by James Craig
‘It wasn’t like I wanted to leave,’ Max reminded him.
‘No, I suppose not. Anyway, for our part, the matter has been handled very professionally. You should know perfectly well that I can always be relied upon to handle department business with the utmost discretion.’
Max adopted a poker face. ‘Of course.’
‘I don’t deal in tittle-tattle. I’m not about to go gossiping about your medical history to the likes of Eichel. Or anyone else, for that matter.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
Suspicion slowly replaced irritation on Marin’s face. ‘When you spoke to Eichel; what did he want to know about?’
‘He was after some reassurance,’ Max said blandly, ‘that this case is going to reach a successful conclusion before anyone else gets killed.’
‘Poor old Eichel,’ Marin chuckled, ‘his career is going down the toilet on this one. It’s such a shame.’
Max said nothing.
‘So, what did you tell him?’
‘I said that there’s still a job to be done. No one has actually been arrested yet.’
‘A fact that hasn’t escaped my notice.’
‘But we can do something about that,’ Max continued. ‘And we will. We’re still chasing down the big fish.’
Marin looked unconvinced.
‘Arnold Kappel. Kooy’s boss. The Scaramanga-type figure we talked about before.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Marin said hastily. ‘The big fish.’
‘Kappel. He’s still in Berlin.’ I hope. ‘Trying to recover his three million dollars. At the moment, he will be wondering why Kooy hasn’t brought it back.’
‘Why would he hang around,’ Marin looked longingly at the fat cigar stub that the cleaners had left in the ashtray on his desk, ‘when he’s got the famous Max Drescher on his tail?’
Don’t light up now. ‘He wants his money.’
Marin flexed his fingers, desperate to grab the stub but, at the same time, reluctant to be seen grubbing around in the ashtray while there was someone in his office. ‘Are you sure he is definitely still here, in the city?’
Max nodded.
‘And, despite all the evidence to the contrary, you think you can bring him in?’
‘Yes,’ Max said firmly.
‘No more shootouts?’
Max folded his arms. ‘Not a single shot.’ He could see that Marin wanted to be convinced; all he had to do was stand his ground and wait for the Kriminalkommissar to give him his formal blessing.
‘How long will it take? The clock is running down for you.’
‘Things have been moving on,’ Max offered cryptically, ‘so not long.’
‘Indeed they have,’ Marin agreed, becoming more animated as he reflected on the spate of killings that had gotten them to this point. ‘Indeed they have.’
‘We’re reaching the endgame.’
‘The endgame?’ Marin suddenly roared, his arms seemingly taking on a life of their own as they began windmilling in front of his face. ‘The fucking endgame? This isn’t a pleasant game of chess in the park on a Sunday afternoon, you know.’
Discomfited by Marin’s most unfortunate u-turn, Max tried to sound conciliatory. ‘I know, boss.’
‘This is total craziness,’ Marin spluttered. ‘You’re turning this city into the wild west.’
‘But –’
Waving away Max’s protests, the Kriminalkommissar leaned across his desk, jabbing an angry finger in the air. ‘Are you trying to double the murder rate all on your own? For God’s sake. Where will it all end?’
‘When we get Kappel,’ Max said quietly. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly. Don’t get drawn into an argument, he told himself. You should be used to Marin’s mercurial temperament by now. Stay calm.
Marin shook his head. ‘No. I’m crazy for even letting you sit there and spin me this fantastical tale.’
Fantastical? Careful not to raise an eyebrow, Max continued to focus on his breathing.
‘All this talk is just more hot air. Easy enough to say and, of course, you won’t be around to pick up the pieces.’
‘We will get him. I promise you, boss, I will do this one last thing. And I will do it right.’
‘Pfff. And why shouldn’t I just kick you out, right now? Put you on sick leave for the last few days before you retire.’
Max thought about it for a moment. ‘Two reasons.’
‘Oh?’ Marin’s eyebrows shot up so fast, it looked like they were about to fly off his face. ‘As many as that?’
‘Two is plenty.’
‘Go on then.’ Folding his arms, Marin settled back into his chair. ‘What are they?’
‘First, we’re too close to give up now.’
‘According to you,’ Marin groused. ‘What’s the second reason?’
Max lifted himself out of the chair and turned towards the door. ‘Second, I’m gonna do it anyway.’
‘Pffff.’ Reaching out of his chair, Marin grabbed the cigar stub out of the ashtray and threw it at the retreating form of the Kriminalinspektor. ‘That’s the problem with you, Drescher,’ he hissed, ‘you always think that for some mysterious reason the rules don’t apply to you. In your own mind, you’re somehow special.’
Fuck you too. Max watched the remains of the cigar fly past his head, hit the door and bounce onto the floor, coming to rest in front of his left foot. He aimed a kick at it and missed. Stepping closer, he rolled the sole of his shoe over the stub, grinding into the carpet until he was sure that even Marin wouldn’t be able to smoke it.
‘Lucky for you,’ Marin continued, ignoring his officer’s wilful vandalism, ‘I’m happy to let you walk out of here miraculously unscathed by the insane fuck-up on Lübecker Straße. But it stops right here, right now.’
Grunting, Max wiped the last remaining pieces of tobacco from his shoe.
‘If you weren’t sick, you’d be looking at disciplinary hearings from here to the next century and quite possibly the century after that. Do you realise how many reports are outstanding on this? Internal affairs would happily lynch you if they could; they will still want an interview but they know that you’re basically untouchable – in more ways than one.’
‘I told you,’ Max turned to face his boss, his face flushed with anger, ‘I’m not sick.’
‘Under normal circumstances, you would be kicked out on your ear without a damn pfennig,’ Marin snarled. ‘And even your smartass dyke lawyer wouldn’t be able to save you.’ Grabbing a file from his in-tray, the Kriminalkommissar pulled out a sheaf of documents and began scanning them carefully, signalling that the meeting was over. ‘Do what you want over the next few days, but no more Scaramanga. Just leave that shit alone. You’ve caused far too much trouble already. And that goes for your sergeant as well. I want no more fuck ups from either of you, understood?’
Hands on hips, Max stared at the floor, waiting for his own rage to pass.
‘Where’s the cash?’ has asked finally. ‘Is it downstairs?’
‘The three million dollars?’ Marin grunted from behind his papers.
‘Yeah, the three million dollars that is the root cause of all this bloody carnage. Is it back in Evidence?’
‘Eichel took it to Gesundbrunnen. Which is all the more reason for you to leave it well alone.’
‘What did you let him do that for?’
‘Why not?’ Marin countered. ‘However, you look at it, this is more his case than ours.’
‘I was – ‘
‘What do you care?’ Marin stared at Max over his papers. ‘Let Eichel nab … Scaramanga.’
‘Kappel.’
‘Whatever his fucking name is, is this guy really a big criminal mastermind? Or is this all just a figment of your overactive imagination?’
‘That’s what Terium told me.’
‘How very reassuring.’
‘He was undercover for a long time.’
‘That doesn’t mean he knew much.’
‘He knew that Ka
ppel was the main prize.’
‘Even if he is, Eichel wants the glory of making the arrest. Let him have it – it shouldn’t really matter to you anymore.’ Marin returned to his reading. ‘And, if he happens to come up empty, then the flak’s all his, too.’
Max shook his head. ‘It’s all just a game of pass the parcel to you, isn’t it?’
Eyes glued to the page, the Kriminalkommissar pretended he hadn’t heard that last remark. ‘I was happy to be rid of that money; almost as happy as I’ll be to be rid of you. It was truly cursed, don’t you think?’
After long pause, he looked up.
‘Max?’
For several moments, Marin stared at the open door.
‘Max?’
Rising out of his seat, he scanned the room beyond his office, searching in vain for the Kriminalinspektor.
42
After the end of World War II, the district of Gesundbrunnen found itself part of the French sector of West Berlin. Its residents lived in the shadow of The Wall, which ran along the Nordbahn railway line, unceremoniously cutting neighbourhoods and even streets in two. Bernauer Straße became famous as the site of various audacious escape attempts by East Berliners trying to make it to the West either by tunneling underneath the Wall or by jumping from the windows of nearby apartment blocks. Little more than a year after the Wall had fallen, the area had yet to establish a new identity. It was a place waiting for things to happen, which made it an interesting place to be a cop.
‘What exactly do we know about Kriminalkommissar Bruno Eichel?’ Ignoring his various aches and pains, Max bounded up the stairs leading to Exit 4 of Pankstraße U-Bahn station, emerging into the sullen sunlight of the busy street. A young accordion player busking in front of a sparsely occupied coffee house offered up a truly horrible rendition of the Mili Vanili hit, Girl You Know It’s True, causing passers-by to grimace and smile in equal numbers. A thin looking mongrel at his feet encouraged a few softer hearted souls to toss the odd coin into a paper cup on the sidewalk. Max hurried past the would-be musician and his dog without reaching into his pocket. Ignoring the rumbling of his stomach and the range of appealing smells coming from the café, he focused on PD Gesundbrunnen on the far side of the street. ‘What’s the gossip?’
‘I asked around a little,’ Michael replied, struggling to keep up with his boss as he dodged the relentless stream of oncoming pedestrians. ‘There’s not a lot, really.’
‘There must be something,’ Max huffed. ‘There’s always something.’
‘Well, Eichel has been on the Force for almost sixteen years. He was part of the department’s fast-track leadership programme, back when they first set it up.’
‘Just like our little friend Theo Oster …’
‘That’s right.’
‘Is he out of hospital yet?’
‘Dunno. He’s not back at work, that’s for sure.’
‘Why does that not surprise me?’ Max grunted, skipping round an old guy who was creeping along, carrying a large hessian sack full of empty beer bottles.
‘Since graduating Eichel’s career has been solid, rather than spectacular. He made Kriminalkommissar before he was thirty –’
‘That seems spectacular enough to me,’ Max quipped.
‘There’s no suggestion that any he’s going any further, though.’
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘Dunno,’ Michel admitted. ‘I haven’t been able to dig that far yet.’
‘Fair enough,’ Max replied, not making much of an effort to hide his irritation.
‘He’s moved around different parts of the city on a regular basis, arriving at Gesundbrunnen three years ago. This is the longest stretch he’s had in any one place in his career so far.’
‘Any notable successes?’
‘Not really. He was involved in the investigation that caught those bank robbers up in Hermsdorf a while back.’
‘The one where they had the shootout outside that launderette? That was fairly spectacular.’
‘The press loved it but, in reality it was a bit of a fuck-up. They were supposed to take the gang down while they were off the street but something went wrong. Three of the robbers were shot, one fatally. Two women doing their washing were cut by flying glass while they were cowering behind the tumble dryers.’
‘Like I said, spectacular.’
‘The Mayor went crazy and the brass ordered an investigation.’
‘Maybe that’s why Eichel’s career has stalled,’ Max mused.
Michael shook his head. ‘I doubt it. The guy in charge was a Kriminalkommissar out of Savignyplatz called Brehme.’
Max made a face. ‘Don’t know him.’
‘Apparently, he’s a good guy. Anyway, after the Board of Enquiry he was placed on three months’ leave. When he came back, he was shunted off to some administrative job up in Spandau.’
‘And Eichel?’
‘Eichel didn’t face any punishment. I’m not sure if he was even formally interviewed.’
Max frowned.
‘That’s not all that surprising. It wasn’t his case. They had a team of more than fifty officers on it in the end. They caught the guys. Despite the fuss, only a few heads needed to roll.’
‘And Eichel’s wasn’t one of them. He seems to know how to dodge the shit.’
‘The Kriminalkommissar has an unblemished, if rather undistinguished police record,’ Michael agreed, ‘most of it spent behind a desk.’
‘A civil servant, rather than a cop,’ Max muttered.
‘Cops are civil servants,’ Michael pointed out.
‘Don’t be so pedantic,’ Max snapped, ‘you know what I mean.’
‘Whatever he is, no one seems to have that much to say about Eichel, one way or another.’
Max could feel his sugar levels dropping, and his mood darkening, with every step. He would have to get something to eat soon or his brain would stop functioning properly. ‘What about his private life?’
‘Again, there’s nothing much to report. He’s single – ‘
‘Divorced?’
‘No, he’s never married. There’s an apartment in Schmargendorf; nothing out of the ordinary by all accounts but he does have taste for the good life – restaurants, holidays and so on. There’s no evidence of any of obvious problems with drink, drugs or gambling. No money worries that I’ve heard about but, with no family, who’s to say he can’t afford a decent lifestyle? One of the guys I spoke to said that they thought there was family money. His grandfather owed a factory of some sort in Karlsruhe.’
‘That’s handy,’ Max grunted, not very happy at the thought that Eichel might be clean after all. ‘But why would he ride around in a red Porsche?’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a bit flashy for a cop. Asking to draw attention to yourself. Inviting people to ask questions.’
‘If he bought it second-hand, it might not have been that expensive. Or maybe he’s making monthly payments on it. There are various different ways you could explain it.’
Max stepped off the sidewalk to let a woman with a stroller come past. ‘So,’ he sighed, ‘we’ve got bugger all on this guy.’
‘It’s not like we’re going to get a warrant to check his bank statements.’
I know someone who could manage to get them for me, Max thought, no questions asked. That, however, would take a week, at least, not to mention a fistful of cash. A week. He would be retired by then. Jumping back on to the sidewalk, he lengthened his stride.
Twenty metres further on, they came to a halt at the junction of Bornholmer Straße. Waiting for the traffic lights to change, Max glanced down the road in the direction of the old border crossing. It had been the first checkpoint to open on the evening of November 9, 1989, allowing East Berliners to freely enter the west of the city for the first time since 1961. Not for the first time, Max wondered if things might not have been better if it had stayed closed.
A single decker bus rumbled slowly past, bouncing
across a succession of potholes, its exhaust fumes leaving a nasty taste in his mouth. Resisting the temptation to spit into the gutter, Max brought his thoughts back to Kriminalkommissar Eichel. ‘What else have we got?’ he barked. ‘What about women?’
‘He is not deficient in that department,’ Michael smirked. ‘There’s a girlfriend in Halensee and another one in Hansaviertel.’
‘So he’s a busy boy, then.’ The traffic lights finally changed, catching a grey BMW in no man’s land, straddling the pedestrian crossing. Glaring at the driver, Max slalomed around the vehicle before jumping onto the sidewalk on the far side.
‘The overall impression I get is of a bloke just getting on with his life.’
‘He is on the wrong side of this.’
‘We don’t know that.’
‘I do.’
Michael fought to keep his position on Max’s shoulder. ‘Look, just because he beat you up, doesn’t mean he’s behind all this.’
‘Arnold Kappel is behind this,’ Max pointed out, ‘but Eichel is involved.’
‘Maybe.’ Michael sounded less than convinced.
‘Definitely.’
‘Maybe you should have told Marin what happened.’
‘Why? He would have buried it. Or maybe even tipped off Eichel that we are coming after him.’
‘Oh, so you think Marin is in on this too?’ Michael’s voice rose, reflecting his increasingly irritation with his boss’s speculative theories.
‘Nah,’ Max conceded, ‘most probably not. Marin’s too lazy to be corrupt. But he wouldn’t do anything to help us. We have to sort this out ourselves.’ He glanced over his shoulder at the sergeant. ‘And, remember, Kappel is the actual target. Eichel – if he goes down in the course of this investigation – is just collateral damage.’
‘Collateral damage?’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Max cackled.
‘I just hope that your replacement is a bit less emotional about things.’
‘Emotional? Me?’ Max pointed at the bruises on his face. ‘The bastard had his goons beat the shit out of me.’
Michael grunted something that vaguely approximated an expression of sympathy. ‘You take it all too personally sometimes.’