A Slow Death (Max Drescher Book 1)

by James Craig

  The first message was from Michael, the one he had listened to earlier and quickly erased.

  The second was from his lawyer, Clara Ozil, informing him that he could probably take a payout from his police life insurance if he took early retirement. Lovely, Max thought groggily, deleting the message, that’s the last thing I want. He would call her later in the morning.

  The final message was from Peter.

  Hi, it’s me. I was wondering … you should come round and collect your stuff. If you could manage to do it one day when I’m at work that would be good. And don’t forget to leave your key on the table in the hallway.

  There was a pause.

  Thanks, Max. I’m sorry.

  ‘Peter, Peter.’ Max shook his head sadly. Listening to the machine click off, he grabbed his coat and headed for the door, knowing that, despite the tiredness that ached in his bones, he would not sleep any more tonight.

  After polishing off one of the Café Mir’s all-day breakfasts, the world somehow seemed a better place. It was just before four a.m. and the street outside was silent. Even the most dissolute Berliner would be heading for bed by now. Those with crap jobs and early starts wouldn’t be making an appearance for an hour or so yet. It was the hour that nobody in the city wanted, which, in the Kriminalinspektor’s humble opinion made it the best time of the day. For a moment, Max enjoyed the feeling of being just about the last person on earth.

  Pushing away his empty plate, Max let out a satisfied belch as he retrieved a packet of cigarettes from his coat pocket. Lighting up an HB, he took a deep drag. ‘Ah.’ he smiled to himself. ‘The first smoke of the day is always the best.’

  Finishing his coffee, he signalled to the Turkish café owner that he wanted another, waiting patiently for the guy to schlep over with a refill.

  ‘Danke.’

  The man grunted and retreated behind the counter.

  Reaching into his jacket pocket, Max pulled out the book that he’d stolen from The Last Word bookshop and stared at the cover:

  Dealing with HIV – A guide for the newly diagnosed.

  ‘Catchy title,’ he mumbled to himself, as he vigorously sucked the nicotine from his HB.

  Flicking through the pages, he realised that he was struggling to focus on the print and moved the book further from his face. God, he thought morosely, don’t tell me I need glasses as well. Quickly moving to the index at the back, he scanned the entries for something that might pique his interest. As he did so, a sheet of paper fell out into his lap. It had been folded in half and then folded in half again. Tossing the book onto the table, Max unfolded the paper. Stapled to the top corner was a business card that read simply: Isar Services. It gave a local address and phone number. Written across the top of the paper was a twelve digit number.

  Bank account?

  Underneath, in the same handwriting, was a series of dates and numbers.

  Very big numbers.

  ‘It looks like we could finally be getting somewhere.’ Placing the paper carefully on the table, Max sat back his chair to enjoy the last of his cigarette. ‘

  Conscious of being mind-bendingly drunk, Carolina pushed open the door and they fell inside her Schöneberg apartment. Shuffling down the hall on his backside, Volkan Cin kicked off his shoes and began unbuttoning his jeans. The boy’s insatiable, she thought, grinning from ear to ear. If nothing else, coming to Berlin has done wonders for my sex life.

  With his trousers around his knees, Volkan struggled on to all fours, his bony ass enclosed in a pair of figure hugging red trunks. ‘Have you got any vodka?’

  ‘Sure.’ Reaching out to the wall for some support, Carolina staggered towards the kitchen. ‘I’ll get it.’

  ‘And some ice.’

  ‘Ice.’ She frowned, suddenly conscious of a ringing noise in her ears.

  ‘The phone,’ Volkan mumbled, crawling into the darkness of the bedroom. ‘Don’t answer it.’

  Reflexively, she picked up the receiver sitting on the small table in front of her. ‘Pronto?’

  ‘I said don’t answer the phone,’ Volkan grumbled from the far side of the doorway.

  ‘Carolina?’

  Still holding the handset, she slid slowly down the wall until she was sitting on the floor. ‘Papa,’ she said quietly, hoping that she didn’t sound too out of it, ‘why are you calling in the middle of the night?’

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘Yes, well no, not really. You’re not the only one who has trouble sleeping. What is it?’

  For several moments, nothing came down the line but the sound of the old man’s breathing. Even in her intoxicated state, she could tell he was agitated. ‘You’ve been avoiding me,’ Cesare Barbolini said flatly. It was not an accusation, just a simple articulation of fact.

  ‘Not at all, Papa, I’ve just been busy.’

  From the darkness came a rather animalistic groan. ‘Carolina, hurry up. Bring the booze.’ Crawling across the hallway, she carefully closed the bedroom door. Hopefully Volkan would take that as his cue to pass out.

  ‘Do you have someone with you?’ her father demanded.

  ‘It’s just the TV.’

  The old man knew that she was lying but ploughed on. ‘What about the money?’

  ‘We will recover it,’ she said soothingly, ‘we are making good progress.’

  ‘But you don’t have it yet?’

  No, we don’t have it yet. ‘We will, soon.’

  ‘And Bodo?’

  Thinking about the accountant with his head in a noose, Carolina had to fight the urge to gag. Suddenly exhausted, she took a succession of quick, shallow breaths before answering. ‘Bodo Grozer is off the payroll. Permanently.’

  ‘Did he talk?’

  Faced with such a simple question, she found no room for evasion. ‘No.’

  The low groan sounded like nothing so much as a death rattle. ‘So how exactly are you going to recover the money?’

  ‘Don’t worry, Papa.’

  ‘Stop telling me not to worry.’ Cesare stormed. ‘Three million dollars! That money is not ours to lose. There will be consequences.’

  ‘I understand, Papa,’ she snapped back. ‘We will get the money. Trust me.’ Unable to listen to any more of the old man’s complaining, she let the receiver slip from her hand and placed her throbbing forehead against the cool wooden floor, praying that unconsciousness would come quickly.

  15

  Michael Rahn appeared in front of Max’s desk, looking genuinely annoyed. ‘Erwin Helmes has been arrested.’

  ‘Again?’ Max frowned. ‘The Counsellor really is a busy boy. I didn’t even know that they’d let him out after the last time.’

  ‘He was released on bail after less than twelve hours in a cell,’ Michael sighed.

  ‘Shame we don’t still use the guillotine. What happened this time?’

  ‘The usual: stoning a police car, resisting arrest, damage to public property.’

  Max raised an eyebrow.

  ‘He kicked a hole in the front desk downstairs,’ Michael explained.

  ‘Exactly the type of behaviour that we’ve come to expect from our elected representatives,’ Max mused. ‘Where was he nicked? Just down the road?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Michael nodded, ‘the fighting has been getting worse again. There were hundreds of cops in there last night again.’

  ‘Well not us,’ Max said cheerily. ‘We were safely tucked up in bed.’

  Michael looked doubtfully at Max. His dishevelled boss looked like he’d had anything but a regulation eight hours’ sleep.

  ‘The whole thing,’ Max continued, ‘is a complete bloody farce. It’s just a game to these idiots. They realise that a few Molotov cocktails and some burning cars gets them on television and makes them celebrities.’

  ‘It’s more than just a few petrol bombs,’ said Michael. ‘Another hundred police officers were injured last night. Gregg is complaining about the flawed security policy by the Berlin political authorities.’r />
  ‘Martin Gregg,’ Max huffed, ‘the beloved head of our union, is, by definition, a bloody politician.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘What’s he gonna do about this mess? Nothing.’

  Reaching across the desk, Michael picked up the business card lying next to the phone and studied it carefully. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘I went back to the bookshop for another look around,’ Max lied. ‘It was under the plastic tray in the till.’ Cursing under his breath, he wondered what he’d done with the bit of paper with the numbers on it. Surely he hadn’t left it at the café?

  ‘So, who are Isar Services?’

  ‘No idea,’ Max admitted.

  ‘Do you think they could be connected to the killings?’

  ‘No idea,’ the Kriminalinspektor repeated. He was getting irritated by his sergeant’s questions and realised he was going to need a lot more coffee if he was going to make it through the rest of the morning.

  Michael gestured in the direction of the Kriminalkommissar’s office. ‘Have you shown this to Marin?’

  Max shook his head. ‘I want us to do some more digging first. We can’t just drop something like this on the Kriminalkommissar’s desk without knowing whether it’s actually of any relevance. They might just be a supplier to the bookshop or something.’

  ‘So you want to go and pay them a visit?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Max retrieved the card from Michael. ‘It’s a Gesundbrunnen address. Do you know anyone up there we can talk to? See if anyone has heard of this Isar Services?’

  ‘Well –’

  ‘In my experience they are a bunch useless sods up there,’ Max reflected, ‘so it would be good if we could use unofficial channels.’

  Michael thought about it for a moment. ‘What about Ulrike?’

  Max made a face signifying that the name hadn’t immediately registered.

  ‘Ulrike Hell,’ Michael said dreamily, ‘don’t you remember her? The big blonde SchuPo officer. Worked here until a couple of years ago; looked like a Helmut Newton wet dream.’

  ‘I’m sure Sarah would be impressed by your powers of recall,’ Max grinned. ‘Of course, I don’t pay as close attention to those things as you do.’

  ‘She married some guy from somewhere up around there and got a transfer. I heard she got promoted to the KriPo last year.’

  ‘Blonde and well stacked,’ Max mused, beginning to recall the girl in question, ‘I bet they love her over there. Presumably she has blue eyes too.’

  ‘Hazel,’ said Michael, a little too quickly.

  ‘Okay, loverboy,’ said Max, dropping the business card into the top drawer of his desk in an attempt not to lose it, ‘see if you can get hold of your Amazonian Queen and work some of that famous Rahn charm on her. See what you can find out about Isar Services and then maybe we’ll go and check them out.’

  The bastard hangover was coming at her in waves, the nausea getting progressively worse until Carolina was convinced that she would have to puke on the carpet – or over the unhappy woman in front of her. Taking a deep breath, she cautiously opened her mouth and pushed out a few words, trying to sound both sober and menacing. ‘Nice place you have here. Very quiet.’

  ‘Where’s my husband?’ It was less of a question than a plea. Magda Grozer shifted uneasily on the white leather sofa as she looked up at the woman standing on her prize Persian rug, radiating hostility from behind a pair of outsized Ray-Bans. ‘Why can’t he come home?’

  ‘Bodo won’t be back,’ Carolina Barbolini said grimly, ‘until we recover the money that he stole from us. Do you understand?’

  The woman let out a sob before managing a tentative nod.

  ‘This is a very serious matter. Very serious indeed.’ Glancing out of the window, Carolina watched Volkan Cin attacking the back lawn with a spade with a commendable determination. How did he manage it? If anything, last night, he had been even more drunk than she had herself. Where did he get the stamina? What the boy lacked in intelligence, he certainly made up for in energy. ‘Where is the money?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Grozer groaned. More sobs followed. Carolina shook her head. They didn’t have time for this shit. If Bodo had been an idiot, it seemed that his wife was worse. Placing her hands on her hips, she looked enquiringly at Stefan Hug, standing by the fireplace with a bored expression on his face. When he didn’t respond, she gestured for him to step up to the plate. It was time for him to play good cop to her bad cop.

  ‘Look, Mrs Grozer, we just need to get this sorted out.’ Stepping forward, Stefan crouched down and gave the dowdy hausfrau a gentle pat on the knee. He supplemented it with a reassuring smile, before sliding onto the sofa beside her. ‘There was just a misunderstanding. Miss Barbolini here just wants to get the matter resolved. Once we can get it sorted out, everything will go back to normal.’

  Magda looked at each of them in turn. ‘So why doesn’t Bodo tell you where he put the money,’ she wailed, ‘if he took it like you say he did?’

  Stefan glanced at Carolina who gave him a You’re on your own shrug. ‘Well, the thing is, he can’t really remember – at the moment – what he did with it.’

  Wringing her hands, Magda rocked forward on the sofa, her unfocused eyes staring at an ill-defined spot on the wall. ‘He can’t remember?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But Bodo’s always had such a good memory. Maybe I should talk to him. See if I can help him remember.’

  ‘No,’ Stefan said gently. ‘That’s not a good idea.’

  Seeing as he’s dead. Another wave of nausea waved over her and, this time, Carolina knew that she was going to puke for sure. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’ she mumbled, not waiting for an answer as she rushed towards the door.

  Feeling much better after having disgorged the contents of her stomach into the porcelain bowl, Carolina was splashing water on her face when there was the sound of a pop from the living room, followed by a groan and a loud crash. Resisting the urge to rush out to see what had happened, she carefully dried herself and slowly, carefully reapplied her make-up. After cleaning away all traces of her presence from the basin, she flushed the toilet twice, before stepping back out into the hall. Returning to the living room, she found Volkan standing over the body of Magda Grozer. There was broken glass all over the floor and a darkening stain, spreading slowly across the cream rug.

  ‘The silly bitch fell on coffee table,’ he grumbled, stuffing a small semi-automatic into his jacket pocket. ‘I bet that it cost a packet, too.’

  Keeping her own counsel, Carolina looked at Stefan. Hands in pockets, he was staring determinedly out of the window, as if events inside the room were nothing to do with him. You are becoming too much of a spectator, she thought. It’s as if we embarrass you.

  ‘I got the money.’

  ‘What?’ She turned back to the grinning Volkan, who pointed towards a dirty case standing in the corner.

  ‘The genius buried it in the garden. You could see where the lawn had been dug up and put back again.’

  ‘So why did you shoot her, then?’ Stefan groused, his gaze still focused on the grey sky.

  ‘We don’t want any witnesses,’ Volkan shrugged. ‘No loose ends.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Carolina nodded. ‘No loose ends. Let’s go before someone turns up.’

  Walking up the gravel drive, Manfred Penzler stopped to admire Bodo Grozer’s imposing detached home. A sudden gust of wind reminded him that the only noise he could hear was the leaves on the trees that kept the neighbours at bay. It was almost as if the city behind him had disappeared.

  Nice place, the Kriminalinspektor thought, very quiet. And very expensive. If there had been any doubt in Penzler’s mind that the dead accountant had been bent, the massive pile in front of him sent it scurrying for the shadows.

  Resuming his march towards the front door, he was just about to reach for the bell when the door flew open and a tanned, elegant woman wearing a pair of outsized sunglasses s
tepped over the threshold.

  Penzler was confused. His first thought was that the woman belonged in the pages of one of those glossy magazines that his wife read by the bucket load. She certainly didn’t look much like the wife of a fifty-something bean counter.

  Maybe it’s his second wife.

  ‘Frau Grozer?’

  ‘Who are you?’ the woman snapped.

  Fumbling in the inside pocket of his jacket, Penzler struggled to retrieve his ID. ‘I’m –’ sensing movement behind the woman, he looked up in time to see a young guy marching forward, arm outstretched. Pushing the woman out of the way, he pointed the gun at Penzler’s stomach and pulled the trigger.

  16

  Taking the U-Bahn to Kurfürstenstraße, Max headed for Stauffenbergstraße. Passing the Bendlerblock, he watched as a couple of elderly tourists, hunched over a map of Tiergarten trying to locate the memorial to the attempted coup against Hitler of July 20, 1944. ‘Not my idea of a holiday,’ he mumbled to himself, upping his pace as he walked past, eyes kept fixed on the sidewalk in front of him.

  A hundred metres further down the street, office buildings gave way to a row of eight villas which had been rebuilt after the war. Coming to a halt in front of the second house, Max pulled out a set of three keys. Slipping the first into the metal gate set into a high brick wall, he let himself into a small courtyard. Quickly crossing the space, he used the second key to open the front door.

  Peter Behle’s apartment was on the top floor. Reaching the top of the stairs, Max took a moment to regain his breath, ringing the doorbell even though he knew for certain that there would be no one home. After a few seconds, he slipped the third key into the lock and stepped into a hallway, smiling as his shoes started squeaking on the highly polished parquet flooring. Dropping the keys on the side table, as Peter had instructed, he squelched down the hall towards the bedroom at the far end. When he got there, he found the bed had been neatly made and everything was clean and tidy, just as it always was. Shaking his head, Max chuckled to himself. It was as if Peter was waiting for his flat to feature in a photo spread for his beloved ‘Homes & Gardens’ magazine. To the right of the bed was a small chest of drawers. Pulling a C&A plastic bag out of his jacket pocket, he dropped on one knee, opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a modest selection of shirts, underpants and socks that had been left from previous visits.