A Slow Death (Max Drescher Book 1)

by James Craig

  ‘That is hardly our problem,’ Kappel mused. ‘We’ll be gone by tomorrow.’

  ‘If you find the cash,’ Barbolini pointed out. ‘Your problem is how you get your loot and get out of here, before the cops catch up with you. There are only a couple of places where it could be.’ I hope. ‘I know where they are. If you let me go, you can be on your way home with the money in less than three hours, four maximum. ‘

  Wiping an imaginary speck of dust from the jacket of his Sherry & Holland Prince of Wales check tweed suit, Kappel shook his head. ‘The police will never catch up with me.’

  ‘Well, then, you’ve got nothing to worry about.’ Carolina wrinkled her nose. ‘Take all the time you like. Search the whole city. Be my guest.’

  Folding his arms, Kappel stared at his shoes. They could do with a shine. ‘Tell me,’ he said slowly, ‘how you propose to make this arrangement work.’

  Returning to the Polizeipräsidium, Max realised that their luck had finally run out. Heading across the entrance lobby with Michael and Terium, he walked straight into Marin.

  ‘Boss –’

  ‘Kriminalinspektor.’ A look of glee spread across Martin Marin’s face, like a man who had bent down to tie his shoelace and discovered a 10DM note on the sidewalk. He pointed to the stairs. ‘My office, right now.’ Not waiting for a response, he executed an almost balletic turn on the stone floor and set off in the direction from which he had come, setting a brisk pace as he signalled for the others to follow.

  Max looked at Michael and Terium in turn. Each man had the same resigned look on his face as they reluctantly followed the Kriminalkommissar upstairs.

  Here we go, Max thought grimly, ass-kicking time.

  By the time he reluctantly shuffled into the Kriminalkommissar’s office it was standing room only. ‘Close the door,’ Marin barked. To Max’s relief, he had not yet fired up one of his stogies. Still, with so many bodies present, the atmosphere in the room was, if anything, more oppressive than usual.

  Doing as he was told, Max stepped into the space between Michael and Rolf Terium, in front of the Kriminalkommissar’s desk. Almost immediately, he felt a migraine begin to build at the base of his skull. His mouth was dry and he needed something to eat. I hope this doesn’t take too long, he thought, breathing through his mouth, or I might pass out. Let’s get this over with, shall we? Max stuck his hands behind his back and pushed back his shoulders, ready to take his beating like a man.

  Slouched in his chair, Marin gestured towards the man standing by the window. ‘Max, this is Kriminalkommissar Bruno Eichel, from Gesundbrunnen.’

  Max nodded, avoiding eye contact with the visitor.

  ‘And this,’ Marin added sarcastically, ‘is Kriminalinspektor Max Drescher. Max is a bit of a legend around here. I’m sure he’ll be able to explain to us just exactly what is going on.’ Loosening his tie, he slumped back in his chair, inviting a response.

  Looking like a cross between a poor man’s Bernd Schuster and a member of the Village People, Eichel eyed Max suspiciously before turning his attention to his own man. ‘It’s nice to know that you’ve finally resurfaced, Rolf.’

  ‘Things have been moving fast,’ Terium said evenly, refusing to show any sign of annoyance at being called to account at such a crucial stage in the investigation. Standing to Max’s left, he radiated an impressive sense of calm, letting his gaze gently roam from Eichel to Marin and back again. ‘As I am sure you are by now aware, I discovered that I – or rather my alter-ego Stefan Hug – had inadvertently become part of Kriminalinspektor Drescher and Sergeant Rahn’s murder investigation. Once we had taken the opportunity to compare notes, it was clear that we should pool our resources in order to try and finally bring these matters to a close.’

  ‘And you had to blow your cover?’ Lifting an arm to scratch his head, Marin gave the room an unfortunate glimpse of the dark patches of sweat spreading across his grey shirt, threatening to meet in the middle of his chest.

  Eichel shot him a look that said Leave my guy to me, but said nothing.

  ‘It had been blown already,’ Terium lied, not missing a beat.

  ‘Dante Fei,’ Eichel nodded, idly scratching at his New York Cosmos T-shirt. If Marin was old school, Eichel preferred the too cool for school look. The jeans, T-shirt and Puma sneakers ensemble made him look like a bloated sixteen-year-old. ‘A recently departed employee of the Barbolini family. His body was found in Treptow yesterday. He will not be missed.’

  ‘That was me.’

  ‘You killed him?’ Eichel didn’t look particularly surprised.

  ‘That’s right,’ Terium nodded. ‘I didn’t have much of a choice. Carolina Barbolini had discovered who I was. They even had my real name.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Eichel shot his officer an exasperated look.

  ‘She sent us down to Bonhsdorf on the pretext of checking out some property that Isar Services was supposed to be interested in buying.’

  Max was impressed by his colleague’s ability to improvise.

  ‘It was just a pretext to get me down there. Dante was supposed put a bullet in my head and bury the body.’ Terium winced at the memory. For a moment, it looked he was about to tear up.

  Max cleared his throat. Don’t overdo it with the post-traumatic stress routine.

  ‘I had to deal with it. It was him or me.’ Terium looked at Marin and Eichel in turn. ‘Of course, I operated in line with standard procedures at all times. I will make that clear my report. And it will all stand up at a board of enquiry.’

  ‘Now, now,’ said Eichel hastily, ‘I’m not sure that things will necessarily come to that.’

  Marin looked doubtful. ‘We can’t just brush it under the carpet. Apart from anything else, Treptow won’t want an unsolved murder on their books. That never looks good.’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ Eichel instructed. ‘I can handle it.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Marin conceded, somewhat gracelessly.

  Stifling a yawn, Max glanced at Michael. He knew that his sergeant was thinking the same thing as he was: These desk jockeys don’t have a clue. As long as Theo Oster keeps his mouth shut about all of this, then we’ll be fine.

  ‘Anyway,’ Terium added, ‘when we finish this investigation, we’re gonna close the book on a lot of killings, enough for everyone to look good.’

  ‘Oh?’ At the mention of some possible good news, Marin’s face brightened somewhat.

  ‘For a start,’ Terium explained, ‘Volkan Cin shot Manfred Penzler.’

  A look of irritation passed across Marin’s face. He could see his chance for upstaging Eichel ebbing away.

  ‘And you know this, how?’

  ‘I was there when it happened.’

  ‘So why didn’t you arrest him?’ Marin persisted.

  ‘Because, sir, he had a gun.’

  Max stifled a titter.

  ‘Volkan wasn’t going anywhere,’ Terium continued. ‘I knew that we could arrest him at any time, so I was holding off, waiting to see if we could try complete the assignment.’

  ‘In the meantime,’ Marin sniffed, pulling open the top drawer of his desk and rummaging around inside, ‘Volkan got his internal organs splattered all over some apartment in Zehlendorf.’

  Shit, Max thought, he’s looking for a smoke.

  ‘Like I said, things have been moving fast.’

  ‘We think Volkan and Barbolini had Kappel’s money,’ Max chipped in, ‘and he’s in town trying to get it back.’

  Eichel’s eyes lit up. ‘Kappel? Are you sure?’

  ‘We think so,’ Terium nodded.

  ‘Kappel?’ Marin scowled. ‘Who the hell is Kappel?’ Unable to locate a cigar, he slammed the drawer shut in disgust.

  ‘Arnold Kappel,’ Eichel smiled, happy to finally get one over on his colleague, ‘is a top-level criminal entrepreneur trying to build an empire in the New Europe, using Berlin as a base. In all likelihood, not the kind of crook yo
u would have come across before.’ After taking a moment to enjoy Marin digesting the insult, he gestured towards Terium. ‘He is the ultimate prize that Rolf here has been putting his life on the line for. We have been after him for some considerable time.’

  ‘Fei worked for the Barbolinis,’ Terium added, ‘and they worked for Kappel and –’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ Marin snapped, ‘I get the picture.’ Shifting uneasily in his chair, his mind was already straying towards the tobacconist’s shop across the road. ‘You’re trying to nail some Scaramanga-type figure and save us all from a one man international crime wave.’

  Scaramanga? Michael gave Max a quizzical look.

  ‘It would be a big scalp, boss,’ Max pointed out, ignoring his young colleague’s ignorance regarding James Bond villains.

  Momentarily pushing thoughts of cigars to the back of his mind, Marin tried to calculate the chances of some of the glory coming his way if things worked out. ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘We try and catch Kappel while he’s in the city,’ Max grinned, ‘using the money as bait.’

  Marin’s eyes narrowed. ‘And how much money are we talking about?’

  ‘Three million.’

  ‘Marks?’

  ‘Dollars.’

  Marin’s eyes widened. ‘Hell, that’s what, five million marks?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Max nodded, ‘the money was supposed to be used to purchase a warehouse in Karlshorst that they were going to turn into apartments as part of a wider money laundering scheme. It was quite a neat idea, really. But then Volkan started going a bit nuts playing the gangster and Kappel decided he wanted his stake money back.’

  Eichel resumed playing with his moustache. ‘And where is this money now?’

  ‘Downstairs, in the evidence store.’

  ‘Best place for it,’ Marin nodded.

  ‘But we’re going to take it out again,’ Michael ventured. Ignoring Max’s exasperated look, he added: ‘We’re going to place it in a flat owned by Volkan’s father.’

  ‘That’s not much of a plan,’ Marin grumbled, ‘is it? In fact it’s the biggest pile of shit since … since,’ he waved an arm helplessly in the air, ‘since the last time you were in here trying to sell me some stinking turd or other.’

  It’s the only one we’ve got, Max reflected.

  ‘They want the money bad,’ Michael said cheerily.

  ‘If you just leave the cash in this apartment,’ Marin frowned, ‘will it be safe?’

  ‘No,’ Terium grinned, ‘it’s not supposed to be safe. It’s bait.’

  Marin glanced at Eichel, but said nothing.

  ‘We’ve put the word out on the street that this was Volkan’s safe house,’ Max explained. ‘We’re going to let that information percolate through the criminal fraternity for twenty-four hours and then see who turns up.’

  ‘Okay,’ Eichel nodded, ‘but you’ll be responsible for the cash at all times.’

  ‘You’ll have to sign for it,’ Marin chipped in.

  ‘Sure,’ said Terium and Max in unison.

  Marin waved an index finger at the two detectives. ‘Just so you understand, it’s your ass if you lose it.’

  ‘Keep me better informed this time,’ Eichel added, directing his remarks towards Terium. ‘And, remember, I need a full report on this investigation as soon as possible. If nothing else, at least we can put the Penzler shooting to bed before the funeral.’ Eichel offered up a wry smile. ‘The Mayor will be delighted.’

  ‘Plus the Grozer shootings,’ Terium added.

  ‘And Serhat Khedira,’ Max added guiltily. ‘Not to mention the Beerfeldt family.’

  Marin frowned. ‘Where do they fit in to all of this?’

  Max was about to explain but Terium beat him to it. ‘Carl Beerfeldt stole the three million from Barbolini, working with the accountant Bodo Grozer. That’s why they were killed. The cash was finally recovered from Grozer’s garden, just before Penzler was shot.’

  ‘A lot of people have died chasing this money,’ Michael chipped in.

  ‘Good, good.’ Energised by the prospect of a sudden spike in his clean-up rates, Marin began rubbing his hands in glee before thinking better of it. Sitting up in his chair, he pointed at Max. ‘Let’s try and avoid any more bodies, shall we?’

  ‘Well do our best,’ Max replied, ‘but the priority has got to be to nail those bastards.’

  33

  Shovelling a large forkful of baklava into his mouth, Resul Keskin washed it down with a mouthful of coffee and buried his head in his copy of the Silver Surfer, not looking up as the bell rang over the door, signalling the arrival of a new customer at the bakery. Apart from Neslihan behind the counter, and Resul himself, Kazan’s had been empty for the last hour or more. All the old timers had gone home for their dinner and a melancholy air hung beneath the harsh strip lighting. Slowly turning the pages of his comic, Resul couldn’t shake the feeling that he should be somewhere else. But where exactly? Since Volkan’s death, the 36Boys had imploded. Time moved slowly. The boy had no idea what he should be doing. He idly picked a crumb from his plate with his thumb and forefinger, carefully dropping it into his mouth. Maybe another slice of pastry would ease his existential angst.

  Ignoring the only other customer in the place, the new arrival walked up to the counter. From a radio, somewhere in the back came the strains of “Love Shack” by the B-52s.

  Was there anyone else in the kitchen?

  Not that it mattered.

  Finally looking up from her nails, freshly painted a fetching shade of green, Neslihan smiled wanly at the stranger standing in front of her. ‘Hi.’

  The man gave her a nod, but said nothing.

  The girl felt her smile begin to fade. ‘Can I get you something?’

  After some staccato DJ chatter, Bon Jovi replaced the B-52s on the radio. Neslihan started humming along to “Blaze of Glory” as the man carefully surveyed the range of pastries on display under the glass. His lean frame and sunken cheeks suggested someone who had been born without a sweet tooth. After several moments, he gave up the pretence of considering the girl’s offer. ‘Just a double espresso, thank you.’

  Neslihan made a conscious effort to resuscitate her smile. ‘The baklava is very good.’ She gestured towards a handwritten notice on the wall behind the till proclaiming ‘happy hour’ after six p.m.. ‘It’s half-price at this time of the day, too.’

  ‘Coffee will be fine, thank you.’ Reaching into his pocket, the man deposited a selection of change on to the counter top. His German was clipped, precise, but accented. He was definitely not a Berliner; was he German? Neslihan could not be sure.

  ‘Coffee. Of course.’ Neslihan glanced over towards Resul. The fool remained engrossed in his comic book but at least he was a familiar presence. The thought of being here on her own, at night, when anyone could walk through the door, made Neslihan shiver. Buttoning up her cardigan, she turned to the ancient double-lever Gaggia that Erthan had bought second-hand the year the café had opened and reached for a demitasse from the shelf on the wall above it.

  Distracted by the noise of the coffee machine, Resul looked up to see the new customer walking away from the counter. The boy frowned as he watched the man reach the door, flick the Open sign over to Closed and slide the deadbolt into place.

  As far as Resul could make out, Neslihan, with her back to the counter, didn’t realise what he had done. Damn girl, he thought, all she every pays attention to is painting her nails. He felt his sphincter tighten as the man turned back to the counter and calmly retrieved his coffee. Without acknowledging Resul in any way, he walked over and placed his cup carefully on the boy’s table.

  Pulling out a chair, he sat down. ‘Silver Surfer, huh? The exiled hero.’

  ‘Um.’ Gripping the comic tightly, Resul looked imploringly towards the counter, but Neslihan had disappeared into the storeroom at the back. The radio had been turned up but he didn’t recognise the band. She was probably h
aving a sneaky smoke.

  ‘Silver Surfer’s not bad, but I’m more of a Spiderman man myself.’ The man reached around and pulled a comic book of his own from the back pocket of his jeans and dropped it on the table. Resul looked down at the gun toting Santa Claus grinning malevolently on the cover. There was a nasty looking stain in the bottom corner, as if someone had dipped the pages in ink. ‘I have quite a collection back at home, although, strictly speaking, this one isn’t really mine.’

  ‘No?’ Finding it increasingly hard to breathe, Resul barely managed a squeak.

  ‘No,’ the man admitted, ‘I borrowed it from Volkan.’

  ‘Volkan.’ Resul could barely whisper the name. His brain was screaming at him to move, but his legs wouldn’t work. It was all the boy could do to keep his bladder from emptying all over the floor.

  ‘Yes,’ the man smiled. ‘Before he died, he had something of mine. I was hoping that you might be able to help me find it.’

  Max dropped the well-thumbed copy of Berlin von Hinten next to his empty coffee cup and looked up. Making eye contact with a passing waiter, he signalled that he needed a refill. Across the room, he caught sight of a familiar face. A wry grin spread across his lips as he watched Michael Rahn slalom through the tables towards him, the sergeant garnering more than his fair share of interested looks from the smartly dressed women sprinkled through the animated crowd at the Anderes’ Ufer bar.

  ‘Planning your social life?’ Michael quipped as he dropped into the chair opposite.

  ‘Hardly. Haven’t got the time.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘Just having a little look. Checking up on what I’m missing out on.’

  The waiter appeared with Max’s coffee and Michael grabbed his chance to order a Kaffee Komplett.

  Max tapped the guide with an index finger. ‘It’s the café’s copy. I wouldn’t buy it myself, these days, it costs twelve marks.’

  ‘Having fun always was an expensive business. Just be grateful that you don’t have kids.’