Bern came over as soon as he saw me lean on the bar. I had to lean on it. I was trembling too much not to.
Bern ran a hand over his head stubble and flexed his tattooed arms beneath a shirt so sweat-soaked his nipples and his chest hair were visible through the material.
'You're drunk,' he said, reading me all wrong. 'You here to cause trouble?'
'That depends. Where's Trudi?'
He checked the watch in his apron pocket, then frowned and touched his Kaiser Bill.
'What is it?' I said. 'Hasn't she turned up?'
I checked my watch: twelve twenty am. Assuming she was working the same shift that night, she should have been out on the floor by then. I cast an eye over the tables and the naked girls bearing trays of drinks and snacks. Trudi wasn't among them.
I had no time for this. No time. I'd spent hours at the hospital answering questions about the attack and waiting for news about Frau Stausberg's condition. Detective Kaufmann had come along for the questioning and I'd had to answer the same questions two or three times over. He'd called out the lab boys to scrape the blood off the pavement and see if they could ID it as human. I'd got the feeling from the looks he gave me that he was humouring me, telling me that. I asked him about witnesses and he sidestepped my question in such a way as to avoid saying what I hadn't wanted to hear: no witnesses. At least, not to my version of events. No one had come out yet and said I was talking shit, but really, when you looked at it, what were the chances of a man falling out of a third floor window and getting up again afterwards?
Frau Stausberg, no one could tell me about. I still didn't know if she was going to be all right.
In between all that, I'd dozed. Still hadn't got much in the way of what you'd call real sleep, though. My mind had raced ahead, putting together what Frau Stausberg had told me with the information I'd extorted from Frieda Brandt.
It was the question of the rope that had tugged at me, and a Karl Berg phrase from the Gross autopsy: asphyxiation from forcible strangulation with a ligature of at least 5mm in diameter.
A ligature. Ritter had got Stausberg to attack those girls with a rope in April because Gross' killer had used a rope in February. Because Ritter had used a rope. He'd murdered Gross because she'd gone back on their agreement. Then he'd stabbed the body to make it match the murders of Ohliger and Scheer and make it look like part of a wider pattern. But somewhere down the line he'd thought the real killer wouldn't confess to Gross' murder – after all, who could have predicted Kürten's lust for notoriety? Ritter had realised the need for a scapegoat he could control, someone who would confess to all three murders and make the heat go away. Someone mentally unstable, to cover the killing of so many random victims. Prone to playing with rope, to explain the ligature marks on Gross' corpse. So he'd brainwashed Stausberg and sent him out to attack those women to establish a similar pattern to the killings.
What with all that on my mind, it had taken me until after eleven pm to work out Trudi might be in danger too.
I rapped the bar. 'Hey, has she turned up or not?'
Bern's face told it all. Trudi wasn't there, and she should have been, and turning up late for the job was not something she made a habit of.
'Why don't you just clear off, bull?' Bern said. 'Christ, you look like you've been sleeping under a hedge.'
Not quite. I'd been existing on coffee, waiting for Trudi's shift to start. And now here I was at Willi's, and here she wasn't.
'Where does she live?'
Bern snorted away the idea that he was going to tell me. He turned away. I'd had it with this guy. Pure adrenaline propelled me over the bar. I got him in a choke hold with my left arm. I pulled the Luger, kept it below bar level as I dug the barrel into his spine.
'Give me her address or I'll paralyse you with a bullet, damn you.'
31
Goddamned top-floor apartments, they'll do it to you every time. I took the ill-lit stairwell at a jog to try and keep the adrenaline pumping around my system. I was getting that tell-tale sharp pain at the back of my knees that meant my legs were getting ready to give out. When I got to the top floor and knocked on Trudi's door my breath was coming in short, painful bursts and those now-familiar white and purple fairy lights sparkled in my corneas. Or did I mean my retinas? Either way, I was going to have a hell of a time at my next medical. That's if I was still in the department by the time the next medical rolled around.
'Yeah?' Trudi called, once I was through knocking. I recognised her voice. Still alive then, though her voice had a tremor in it and she didn't open up. Maybe there was someone in there with her. Someone with a weapon.
I got out the Luger again and tried the door handle. Locked.
'Who is it?' Trudi called, louder this time. Harder, too.
I kicked in the door and she came at me with a kitchen knife. The knife snagged in my jacket. My boxing instincts took over and I let Trudi's momentum carry her over my hip. She careered over me and landed face-up on the landing. The knife dropped. I kicked it away down the stairs and trained my gun on her.
'Are you alone?' I said.
She gurgled and shook her head, though whether that meant she couldn't answer me or no she wasn't alone, that was anyone's guess. She'd been wearing a cloche hat so tight-fitting it was still perched on her head, even after she'd practically somersaulted over me. That was some quality workmanship, right there. I pulled her inside the apartment and shut the door. Tried to, anyway. It wouldn't shut properly. Too much of the door frame had come away from the wall where I'd kicked it.
'Don't move,' I told her, and left her just inside the doorway. I walked further into the room, pistol out in front of me. A studio apartment: bed – a stained mattress on the floor – wooden chair bearing an open and over-stuffed cardboard suitcase, a wardrobe that was too big for the room, a washstand. Three sky lights, all open and doing nothing to dissipate the stifling heat. It was like my room, only lighter for more of the day, no doubt. A bare light bulb dangled from a fraying cord near the door. It burned too brightly to look at for long. There was no other door, there was no alcove, and there was nowhere for anyone to hide, save the wardrobe.
I crept to the wardrobe and pulled it open. Empty, not just of Ritters or green men, but of clothes too. Bare wire hangers swung on their pole. The shelf compartments were empty, clean patches edged with dust to show where the folded linen had been. I crossed to the open suitcase on the chair. It was full of dresses and underthings, and more clothes lay atop rumpled blankets on the mattress.
Among the clothes was a framed photograph that made me look twice. The print showed Trudi with an arm around a still-blonde Gisela Ritter. I blinked the image away. No, not Gisela, but a younger and thinner version of her.
I pocketed my Luger, checking for knife tears in the jacket and not finding any. I took the framed picture over to Trudi, who was heavy-breathing where I'd left her. I leaned over and showed her the photo.
'Who is this with you?'
'Emma,' she croaked.
'Emma Gross?'
She nodded. I looked again at the photo. Gott in Himmel, was this why Ritter had wanted to have a baby with Gross? Because she looked like his wife? It was the cheekbones and the way she held herself that made her look like Gisela. I'd seen cadavers aplenty in my time and I knew the distorting, diminishing effect of death on the human form, but still it was impossible to match this smiling young woman with the corpse I'd seen in Gross' crime scene photos. In this picture, she and Trudi were standing in front of a large beer barrel bearing a sign advertising the chance to bob for apples for a pfennig. Gisela had a half-eaten apple in one hand and was offering it to Trudi. From Trudi's appearance, it looked like the picture had been taken some time within the previous couple of years.
'Why did you kick my door in?' Trudi croaked.
'I thought you might be in trouble.'
'Oh.' She choked and coughed and turned her head to spit phlegm at the floorboards, her gold earrings reflecting the l
ight.
'Why did you attack me?' I asked.
She swallowed a couple of times and gasped, 'I thought you were him.'
'Who?'
'Emma's regular suitor.'
'Ritter?'
'Huh? The cop? What do you mean?' Her blue eyes clouded and she frowned. Upside-down, as I saw it, it was an odd effect. She hadn't known that Ritter was the guy.
'Michael Ritter was the regular suitor, the father of her child,' I said. 'The one Brandt aborted.'
'You found her then.' She gave me a grin.
'You could have saved me a lot of trouble if you'd told me, instead of sending me out on a blind treasure hunt.'
'I didn't know where she was, you dumb bull. Emma never told me. Didn't want me involved, she said.'
'And you never asked around?'
'I respected her wishes. Besides, when I told Ritter what I knew last year it didn't go anywhere. I thought you were going to be like him. Another bull who didn't care.'
'But he did care, Trudi. More than anyone.' I eased her into a sitting position. She took deep breaths. 'You all right?'
'I think so.'
I nodded at the suitcase. 'So was that why you were leaving? Because this man might come after you?'
'I knew with you blundering around asking questions, not knowing anything, there was a chance you'd bring him out of the shadows. I thought by giving you Brandt's name it would keep the heat off me long enough to get out of town.'
'I need to know what else you know,' I said. 'Have you seen a man wearing a green fedora or a green scarf? When he's not wearing the scarf he has a wide scar on his throat, like this.' I traced a line from my ear to my adam's apple.
She shook her head.
'You sure?'
'I'm sure.'
'Okay then, forget about that. Let's go back to Emma and Ritter. Did you see them together the night she died? Did you see him leave in the morning? Anything like that?'
She rubbed the back of her head. 'No. I don't know what else I can tell you.'
'What did you tell Ritter? Back when he was investigating, I mean.'
'Nothing I haven't told you already. Like I said before, he didn't give a shit so what was the point of trying, you know?' She patted down her hair, her fingers catching the gold hoop in her left ear before stopping and caressing it for a moment. 'Wait.'
She went over to her suitcase and pulled out a box covered in split leather. She opened the box, palmed something from it and returned to me.
'When I found Emma's body that morning I noticed something glinting at me. Under the bed. I took it. Should have handed it in when the police came I suppose, but that Ritter was such an arshloch...'
Couldn't fault her on her character assessment. 'What was it?' I said.
I stretched out an upturned palm and she gave me what was in her hand. It was green, emerald green, cut in the shape of a tear and set in silver. Familiar as a piece of jewellery can be.
And that was it, bright and clear as a summer dawn. Ritter hadn't killed Emma Gross after all, but now I knew who had.
32
I entered the Church of St Rochus while the morning service was still going and I put out my hand so the door would close without slamming. The windows diffused the morning light. I breathed deep and got a hint of those sweet spices lingering on the air. And to think that all of six days ago when I'd entered the same church I hadn't had to make any effort to do that. The aroma had just been there, all around me, penetrating my unbroken nostrils without my needing to think about it.
Dear God, was it only six days since then? What day was it now? Wednesday? Thursday?
Whichever morning it was, there was a hell of a crowd in the pews, so many people that I couldn't make out Gisela anywhere. The white-bearded priest, or deacon, or whoever it was that did these things in Latin ceremonies, was speaking to the faithful. I hoped I hadn't got there too early. If my timing was good they'd have dispensed with the communion by then and they'd be drawing the mass to a close.
Frau Stausberg's blood covered my trousers, my jacket sleeves and some of my shirt. I hadn't made it home yet to change. Or to sleep, come to that. After the train station, I'd returned to the hospital. I still hadn't slept well and I still didn't know if Frau Stausberg was going to survive and, on top of all that, my neck ached.
I headed for the chapel where I'd found Kürten. I could wait there without attracting too much attention. Well, without attracting quite as much, at any rate. The priest made the sign of the cross and recited some Latin. The congregation responded, a deep chorus, again in Latin, and then the people rose to their feet with a loud rustle of clothing. They began to file out to the accompaniment of the organ. The white-bearded priest led the procession. Once he'd made it to the baptismal font the congregation began to talk, voices echoing and blending into one long serpentine hiss.
Five minutes went by before I spotted her. I took off my jacket and rolled it over my left arm to try and cover the blood stains. I left the chapel, went up to the line of worshippers and tapped Gisela on the shoulder.
'There you are, dear,' I said, forcing some jollity into my voice. Looking at those nearest to her in the queue, she didn't seem to be with any friends. Her face betrayed no surprise at my being there. I pulled her out of line, tugging on the sleeve of her high-necked, low-hemmed black dress.
She took the hospital stationery envelope I handed to her and she came with me to the chapel. I beckoned her further inside, closer to the altar. That red bucket of sand was still in the same place by the side of the altar.
'What do you want?' she said, looking around.
'Here.' I took the envelope back. Relieved of her burden, she crossed her arms to shut me out. I unrolled the jacket and slipped it back on, then I slid the envelope into an inside pocket. I went to the iron rack for the votive candles. I selected a fresh candle, lit it and put it on the rack, offering a silent prayer to Lilli as I took a deep breath. My stomach gurgled again and it was uncomfortable as hell down there.
But the pain was gone.
'I named her, you know,' I said.
'What are you talking about?'
'Lilli. That's what I would have named her. Our daughter. If she'd lived.'
'You...' She didn't know how to end her thought. I didn't blame her. 'If she'd lived? If she'd lived? How dare you do this to me, now, here, in my church. You were the one who insisted. You were.' Gisela pointed at me and her plump lips were turned down at the ends, as they had been ever since the day our Lilli died.
I took her glare and I didn't flinch. She deserved that much from me.
'Did you know about your husband's arrangement with Emma Gross?' I said. 'Was that why you killed her?'
She came closer, close enough that I could see the open pores and small clumps of face powder on her cheeks, the plain studs in her lobes where the tear-shaped emerald earrings I'd bought had once hung. Red spots bloomed along her cheek bones.
'Did you kill her because she'd agreed to bear him the child you couldn't? Or because she had it killed the way...' I took another deep breath and tensed my belly '...the way you killed Lilli.'
She flung a fist at me. I caught it and twirled her around until she fell into my arms. I held her close. She tried to pull away but I wouldn't let her.
There were tears in those chocolate brown eyes, and if there was a point I would've let her walk away from it all, that was it.
'I found your missing earring,' I said. 'Someone at the hotel picked it up at the scene and gave it to me.'
'Liar. Michael got that earring back and I – '
She stopped herself, realising too late what she'd said.
'Yes, that's what he told you. But he lied to you, honey. Was that why he suggested you stop colouring your hair too? In case anyone had seen you that night?'
She looked down at the floor and then back up at me. We held each other in a tight embrace. She was tensed to break free, while my arms began to ache with the effort of restraining h
er.
'Why, Gisela?'
'Why did you make me kill our baby, Thomas? Why did you make me do that?'
She looked up at me, eyes shining. The feel of her in my arms made me shake, and it wasn't just from the effort of stopping her getting away. I told myself it was the adrenaline kicking in.
'What I really don't get is why you agreed to him having a child with her,' I said. 'I mean, the woman was a prostitute.'
She looked puzzled. 'Why did I agree? It was my idea, Thomas.'
'What?'
'He told me about her. She'd turned up at headquarters one day. Vice brought her in for a VD screening. Michael caught sight of her in the courtyard and asked about her. He was so struck by the resemblance to me that he told me about it later that night. I had my idea straight away. To help make amends for you and me. He should cultivate a relationship with her, have the child with her that I couldn't give him. I thought that if the baby came out looking like me, no one would ask questions, and everything would be okay.'
Damn, but those plump lips of hers were inviting. She parted them and a small animal sound escaped, her whole mouth quivering. Tears welled in her eyes.
'But then she betrayed him,' Gisela said. 'She changed her mind. And it was like I'd betrayed him, so many times over. First with you, then by becoming barren, then by suggesting getting that harlot pregnant. And then...the final insult. Another crime against the Lord.'
She closed her eyes then and began to hum.
'You mind not upsetting my wife, partner?'
Gisela gasped and spun her head around, eyes wide. Ritter stood at the entrance to the chapel, his back to the stragglers still shuffling out of the church. He was aiming his Walther polizei pistol at me. His hand was steady despite the purple flush of his cheeks and the hard look he gave me. Even with all those danger signs, I couldn't take my eyes off his terrible moustache.
'You didn't forget our appointment to meet for breakfast did you, darling?' Ritter asked.
The Killing Of Emma Gross Page 22