‘Try the rump steak,’ the DCI said cheerfully. ‘With chips. I can recommend it.’
Rath decided to do his unexpectedly jovial boss a favour and ordered the steak, although he felt more like schnitzel. They even allowed themselves a glass of beer, on duty at that! The man wasn’t nearly as Prussian as he looked. Böhm raised his glass. ‘Zum Wohl,’ he said, and drank. Rath did likewise. If anyone from A Division could see them now: raising a glass to each other over a beer!
Böhm set his glass down and for a time there was an awkward silence before he cleared his throat and began to speak. ‘Time we had a little heart-to-heart, Rath,’ he said. ‘I want to be open with you. I don’t like the way you operate and never have, but you are part of my division and that means we have to get along.’ The waiter brought the food and Böhm tucked the serviette into his collar. ‘Bon appétit.’
‘Thank you for inviting me,’ Rath said.
He was confused. What did Böhm want from him? Time we had a little heart-to-heart.
For a while they ate in silence. Eventually Böhm took up the thread again. ‘If we are to get along with one another you need to change certain aspects of your behaviour.’
‘I don’t know what you…’
‘I am prepared to show some goodwill!’
‘But I…’
‘But you need to do something too! It’s time to show you are part of this police force. Start doing as you’re told. Work with and not against your colleagues. And above all,’ he said, ‘play with an open hand!’
‘Sir…’
‘Do I make myself clear?’
‘I’d like…’
‘Have I made myself clear?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good.’ Böhm pushed his plate to the side. ‘Stick to what I’ve told you and we’ll…well, perhaps we won’t be friends exactly, but we’ll get along just fine.’
Rath nodded silently. The bulldog was actually offering him a peace pipe. It must have been Gennat’s idea; there was no other way to explain this discussion, which in reality had been more of an address.
Böhm waved the waiter over and asked for the bill.
Outside they were greeted by all the noise and chaos Alexanderplatz had to offer at four in the afternoon. On the other side of the road, in front of the station, a paper boy was proclaiming the day’s news. ‘Second actress dead! Second actress dead! Murderer strikes again!’
Böhm marched silently over, fished a few coins from his pocket and pressed them into the boy’s hand, taking a B.Z. from the pile in return. The headline was even worse.
Another dead actress! Is there a serial killer on the loose in Berlin?
Böhm walked on without looking up from his news-paper. He came to a halt at the tram stop and slumped onto a bench. A quick sidelong glance at Rath was enough to suggest that he had a good idea whom to thank for this unwanted media coverage. Rath had had his suspicions the moment he heard the paper boy, and when he saw which newspaper it was he also knew who had written the article. Stefan Fink. He sat next to Böhm and tried to catch a glimpse.
The front page featured a photo of Vivian Franck in all her glory. Alongside it, a little smaller, was Felix Krempin’s mugshot and below it, smaller still, an up-to-date photo showing the dilapidated façade of the Luxor cinema. The murder wagon was still parked outside, which could only mean that Strelow had alarmed the press while Böhm was still in the cinema. No wonder the bulldog was riled.
The cinema owner was of the same mind as Heinrich Bellmann: headlines at all costs. Media coverage was bound to have a positive effect on business one way or another.
Strelow had provided the information readily, even the meagre details Dr Schwartz had passed on to the DCI in the cinema. Böhm should never have spoken to the pathologist in the presence of the two civilians, despite how little Schwartz had given away. Rath felt a certain sense of satisfaction now that Böhm knew how it felt to be at the mercy of these ink-slingers.
The article Stefan Fink had written was as bad as it could get, above all on account of that one term: serial killer.
It was the one phrase Böhm had wanted to avoid. The fact that it was a completely far-fetched theory, that there was neither any evidence of a sexual crime, nor any similarity between the victims’ causes of death, didn’t matter to the journalist. The victims were actresses and Krempin had known both, so that had to be enough. The hunt for the fugitive would now take on hysterical proportions.
Still, perhaps it would help them finally capture the man and resolve the Winter case. Gennat’s reports on the infamous Düsseldorf murders had stated that the series of murders, but above all the press reports, had triggered fully-fledged psychoses amongst elements of the population.
When Rath and Böhm returned to the Castle the article was the only topic of conversation and, for the time being, no one was interested in the results of the autopsy. B.Z. am Mittag was the only paper that had carried the story, but it was only a matter of time before the others would be singing in chorus, first the evening editions, with the rest joining in tomorrow morning.
In fact, the first journalists had called when Rath and Böhm were on their way to the morgue, meaning that copies of B.Z. had already reached the editorial offices of its rivals still damp with printer’s ink. Lange and Henning had gamely held the fort, pleading ignorance to all callers. Not that it would be of much use; the story was simply too juicy not to be written. Besides, there was still Strelow to provide ready information. Böhm tried to reach the new leaseholder of the Luxor Cinema, but was put off by a secretary who had the riot act read to her in return.
The next few days would be spent fielding calls and issuing denials. Rath wondered if he should exploit his connection to Weinert so that there would be at least one press voice to query the serial killer line.
Fink’s headline had thrown Böhm completely off course. He seemed all at sea as Lange reported on his conversation with the taxi driver, and Henning on the search of the Franck apartment. Fortunately, Christel Temme was taking everything down, her pen scratching across the pad at the merest cough or slip of the tongue. Only when he was reporting on the results from the morgue did Böhm appear a little more focused. He included Oppenberg’s latest statements, which partially corresponded to those of the taxi driver.
‘We need this private investigator,’ he said. ‘Rath, see if you can squeeze whatever information he gave Oppenberg out of him.’ Then he allocated the remainder of the tasks for the next few days, once again urging his men not to provide any more information to the press. ‘Best of all, say nothing.’
Rath very much doubted whether that was the best method, but it was Böhm who had the final say – which was more or less what he had explained at Aschinger. In any case, one day spent with Rath seemed to have been enough for him. He had assigned Rath a new partner: Andreas Lange. Together with the assistant detective Rath was to investigate the stranger whom Vivian Franck had gone so willingly to – and who was most likely her killer, or at least the man who had led her to him.
In the corridor, Lange took him to one side. ‘Sir, could I speak to you privately?’
‘Let’s go into my office,’ said Rath, wondering what he had on his mind. Erika Voss had already finished for the evening so they could leave the connecting door open. Rath sat at his desk and offered Lange Gräf’s chair. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Well…this Ziehlke…the taxi driver…he told me you’d already questioned him…’
‘I telephoned him this morning.’
‘He says he spoke to an Inspector Rath a few days ago. He even had lunch with him on one occasion.’
‘He says that?’
‘Yes, that’s what he says.’
‘Fine. I’ll tell you something now in confidence. And you’re not to snitch on me to Böhm.’
‘As long as you haven’t killed anyone,’ Lange said.
‘I took on a private assignment without running it by our bosses fir
st.’
‘Then you’re the private investigator Böhm just spoke about?’
‘A favour to a friend, not for money.’
‘I don’t want to tell you what to do, Sir, but in your position, I’d inform the person leading the investigation. Your client is a murder suspect. That’s a conflict of interest.’
‘I have my reasons,’ Rath said. ‘First: I was tasked with finding Vivian Franck, and now we’ve found her. Second: I don’t want to be kicked off another investigation team for a matter that’s long since been resolved. That would be the second time inside of a week and my fragile personality couldn’t cope with it.’
‘Like I said, I don’t want to tell you what to do. But if the matter’s exposed it will be on your head, not mine.’ Lange looked serious. ‘I won’t…snitch…on you. I don’t know a thing.’
‘On that note,’ Rath said, stretching out a hand, ‘here’s to a successful partnership.’
Bahnhof Zoo was busy at this time of day. There was a new baggage porter behind the left luggage counter, a taciturn Prussian, unlike the previous joker. Rath showed his badge. ‘We’re here to collect Vivian Franck’s luggage.’
The man had read about the actress’s death in the papers.
‘How did you know we’d find her bags here?’ Lange asked once he had disappeared.
‘The taxi driver,’ Rath said, and Lange nodded.
The baggage porter returned, wheeling two large suitcases and a travel bag and placing them in front of Rath and Lange on the floor. They packed everything onto a luggage trolley and wheeled it to Rath’s Buick, where they struggled to fit it all in. They could only manage the heaviest suitcase as a pair, wedging the second in the dickey seat, while Lange was forced to take the travel bag on his lap. Rath could imagine how Friedhelm Ziehlke must have cursed that day.
It was even more of an effort dragging the luggage upstairs once they reached the Castle. ED was based a floor above A Division. Kronberg’s men were still working when they pushed the heavy luggage through the door. ‘What’s all this?’ Kronberg asked.
‘Items of luggage,’ Rath said, short of breath. ‘The last Vivian Franck ever checked in.’
Kronberg called two forensic officers over. ‘Can you get it open, Schmidthaber?’ he asked the younger of the pair. The man nodded. ‘Good, then go and fetch your tools. Before that let’s see if we can secure any fingerprints. Perhaps we’ll be in luck.’
They only found a few prints, and Rath doubted whether they would be much use after all those weeks moving back and forth in left luggage. At length Schmidthaber, the key expert, began fiddling with the locks with a special bunch of skeleton keys. It didn’t take him long.
There was nothing unusual about Vivian Franck’s luggage – if you discounted the profusion of high-quality underwear that Kronberg’s officers had a wonderful time noting down. Apart from that, the outfits were suitable for many types of occasion and weather conditions, not just for snow in the mountains. Rath was astonished at how many smart evening dresses Vivian Franck owned. She hadn’t packed them for Davos, more likely for Hollywood. They didn’t find any drugs. Having seen enough, Rath took his leave.
‘Take a close look,’ he said in the doorway, ‘perhaps you’ll find something. And no matter what, make sure you let DCI Böhm know.’
It was already late when he arrived home, having driven Lange back to Schönhauser Allee. His mailbox was overflowing. He hadn’t opened it since Sunday, and there were a number of bills, as well as a letter from his parents. As he was leafing through the pile a postcard fell to the floor, its picture showing Cologne Cathedral.
Rath picked up the card and turned it over. When he saw who had written it, he read it then and there.
Many happy returns, Sir!
Attached a little slice of home for life in the Far East.
I hope you’re looking after yourself.
We missed you at Carnival, just as we did last year.
I’d never have thought it possible, but without you it’s only half as much fun.
One of these days, if my schedule allows, I’m going to catch a train and brave the wrong side of the Rhine to visit you Mongols in the East.
Don’t say I haven’t warned you!
Your friend
Paul
Rath grinned. Paul must have written the card in the aftermath of Rosenmontag. Was he serious about coming to Berlin? Until now no one from Cologne had visited save for his father and Mayor Adenauer.
He opened the door, went into the living room with the pile of letters and put on a record. Once he had removed his hat and coat, he made himself comfortable and looked through the rest of the post.
He put the bills to one side and opened the letter from Cologne. Father was just as thrifty as he had been during the war. From the envelope fell not just a birthday card written in his mother’s fine hand, but a typewritten list of names. Adenauer’s list of secret holders. The possible blackmailer – or an accomplice. After all that, he hadn’t managed to get out to Ford today to collect the list from Personnel. It was too late now, but tomorrow he could set off a little earlier and make a detour via Moabit.
He skimmed the list of names from Cologne. None meant anything to him. There was no Bahlke or any others that he recognised. It was no good, he needed the Ford list to compare. The telephone rang. It was Gräf. ‘Congratulations on getting your own case,’ he said.
‘Thanks. But it feels more like Böhm is passing the buck.’ There wasn’t much else to say. They still hadn’t found Krempin and the B.Z. headline had thrown a spanner in the works for the Winter team as well. Fink’s serial killer theory had produced another half dozen false leads. ‘Without Krempin, we won’t get anywhere,’ Gräf concluded. ‘And we’re not getting anything out of this Oppenberg either.’
‘I don’t think he has anything to do with the death of Betty Winter.’
‘You’ll admit it’s strange that one of his actresses has copped it. Bellmann taking revenge?’
‘Franck was already dead while Winter was still romping around her film sets.’
‘Hmm. The other way around then?’
‘Oppenberg only heard today that his actress was dead. He reckons Bellmann’s behind it. I think the two of them are good at making accusations against one another and creating suspicion.’
Rath hung up, gazing at the black telephone for a long time before picking up the receiver again. He had been putting off making this call, but it had to be today. Now it was officially his case, why shouldn’t he make use of a few unofficial channels? He hadn’t dialled the number that wasn’t in any telephone book for a long time. One ring was all it took.
‘Yes,’ said a deep voice.
Rath had never heard the man say a word, but felt almost certain he was speaking to Marlow’s Chinaman.
‘Rath here,’ he said, before clearing his throat. ‘I need to speak to Herr Marlow.’
‘He’s busy. What’s it about?’
‘I can only discuss that with Herr Marlow himself.’
‘Give me your number. We’ll call back.’
It really was as easy as that. Rath was astonished, thinking back to the first time he had tried to make contact with Berlin’s craftiest gangster. He placed the telephone on the living room table and stood up to turn the record: Coleman Hawkins. The telephone rang before the piece was over.
‘That was quick!’
A cough. ‘Inspector Rath?’
That wasn’t Marlow!
The music had ceased, and the needle kept striking the end of the groove, making a crackling sound. All of a sudden, Rath was wide awake. ‘Herr Krempin? Good of you to call. Have you thought about what I said?’
‘If you’re asking me to hand myself in, then I’m hanging up.’ Clearly he had seen the headlines.
‘You called me,’ Rath said. ‘I’m just wondering why.’
‘Because I wanted to speak to you.’
‘Why me? I’m one of the people chasing you.’
‘But the only one who doesn’t think I’m a killer.’
It sounded as if Oppenberg had spoken to him. ‘It’s good to know you trust me but, as a police officer, I can only advise that you give yourself up. Tell us what you know, and the truth will come out.’
Krempin laughed bitterly down the line. ‘I don’t think you’re quite as naïve as you sound, Inspector. If I come to the station, they’ll pounce on me: the press, the whole public. Do you seriously think the police can still conduct an impartial investigation? They’re not even doing it now! They’re hunting me, and that’s all.’
‘And you mean to confide in one of your pursuers?’
‘I want you to know what happened in the studio the day Betty Winter died. Then you’ll know that I don’t have her on my conscience.’
‘Then tell your story, perhaps it will help me after all.’
‘Not on the telephone. We have to meet.’
‘Aren’t you worried that I’ll have our meeting point surrounded by a hundred officers?’
‘If you do that you’ll never hear from me again. You won’t get me that easily.’
‘I’m not about to give you up. But what do you suppose is going to happen? You tell me your version of events and everything will be well and good?’
‘You’ll find Betty’s killer, and people will stop hunting me.’
‘I’m honoured by your trust but what if I don’t? How long are you planning to hide then? I can’t help you on my own. It would be good if someone else…’
‘You’re the only officer I’ll speak to.’
‘I’m talking about a journalist.’
Rath thought he might hang up. ‘You’re not serious,’ he said.
‘You can only fight public opinion with published opinion. I’m friends with a newspaper reporter who will listen to you. He’s one hundred percent reliable. Then it’ll be your version of events in the paper. How does that sound?’
The Silent Death Page 26