The Silent Death

by volker Kutscher

  He has tried both wolfing down his food and chewing it slowly; neither can banish his hunger. His eternal hunger, the background noise that drowns out everything else in his life, this life that doesn’t merit the name. He finds solace from book to book, dream to dream. It is only time he need overcome, time that consists merely of breathing, waiting and starving. Time is his enemy. He has learned that already. Only when he exists out of time can he be happy.

  That is why he is angry with his mother, because she has hauled him back to the present.

  He looks up, clinging to his book like a treasure she is threatening to snatch away.

  Good morning, my boy. Do you know what day it is today? She gives him her hand. Your father has a surprise for you. Come on!

  Too often they have lured him with promises that have turned out to be traps, but he doesn’t dare contradict her.

  Watch out!

  She puts his shoes on for him so that he doesn’t cut himself, and throws his dressing gown over him.

  He follows her through several doors. His splendid prison, in which an eternal twilight reigns, is enormous. They descend the steps and enter the great hall, the vestibule in which even his mother seems tiny and lost. Her shoes click noisily over the stone floor, while his steps are so inaudible it’s as if he is already as dead as he feels.

  He gives a start when she throws open the cellar door, a door that is never otherwise opened. His grandfather, who made his money trading shares, built a labyrinthine medieval castle on the Wannsee, sombre Gothic, as was the fashion before the war. The cellar door is reminiscent of a dungeon. What do they have in store for him?

  When she sees his hesitation, Mother smiles and takes his hand. Have no fear, she says.

  She leads him down the stone staircase into the darkness. It doesn’t smell mouldy, but he doesn’t like the cellar all the same. He is afraid of his father, of his stick, his implacability. Does he mean to lure him into his new prison? Into a narrow, dark dungeon, the better to keep an eye on him? So that not even Mother can slip him something to ease his suffering.

  Have no fear, she says again, and his fear grows.

  Downstairs, she opens the door to a dark room, and a flickering beam of light. She takes him by the shoulders and pushes him through, and in the semi-darkness he recognises his father’s face. That face which can no longer smile.

  Happy Birthday, my boy, Mother says, taking him gingerly in her arms. Look what we have for you.

  He closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to be reminded that time is passing. Let them forget his birthday, let them forget the passing of time!

  Over here, says Father, this is your birthday present.

  He opens his eyes and hears a quiet hum in the darkness. When he sees it, all of a sudden, he knows why he must stay alive.

  A bright island grows in the dark room, drawing his gaze like a magnet, seeming to absorb him into himself. Bright images, a garden flooded by sunlight, the branches of trees dancing in the wind. And happy people in this garden. He doesn’t know what will happen, only that he cannot avert his gaze.

  He hears them speak, hears leaves rustling in the wind, although he knows the only sound is the hum of the projector. Now he knows why it is worthwhile. Why the agony he endures merely to prolong a life full of agony could still be worthwhile.

  He has found it. His new life.

  16

  Rath heard a ringing from the stairwell that had to be coming from his flat. He was the only person who owned a telephone in the rear building. It rang a final time as he opened the door.

  After hanging up his hat and coat, he went to the living room, put on a record and sank into his chair. Coleman Hawkins’s saxophone performed pirouettes, as unpredictably beautiful as a leaf in the wind. Rath closed his eyes.

  Where would he be without the records from Severin? He wouldn’t have lasted three weeks in this city. No matter how he tried to regain control of his messed-up life, it always went wrong. Professionally, he felt like a hamster trapped in a wheel. Would he ever make police director like his father? It seemed increasingly unlikely. And his private life? His group of friends was limited to Reinhold Gräf, with whom he occasionally got drunk in the Nasse Dreieck, and Berthold Weinert, with whom he occasionally went for dinner and to exchange information. Of his Cologne friends, Paul was the only one who hadn’t turned his back on him after the fatal shooting in the Agnes quarter. His fiancée, Doris, the woman with whom he had intended to start a family, had dropped him like he had the plague.

  He had seen Berlin as an opportunity to start afresh with women too, but the way things were looking he would be a bachelor forever, like Buddha. Well, as long as he didn’t become like Brenner or Czerwinski, running after pneumatic delivery tubes in the Resi…

  He lit an Overstolz. At least he could smoke again in his flat without anyone moaning. He didn’t miss Kathi, not really. If she wanted to stay with that gypsy from the Resi, then why not? No, he didn’t miss her one bit.

  He missed Charly.

  He couldn’t get her horrified expression out of his mind. Had she recognised him?

  So what if she had? He had ruined things anyway, completely ruined them months and months ago. Sometimes he thought his life with her might have taken a different turn, that she represented one of those rare opportunities you had to grasp with both hands. But what had he done? He had waved the opportunity goodbye with his damn lying, returned to his hamster wheel, and carried on turning.

  Perhaps he had finally set something in motion after dealing Brenner that beating, but most likely in the wrong direction.

  The telephone rang again. Who could it be? Kathi phoning to tell him it was over? Brenner challenging him to a duel? Or Böhm taking him off the case? He lifted the black receiver and responded with an innocuous ‘Yes?’

  ‘There you are at last! I thought you weren’t coming home tonight.’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Listen, my boy,’ said Engelbert Rath, ‘I don’t have much time. Your mother and I are about to go over to the Klefischses. I’m seeing the mayor tomorrow on the parade route. What news can I give him?’

  He hadn’t lifted a finger in the Adenauer matter. ‘It’s Sunday today. The Ford plant is closed, and yesterday I didn’t have any time.’

  ‘You still haven’t done anything? Do you know how pressing this matter is, boy? And how important?’ Engelbert Rath was appalled. ‘I’m staking my good name on ensuring the honour of our city and mayor is not besmirched.’

  Why shouldn’t your honour and name be a little besmirched for a change? Rath thought. ‘I’ll take a look at the Ford plant in the next few days,’ he said dutifully. ‘The blackmailer’s probably around there somewhere.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Who else would have an interest in keeping Ford in Berlin at all costs?’

  ‘Maybe the blackmail is just a ruse to put us off the scent. It’s in the interests of Konrad’s political opponents to put one of our Party’s most capable men out of action, perhaps even inflict serious harm on the Catholic cause as a whole.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘How could a Ford worker, even the plant manager or managing director, get hold of such confidential information from Deutsche Bank? More likely it’s someone from a completely different circle.’

  ‘First we need to uncover the leak. If Adenauer could make a list of everyone who knows about the secret agreement between him and the bank.’

  ‘He has already. All people of integrity.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Rath ironically. ‘So you already have a list of names?’

  ‘That’s the first thing you do in a case like this.’

  ‘How about sending it to me?!’

  ‘I’ll send it straightaway, but see to it that this matter is dealt with as quickly as possible.’

  ‘If it really is his political opponents, how am I supposed to stop them from spilling the beans in future?’

  ‘Once you hav
e a name, everything will take care of itself. Everyone has their dirty secrets.’

  The call ended. Rath always forgot that his father was more politician than policeman. Still, he was right about one thing: the blackmailer must have good links to Deutsche Bank. Someone must have spilled a few secrets in confidence, a conversation that had been overheard by chance or deliberately monitored.

  The telephone rang again. Rath tore the receiver from the cradle. ‘What is it now?’

  Not his father. At the other end of the line, Rath heard only gentle breathing. Then finally a male voice. ‘Inspector Rath?’

  Not a voice he recognised. ‘Speaking.’

  ‘You’re the inspector in charge of the Winter case, aren’t you?’

  ‘What gives you that idea?’

  ‘It’s in the paper. I…’

  ‘What’s this about, please?’ Rath couldn’t stand it when people didn’t get to the point, or when they pestered him with police matters at home.

  ‘The Winter case, as I said.’ The caller cleared his throat before continuing. ‘Inspector, you’re looking for the wrong man.’

  ‘Krempin, is that you?’

  It took a moment for the answer to arrive. ‘You have to believe me. Otherwise there’s no point continuing.’

  ‘It’s good you called. You’re an important witness.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish! I’m not a witness, I’m your chief suspect.’

  The man wasn’t stupid. Rath held the receiver in his hand, frantically considering how he could bring Krempin in. First, keep him on the line.

  ‘So,’ Krempin continued. ‘Do you believe me?’

  ‘You haven’t told me what all this is about.’

  ‘It’s about whether you trust me, and whether I can trust you.’

  ‘If you’re innocent, you have nothing to fear. I’ll do everything I can to help you.’

  Krempin paused before continuing. ‘I didn’t kill Betty Winter, that’s the most important thing. You have to believe me! It’s just a series of stupid coincidences. No one meant for her to die.’

  ‘Why did you disappear from the studio after the accident?’

  ‘That’s not what happened! I didn’t leave after the accident; I left before it. I had been at home for hours when it happened.’

  ‘How do you know when it happened?’

  ‘From the paper, where else? How do you think I know you’re the one chasing me, or that I’m being chased in the first place?’

  ‘Are you surprised we’re looking for you? Why did you just clear off like that?’

  It took a moment for Krempin to answer. ‘Because I’d been exposed. It had to happen sooner or later, I simply waited too long. And then the false name…’ The man fell silent once more.

  ‘Herr Krempin, you can tell me everything. I’ve spoken to Oppenberg, I know that you…’

  ‘You spoke to Manfred?’ There was relief in his voice, as if a weighty confession had been heard. ‘Then you’ll know that it was simply a question of delaying Bellmann’s shoot. That’s the only reason I came up with the spotlight idea. The camera’s insured, he could’ve had it replaced. Just not that quickly. It takes a long time to deliver these new, soundproof special cameras, especially at the moment. One or two weeks’ delay would’ve been enough. Especially now, with Vivian not here.’

  Oppenberg, that rat! So he had lied to him! Krempin was talking about deliberate sabotage, about manipulating the lighting system to destroy the sound film camera. Too many thoughts were racing through his mind, distracting him. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ Rath asked.

  ‘That my cards are on the table. I know I’ve done bad things, and I want to take responsibility for them. But I’m no murderer!’

  ‘Then why are you hiding?’

  ‘Because you’re after me.’

  That sounded plausible. People wanted for murder hide. They had those damn newshounds to thank for that! ‘Perhaps it was only involuntary manslaughter. Perhaps you didn’t mean for the spotlight to kill anyone. But that’s what happened, and you need to face up to it.’

  ‘I removed the wire before I left, deactivated the whole thing. Nothing else could’ve happened. It’s a mystery to me.’

  ‘Then come to the station and we’ll talk things through.’

  Krempin gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘How stupid do you think I am? You’ll arrest me. You don’t have any other choice. That’s why you have my flat under surveillance.’

  ‘You called me once already,’ Rath said. ‘Yesterday, when I was in Guerickestrasse.’

  ‘You have good instincts, Inspector, but don’t expect me to come to Alex. I have good instincts too.’

  ‘Then tell me what you did. How you prepared the spotlight. When…’

  Felix Krempin hung up.

  Rath kept the receiver in his hand, gave the cradle a quick tap with the side of his hand and had himself put through to the private number listed on Manfred Oppenberg’s card. A maid told him that the master of the house wasn’t home. She wasn’t expecting him until late, as he was attending an important meeting tonight. Rath swallowed his rage for a moment and used all his charm to get the time and address.

  That left him a few hours to drive back to Guerickestrasse. The green Opel was still parked outside the door, though with a different team this time. Plisch and Plum looked bored.

  ‘What are you two doing here?’ Rath asked. ‘I thought you were part of my investigation team.’

  ‘Your team doesn’t exist anymore,’ said Czerwinski. ‘Böhm’s taken it over, and proceeded to ruin our weekend. By the way, he was fuming that you were nowhere to be found.’

  ‘I’ve got things to do. Besides, I’m here now.’

  ‘You definitely can’t be accused of lacking commitment.’ He gave Rath an appraising look. ‘What’s got into you, giving Frank a bloody lip like that?’

  ‘He provoked me.’

  ‘He told me you started laying into him out of the blue.’

  ‘He’s lying.’

  ‘He was pretty mad!’

  ‘Well, did he calm down?’

  ‘No idea. He said something like I’ll tear strips off him, before going after you.’

  ‘Didn’t catch me though.’

  ‘Listen, Gereon,’ Czerwinski said. ‘You don’t have many friends in the Castle as it is, and you’re not making your life any easier. Frank is livid and baying for your blood, with a good chance of getting it, given his relationship to Böhm.’

  ‘What about my relationship to the commissioner?’

  ‘Like I said: you’re not making yourself any friends in the Castle. Between us, it’d be a good idea to show your colleagues a little more loyalty.’

  Rath hunched his shoulders. ‘I am loyal. I’m paying you a visit, aren’t I? And look, I’ve even brought something for you.’ He passed him the container he’d used for Kathi’s reheated stew. ‘Here,’ he said, producing two spoons. ‘Silesian lentil stew. There should still be two portions inside, if you split it fairly.’

  ‘Sure,’ Czerwinski said, ‘according to rank.’

  ‘And girth,’ Henning piped up from the back seat.

  ‘Are you just here to feed the troops?’

  ‘No, I have an idea. Tuck in and keep an eye on things. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  There were two possible houses, and Rath decided on the left-hand one first, beginning on the ground floor. A grey-haired man opened and eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘CID,’ Rath said, only to be interrupted.

  ‘I’ve already told you I didn’t see anything! I don’t spend all day staring at the house opposite.’

  Rath remained friendly. ‘It’s about this house, not the one opposite. Have you noticed anything unusual, particularly in the last two days?’

  The man looked at him from top to bottom. ‘No,’ he said and slammed the door.

  He scarcely had any more luck in the remaining flats. Even where people were friendlier, their information was simil
arly vague. Nor did he find anyone he thought capable of hiding Felix Krempin.

  ‘You think he might have taken cover in someone’s flat?’ a small, bespectacled man in a grey cardigan asked, a resident from the third floor. ‘Save yourself the effort. No one here’s stupid enough. Better to ask next door.’

  Again, Rath worked his way up from the ground floor, only to receive the same answers. On the second floor was a bell that appeared to be broken. He knocked, but no one answered. He knocked again.

  ‘You can knock as long as you like, no one will open.’

  A full-faced woman was standing in the entrance to the flat opposite, her eyes alert.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No one lives there anymore.’

  ‘Since when?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘The cops came about two or three weeks ago to kick the Seyfrieds out. They hadn’t paid their rent for months.’

  ‘No one’s replaced them?’

  ‘If Oppenberg wants as much for that dump as he’s charging us, then I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Oppenberg?’

  ‘The landlord.’

  Rath nodded. ‘Have you noticed anything in the last few days? Was anyone in the empty flat?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. Why do you ask?’

  The woman looked surprised when he showed his badge. ‘The man you’re looking for? I don’t know, but he’d have to be pretty brazen to hide opposite his own house. How’s he supposed to have got in anyway?’

  Rath rattled the handle, making the answer superfluous: the door wasn’t locked.

  The woman continued to peer over nosily. ‘Thank you,’ Rath said, ‘you’ve been very helpful.’

  It took her a moment to understand, then she withdrew to her flat and closed the door.

  Rath entered. There was no furniture, only a telephone that had been left on the hallway floor. A series of sharp contours on the yellowing wallpaper revealed where the furniture had stood. The place smelt of cold cigarette smoke.

  The living room looked directly onto the street below. When Rath looked out of the window, and leaned forward a little, he could make out the green Opel on the street corner. Across the way he was looking straight into the flat he had visited yesterday. He could even see the telephone.