Thank you, prosecutor.’

‘Keep me in the loop. If you find something, I want to know about it. And if you don’t find anything, I’d like to know that too.’

Stave sat in the office next door, enjoying the quiet, the warmth. He could even take his overcoat off. Ehrlich had ordered tea for him and he sat there drinking it. Maybe life’s not so bad after all, he thought to himself.