When he returns, she’s lying exactly as before. He feels her pulse and counts. She hasn’t had enough to drink. If he doesn’t act now she will wake in a few minutes, but luckily he has prepared the syringe. She doesn’t react as he penetrates her skin with the needle.
He carries her next door, though she is heavier than she looks, this delicate blonde angel. As he lays her on the table she seems to blink, but that could be a side effect of the injection.
He washes his hands thoroughly before beginning. Carefully he bends her neck, stretches it out until the head hangs over the edge of the table and gently slides the tube through her mouth and throat, to the glottis, watches how the metal makes her neck bulge. He adjusts the lamplight, opens his little black suitcase and lays out his tools. Before he begins he washes his hands again. He reaches for the large pair of scissors he had specially made years ago in order to…
In order to silence his mother’s screams. He can no longer listen to that high, drawn-out sound that might once have been a laugh, a laugh that has wandered too far inside a dark forest and been transformed into a wild gurgle; a squeal that saws through the air and howls in the distance like a stray ghost.
She has gone mad. Mother has gone mad, and he has realised too late. Two human lives too late. Too late, and yet he has locked her in the same golden cage in which she kept him prisoner for years – the tower wing with its gloomy rooms and wonderful view of the lake. He has locked her in with Albert’s consent, before she can do any more harm.
He expected her to fly into a rage, a mad fury, but she sits down and laughs for such a long time that her laughter no longer sounds human and he fears that her madness might be a contagion, carried by the laughter.
He has been preparing for a long time, had the scissors and tube made to order, practised the manoeuvres time and again in the anatomical institute. Now he feels secure.
She is already fast asleep when he returns, and the operation is over in minutes, a question of several precise incisions. He still keeps the surgical instruments in the same black velvet-lined case she gave him only a few years ago.
He has already prepared the iced water, which he now pours in. Her swallowing reflex kicks in, she drinks and coughs and, for a moment, he fears she is regaining consciousness, but she soon settles down again. The ice-cold water staunches the bleeding and alleviates the pain. It is less painful than tonsillitis; she will hardly feel anything when she awakes.
When the moment comes, he has already tidied. Cleaned everything he has used and packed it away, sat her back in her favourite chair by the window. Placed the carafe of iced water in front of her. She must drink, slowly and carefully so that she can learn how to swallow again, but she doesn’t touch the water.
After briefly opening her eyes she continues dozing, only to sink back into sleep and wake with a start. Seeing him sitting next to her chair, her eyes fill with love. She loves him even though she knows she is his prisoner. That is the only thing she has left: blind love. That she killed for. Killed for blindly.
She sits up and tries to say something. Or scream? Or laugh? Whatever the case, nothing comes but a hoarse gurgling. She looks surprised but tries again before grabbing her throat in horror.
He has taken away her voice, that is all. Without that voice, the voice of a madwoman, she looks almost normal again, almost like before, when she was still his mother and not some old lunatic. It’s for your own good, Mother, he says.
The very words she once used.
The expression of surprise yields to one of recognition, and they are almost cheerful: the eyes with which she gazes at him. She smiles and seems to understand, seems to take pleasure in the hoarse gurgling that has taken the place of her voice. The look in her eyes says: I know everything, we both know everything, only the two of us know – how funny, how deathly funny! And though she has no voice, she tries to start laughing again. There is a rattling, a rasping, a gurgling; spittle sprays out of her mouth, and blood.
He covers his ears and leaves and, with every step, distances himself further from her madness.
25
Oppenberg was already seated when Rath entered at half past eight. It was an exclusive restaurant and Rath felt a little out of place in his off-the-peg suit.
‘I’ve ordered a bottle of wine,’ the producer said.
‘Thank you, not for me.’ Rath asked for a glass of Selters.
‘Your decision, my friend. Hopefully you won’t be so modest when it comes to your food. That would be a sin here.’
Rath would have preferred to eat something more substantial at Aschinger, but he bowed to his fate and studied the menu.
‘I’d recommend the fish,’ Oppenberg said, and Rath joined him in his choice. ‘You requested this meeting, which means you have news.’
‘That depends. At any rate, you should get used to the idea of finding another lead actress for Vom Blitz getroffen.’
‘Has she…what have you discovered? Does the taxi driver know the man who collected her?’
Rath shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. I still don’t know anything for sure but, at the very least, she was forced to change her plans abruptly.’
‘What makes you think that?’ Oppenberg reached nervously into the bread basket.
‘You remember her last taxi journey? Before she was picked up by this stranger in Wilmersdorf she had her suitcases brought to Bahnhof Zoo, to left luggage.’
‘So what?’
‘They’re still there.’
Oppenberg had to chew longer on this piece of news than on the slice of white bread he had just spread with butter and shoved in his mouth. ‘How do you explain that?’
‘I can’t believe she meant to leave her cases for three or four weeks in left luggage. Something unexpected must have happened.’
Oppenberg lit a cigarette, and Rath realised he hadn’t been expecting bad news. The waiter brought the starters, but Oppenberg didn’t touch his. Instead he continued smoking. ‘Damn it!’ he said. ‘Are you saying I should prepare myself for the worst?’
‘Not necessarily, but it doesn’t bode well.’
‘You’ve already written her off!’
‘I fear, anyway, that I won’t be able to carry out your assignment. I can’t bring Vivian back.’ Rath pushed a green banknote across the table. ‘There was one picture too many in your envelope.’
Oppenberg understood and didn’t hesitate long before pocketing the fifty. ‘Can you see that your colleagues stop badgering me about Felix? I told your Böhm that we had parted on bad terms, but he seems to give more credence to Bellmann’s claim that I put a saboteur and murderer onto him.’
Rath shrugged. ‘They’ve taken me off the case. I can only advise you to be careful. If you want to keep your involvement in the whole thing under wraps – fine. I won’t stab you in the back, but don’t underestimate the police. If they start grilling your friend…’
‘Felix has always been loyal. Besides, they need to find him before they can interrogate him.’
‘Do you think it’s possible he’s found a new hideout in Grunewald somewhere? In the allotments, for example? Does he know anyone there who could help him?’
‘Don’t ask so many questions at once, otherwise I won’t know which to respond to first.’
‘How about the ones you know the answer to? Apparently Krempin is holed up there somewhere. My colleagues think he’s a murderer, the press think he’s a murderer. I’m the only one who believes he’s innocent. It’s better I find him, and not one of them.’
‘And the accusation of sabotage? Will that go by the board if you find Felix?’
Rath shook his head. ‘If he wants to be cleared of murder, he’ll have to admit to his sabotage plans.’
‘I hope my name can be kept out of all this.’
‘That depends entirely on your friend. I don’t have any influence there.’
Oppenberg stubbed his cigarette out and reached for his cutlery. ‘I have a proposition,’ he s
aid. ‘I’ll help you track down Felix Krempin if you keep looking for Vivian.’
‘If you don’t just help but actually find Krempin, then maybe.’
‘Well, if you don’t stop at searching, but find Vivian for me.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Then it’s a deal,’ Oppenberg said. ‘Did the photos help? Did the taxi driver recognise anyone?’
‘Just Krempin, from the mugshot.’ Rath took the photo of the dark-haired actor from his bag. ‘He said this one was similar to the man who picked up Vivian.’
‘Gregor? Vivian hardly noticed him.’
‘The taxi driver only said he was similar. Do you know anyone else who looks like this? Could be a producer as well.’
Oppenberg shook his head indignantly. ‘I think it’s a waste of time only searching among my people. Why don’t you show this taxi driver a few photos of Bellmann’s lot? Perhaps it was one of them who picked her up and she’s been made to stew in some hovel underground for weeks!’
‘You think Bellmann abducted her to prevent you from shooting your film?’
‘He’s capable of it. Perhaps he paid to have her abducted. There are enough criminals in this city who would do that.’
Rath thought of Johann Marlow. He probably wouldn’t let himself be roped into such a dirty job. But perhaps Dr M. would know someone who might. He must still have his number, the number that wasn’t in any telephone book.
He had already polished off two beers and two shorts when Gräf arrived. The atmosphere inside the Nasse Dreieck was already sticky and the gust of fresh air that blew in with the detective did nothing to change that. Rath gave Schorsch a brief nod, and the bartender put two more glasses under the tap. Gräf took his seat beside Rath at the bar.
‘You’re smoking again?’
‘What makes you say that?’ Rath muttered, lighting an Overstolz. The bartender placed two beer glasses on the counter, along with two schnapps. The pair clinked glasses, drained the schnapps and washed them down with beer. ‘Has Böhm had his hooks in you all this time?’
Gräf shook his head. ‘I had something else to do.’ He took a large brown envelope from inside his coat. ‘My report on the Wessel burial. You can file it tomorrow, but it’s the last time I do a favour like that for you. It was more of a street fight than a funeral.’
Rath opened the envelope, pulling out a stack of folded typing paper. ‘That’s at least ten pages.’
‘Twelve. I did it out of friendship.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’ Rath pocketed the envelope.
‘I can think of something.’
‘All right, all right.’ Rath laughed. ‘The drinks are on me.’
‘Lucky, given how thirsty I am,’ Gräf said.
‘Thanks to your help, I should be through with my punishment tomorrow.’
‘You think Böhm’s going to let you back on the Winter case? I wouldn’t get your hopes up.’
Rath shrugged. ‘If he doesn’t, you can keep me up to date.’
Gräf tilted his head to one side. ‘You’re not planning on going it alone?’
‘I just want to know how everything’s progressing. It was our case, and we were doing pretty well until Böhm interfered. And now? Is he making you scour the allotments in Grunewald?’
‘Work like that needs to be done. Need I remind you that when I was working for you, my main jobs were to sit in the office and fob Böhm off. And if I were to track down our prime suspect… I certainly wouldn’t object.’
‘You think Krempin meant to kill Winter?’
‘Why else would he make himself invisible?’
‘Because everyone thinks he meant to kill Winter: the police, Bellmann, the entire big city press, and with it half of Berlin.’
‘We should never have let Bellmann go through with that stupid press conference.’
‘He would have got his conspiracy theories out there one way or another. Besides, he’s not entirely wrong. Only Krempin is no murderer.’
Rath went through the theory he had only been able to sketch in the most cursory fashion that morning at briefing.
‘And you believe this Oppenberg?’ Gräf asked.
Rath shrugged his shoulders. ‘No less than Bellmann. The pair of them are desperate because a crafty screenwriter sold them the same story twice, and whichever film comes out first could be vital for each firm’s survival.’
‘They’re shooting the same film? I don’t think the author is allowed to do that. There must be a clause in his contract which prevents him from selling the story to other parties.’
‘I’ll know more tomorrow after I meet with him.’
‘I’m starting to wonder who’s keeping who up to date!’
‘I’ll tell you what I find out and you can start collecting points for your next promotion. You just have to make sure Böhm doesn’t take all the credit himself.’
Gräf shook his head. ‘You’re incorrigible, Gereon,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘Only bearable under the influence.’
26
Wednesday 5th March 1930
Ash Wednesday arrived under ash-grey skies. Rath turned over, buried his head in the pillow and closed his eyes – and he didn’t even have a hangover.
Sometimes he wished he could just skip a day. Open his eyes after quarter of an hour to a new dawn and all his problems solved. He wished for that now, but when he opened his eyes the alarm clock had barely advanced by seven minutes. The day still lay ahead, and behind the dark outline of the roofs the same ash-grey sky remained. The fifth of March. He had felt it coming, the way a storm is foretold by oppressive humidity.
Staying in bed was pointless. He got up, thinking: Let’s get it over with, and shuffled wearily into the kitchen to put on water for coffee, then into the bathroom. Before using the toilet, he splashed cold water onto his face and turned on the boiler. Perhaps he’d be in luck and get through the day without being reminded of the date. No one in the Castle knew, apart from the grey figures in Personnel who handled his file.
Back in the kitchen, still half-asleep, he poured the now boiling water into the Melitta filter. Coffee dripped into the little porcelain pot and its smell comforted him. There was one consolation: things could hardly be worse than last year, when he hadn’t even left the house.
Only a year ago, but already that time was so remote, so foreign, as to feel like someone else’s life, like someone else’s nightmare. With his face in all the papers he had stolen through town like a beaten dog, hat pulled over his forehead. When, that is, he had dared to venture outside at all.
His parents, whose spacious Klettenberg house he had crawled back to and remained at after Ash Wednesday because he couldn’t bear the carnival rumpus on the Cologne Ring, had behaved as if everything was normal. No, as if everything had been like it was before, when they all lived under the same roof. When they were still a family. Back then, before the war.
Mother had baked a cake, as she did each year for her children, and for Gereon it was always hazelnut cake. It was waiting on the breakfast table when he came downstairs, with Mother smiling expectantly. Father, of course, had long since left for the station. You had to be up early to bid Engelbert Rath good morning. The good son didn’t show his distaste when she planted a congratulatory kiss on his cheek and passed him the first rustling package. He dutifully opened his presents: a packet of cigars from Father, a hand-knitted scarf from Mother. Like every year, although he didn’t smoke cigars and never wore the woollens – except when he held the new present up against the mirror and said Lovely! He could never bring himself to tell Mother the truth, and Father certainly not, even as a child. Under Severin’s knowing gaze he had simply mumbled Lovely, whatever she pressed into his hand. That day, however, he was on his own. Even his sister Ursula wasn’t expected until the afternoon…but then she had to cancel because her stupid husband let her down, and she was stuck with the kids. It seemed fitting given how the day would pan out. No one had been in touch, not
Doris, who had broken off their engagement, nor any of the boys, most of whom he had known since school. After the first article about the shoot-out in the Agnes quarter they no longer kept up with their monthly round of skat. Not even a telephone call. That’s it, he thought, the rest of the world has forgotten about you.
He was just coming to terms with all this when Paul came by in the evening and, for the first time in many weeks, Gereon dared to venture outside for more than half an hour. Paul, the only one from the skat group who had kept faith, shoved him into a waiting taxi and took him out to Rudolfplatz where they roamed the Ring, Cologne’s nightclub district. Moving from one bar to another they got good and drunk, the first time since the fatal shooting. He was still grateful to Paul for dragging him from his dark pit back into the light of day. To some extent the evening drinking session made up for the day gone by. Perhaps that was the only way to celebrate a birthday, by getting hammered enough to forget why you were drinking in the first place.
Rath went into the living room and put on a record. He lit a cigarette, drank his coffee and listened to the music in peace. How to begin the day? By sorting the Wessel file or by writing the report for Dr Weiss? What an enticing prospect! He decided to treat himself to breakfast at Josty in honour of the occasion, and went back into the bathroom to shave. ‘Happy Birthday,’ he said to his reflection, and began lathering his face.
Half an hour later he was sitting at a table with a view of Potsdamer Platz, a copy of Tageblatt in his hand, watching the grey sky gradually brighten over Leipziger Strasse. Weinert had written his article about the latest developments in the Winter case – in spite of the government crisis, to which he had devoted considerably more column inches. However, it wasn’t the article Rath had been expecting. With each line he grew more enraged. He folded the paper, took it into the mahogany-panelled telephone booth and called Nürnberger Strasse. Weinert answered, sounding rather drowsy.
The Silent Death Page 20