But this time, I call first.
Faller leaves the Pontiac in a side street.
‘I don’t like hospital car parks,’ he says. ‘If you’re so weak you have to park directly outside the hospital, you might as well check into the place right away.’
There it is again – Faller’s midlife crisis. He must be properly scared of getting old. Watching the spring in his step as he crosses the road, there’s really no need for it.
He’s still a man who leads the way.
And he seems to be interested in my Austrian, Joe. While we were still in the car he asked exactly which room he was in, and now, as the hospital entrance comes into view, he almost breaks into a run. He is, and always will be, a cop, and he doesn’t stop till he gets to the door of Joe’s room, where the policeman is sitting on his chair, reading the Sunday paper.
‘Mornin’’ says Faller, rocking from his heels to his tiptoes and back again.
‘Mornin’’ says the policeman, smiling and looking at me.
‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘I thought I’d bring a gentleman visitor this time.’
‘All right then,’ says the policeman, burying his head in the paper again.
The front-page news is that one of the old Kiez bosses has had a heart attack. One of the biggest. I hope Faller doesn’t see it – that would only stoke his current condition.
But he went into the room ages ago, without knocking or messing about.
‘Hello,’ he says, taking a chair and sitting down by Joe’s bed.
I stay standing behind the chair and say: ‘A friend of mine. A little male company for a change. And because it’s Sunday.’
‘Oh, it’s Sunday, is it?’ says Joe, nodding thoughtfully and looking over my old friend as if he has X-ray eyes.
Then he says: ‘Mr Faller. There’s a thing.’
Do you two know each other? I’d like to ask.
Or: What’s up?
Or: I beg your pardon?
But I’m utterly speechless.
Faller isn’t.
‘Have we met?’ he asks, pulling his I’ll-whip-out-my-notepad-in-a-minute face.
Joe shakes his head. ‘No,’ he says, ‘we’ve never met. But I know you.’
Recently, when it was still winter.
FALLER, GEORG
He wanted me to die of my grief, my questions, my doubts. But I didn’t die. I cheated. I went numb. I put myself on ice.
There are stories of injured men in glacier crevasses. What the body does is, it drives down your temperature, your metabolism and everything, and waits.
Some even hang on till they’re rescued.
My rescue was that one of his little runners squealed – admitted that he’d put the dead girl in my bed and that I hadn’t touched her. Since then, I’ve been able to look at my daughter without thinking about that girl every damn time.
The girl isn’t on my conscience. I couldn’t have saved her; I couldn’t have prevented anything – it happened to me.
There’s enough on my conscience anyway – Minou’s been lying there for almost thirty years.
All the same, I’d made peace with that in recent years. With everything.
It won’t do any good, I thought.
Now I know that was cowardly. That it means I’d made peace with the Albanian, and making peace with him is not an option. You have to fight people like that, all your life.
I’d just forgotten. I was sleeping like an old man. A dull old goat.
But then there was that New Year reception at the Town Hall. I remember not wanting to go, but my wife persuaded me. Something about new experiences. And then that.
Suddenly that bastard appears next to me.
He sees me, recognises me. He’s standing with a few guys who think they’re fine gentlemen. Some of them are, officially at least.
What does that arsehole do? Orders a whole round of drinks from me.
They all know I’m not a waiter. They all laugh. What’s the joke, exactly?
And suddenly I heard the shot again.
Suddenly I realised: you can’t let those guys sit on you, Faller. If he thought I wasn’t an enemy any more, he was mistaken.
MALAJ, GJERGJ
This city has done its duty. Hafencity’s up and running, and it pays. We’re moving soon. To Eastern Europe.
Then Hamburg’s only job will be to help milk the west for a bit more.
Ways and means are the name of the game in good business.
An organism is only healthy when the blood vessels are working properly.
And the blood vessels are working properly when the money gets to me in the end.
DROST, PAUL
This evening.
ADELMANN, NICO
First delivery.
NIEHUS, ROBERT
We’re big.
Really big.
JOE
I was almost sure that the old cop had hanged himself. Or gone into a loony bin, at least.
But suddenly there he was, at my bedside.
ZIMMERMANN, SUNNY
C’mon, give me the gear.
Hurry up.
I want to forget about yesterday.
And the day before.
Most of all, I’d like to forget my whole life.
STENGER, JAKOB
Of course.
And if you do forget everything: I’m in.
NOW IT’S BROKEN
‘Hello, West Saxony Narcotics Investigation Team.’
A friendly but tired female voice.
‘Riley, Hamburg State Prosecution Department, hello. Could I speak to Mr Wieczorkowski, please?’
‘What’s it regarding?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t really know that myself,’ I say.
I walk over to the open window, that narrow thing, and light a cigarette. ‘An informant advised me to talk to Mr Wieczorkowski.’
‘OK, one moment please.’
Click.
Ring.
‘Wieczorkowski.’
‘Riley, Hamburg State Prosecution Department. Hello, Mr Wieczorkowski. I’m glad you really exist.’
‘Why shouldn’t I exist?’
His voice is deep and it sounds like he’s laughing as he speaks.
‘There’s someone on my hands,’ I say, ‘who talks in riddles. And your name came up in one of them. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.’
‘And what’s this somebody’s name?’
‘No idea. He calls himself Joe. He’s Austrian, and I was specifically not to give you his regards.’
There’s a pause for thought at the other end of the line.
Then: ‘What did he say about why you should call me?’
‘I should ask you about crocodiles,’ I say, hoping he doesn’t laugh, or just put the phone down on me.
‘He mentioned crocodiles?’ asks Wieczorkowski.
‘He did.’
‘In what context?’
‘I’m not quite sure of that myself. He talked about Esperanto. But I think it’s really about drugs, if I’ve understood correctly.’
‘Did he talk about crocodiles in Hamburg?’
‘I couldn’t say – I only followed about half of it. What is all this about crocodiles?’
Wieczorkowski doesn’t answer. But I can hear him thinking again.
‘Do you have time to come and see me in Leipzig?’
‘When?’ I ask.
‘Pack your bag, get on the next train. I’ll meet you at the station. Wait … The next train from Hamburg to Leipzig goes in just under an hour. Can you make that?’
‘Now you wait,’ I say.
‘I’m waiting.’
‘Can’t we discuss this on the phone?’
‘I don’t like discussing things by phone,’ he says. ‘I grew up in the GDR.’
‘The GDR no longer exists,’ I say.
‘The technology does though.’
‘I’m small fry,’ I say. ‘It’s not worth tapping me.’
; ‘I’d be worth it, though,’ he says. ‘How about it? Do you want to talk to me?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I do.’
‘Then get on the train.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Er, well then, we’ll do that. Thank you for the timetable information.’
‘Da nich für,’ he says. ‘Don’t mention it.’
‘That’s what they say in Hamburg…’ I say.
‘I spent a while in your city as a young man. That was a long time ago now. See you later then, Ms … What was your name?’
‘Riley,’ I say.
‘OK, Ms Riley.’
‘OK, Mr Wieczorkowski.’
I hang up and call Faller. I ask him to keep an eye on the Austrian for a day or two because I’ve got to go away. I tell him that I wouldn’t mind if he got anything out of him, as they clearly have some kind of connection.
I leave my sickly office, take a taxi home, pack a bag, head for the station and wonder if this is really so wise, but what can you do?
The fog is travelling into East Germany with us. Under the fog, and in its holes, are fields and meadows. In them are old, isolated trees bearing mistletoe. Now and again there’s a scrap of woodland.
It’s a bit like travelling through another time, a time about 150 years ago maybe, before the twentieth century came, bringing its wars and all that madness, at the end of which was the barking-mad twenty-first century. The landscape outside the window is peaceful, self-contained. A couple of deer here, a stream there; in the centre of the image is an old farmhouse.
Every time one of those mail-order housing estates pops up, or an industrial park, or an enormous supermarket, or a solar farm, my eyes get a shock. As if a bomb has gone off in the middle of the picture. And every time my eyes get a shock, it reminds me of my failed country break. I still don’t know what I was doing there, but it gave me a similar feeling. Except that it was me who had blown up the picture. I was the eyesore.
Perhaps it’s always like that. Whenever I wish for something, whenever I imagine how something could be, that’s bound to be the moment it falls to bits.
In Berlin, a dozen loud teenage girls from Munich get in. Every one of them has long, blonde plaits, tiny, expensive jackets, checked scarves and gold earrings. Their voices are as shrill as if they’ve been eating neon chalk. A horde of screeching Barbies. And they sit right behind me all the way to Leipzig.
Crocodiles, I think, and have no idea where to go with that.
He’s standing at the end of platform 13, holding a scrap of card; on the card it says: ‘Riley Hamburg’.
‘That must be me,’ I say, holding my right hand out to him.
First he takes my hand, then he takes my bag, saying: ‘Welcome to the wild east. I’m Hannes.’
‘I’m Chastity.’
‘What? Cassidy?’
‘You can call me Riley.’
‘OK,’ he says. ‘Riley – maybe that’s easier.’
He looks at me like people always do when my first name is under discussion – somewhere between bewildered and amused.
He’s a hell of a guy. Must be about six foot two, aged around fifty. He looks good. OK, so his hairline’s retreated quite a way and his skin looks like it’s got far too much sun over the years, but he must have been a very handsome man once. He has one of those chiselled faces, his eyes glint a dark blue, he has enormously broad shoulders and under his hiking jacket I can’t see even a hint of a belly. His long brown hair is tied in a little bun on the back of his head. Nobody ought to be able to get away with that, but on him it works. Put it this way: a few feathers on his head and he’d be a Sioux chieftain.
Outside the station he offers me a cigarette. ‘Start with a smoke?’
‘Please,’ I say taking one of his organic fags. Sky-blue box with a smoking Indian on it. Sioux. I knew it.
Ah. Smoke.
‘What’s that sad old bunker?’ I ask.
Right opposite the station is a dark-grey, stucco-decorated building. The windows are boarded up; the façade up to first-floor level has been taken over by rather unimaginative graffiti.
‘Used to be Walter Ulbricht’s favourite hotel,’ says Wieczorkowski. ‘The cellar’s been flooded since the water table rose. They pump it out round the clock. Belated after-effect of lignite mining.’
He does up his jacket, ciggie in the corner of his mouth, eyes front. ‘Now, why don’t you tell me what’s going on over there in Hamburg?’
‘I hope you can tell me that. I’m up to my knees in mysteries.’
‘What about the Austrian informant you’ve reeled in?’
‘He’s been in hospital a week because three guys broke all his bones and cut off his right index finger,’ I say. ‘Since then, I’ve been trying to find out who he is and what exactly happened. On Saturday, out of the blue, he came up with your name.’
‘What does this man look like, then?’ he asks.
‘He’s tall,’ I say, ‘mid to late forties, maybe. Angular face, silver-grey hair.’
Wieczorkowski nods, but more to himself, then he says: ‘Why do you know it’s about drugs?’
‘He told me that was why he was beaten up.’
‘And that’s all you know?’
‘That’s all I know.’
I’ve forgotten the names Drob, Adlo and Ronny, just to be on the safe side. I have a rule: don’t trust anyone I’ve only known for ten minutes.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘Well, let’s go for a walk. I’ll show you something.’
We set off, still smoking. We walk past the broken hotel and turn down a quiet side street, and I find myself thinking that Leipzig looks like any other medium-sized German city, only a bit better. Tidy in a Bavarian kind of way. Pretty. Old. Picture-book. Listed buildings everywhere.
We come to a tree-lined square that looks like it was smartened up with nail scissors. A church. Houses with bay windows and mini onion domes. Lattice windows as far as the eye can see. To our right is a large sandstone building, maybe from the turn of the last century, or perhaps a bit later – what do I know? Wieczorkowski heads for a wooden bench under a tree.
‘Have a seat,’ he says, looking at the church clock. It’s almost half past two. ‘It’s nearly time.’
We sit down. We’ve got a perfect view of the big building.
‘Is that a school?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘A grammar school,’ he says. ‘Gets some of the best results in the city. You see the long fence to the right of the school?’
Behind the fence is a cluster of small trees and tall bushes, evergreen stuff.
‘What about it?’ I ask.
‘Keep your eye on it,’ he says. ‘It won’t be long now.’
We light cigarettes and smoke.
‘Now,’ he says.
Three young men have suddenly appeared by the fence. They look like students – wearing thick hoodies and crumpled shoulder bags, which don’t seem to have much in them. They could also be youth workers or young teachers. The next moment, the school’s large double doors fly open and the teenagers plunge out into the abyss: they ought to spread like wildfire across the square and disperse into their free time, like you do when school’s over, but they don’t.
Following some internal system, they form into little groups and walk past the fence. They each stop by one of the men in hoodies. Swap something. One for you, one for me. Then they turn the corner. And they’re gone.
After barely two minutes, it’s all over. Nobody there, not even the guys with the bags.
Wieczorkowski looks at me.
‘What was that?’ I ask.
‘Meth,’ he says.
‘Crystal meth?’
He nods and says: ‘The usual.’
‘Why don’t you do something about it?’
‘My colleagues can be at ten schools at a time, max,’ he says. ‘We don’t have any more people. But every school in this town has a fence like that. With at least forty secondary schools, you can imagine the job we have.’
What I find so hard to imagine is how ordinary the meth thing clearly is here. Neither Wieczorkowski nor the students nor the dealers by the fence seem all that concerned. Just ordinary.
‘They didn’t look like freaks,’ I say. ‘They looked like fresh-faced, healthy teenagers.’
‘The freaks live on the edge of society,’ he says. ‘In the holes and sometimes at the station. The freaks are the rats that eat the drug rubbish. If you’re middle class and can afford the good stuff, you can keep it together for quite a while before it breaks you.’ He drags on his cigarette and looks up to the sky. ‘And until then, you’re the king of your little world. Don’t need to sleep or eat, you’re always at the top of your game, you can party all weekend and look amazing while you’re at it.’
He looks at me. ‘Basically, with meth in your blood, you’re this world’s exact ideal: slim and quick and always wide awake.’
‘No,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Think about it, Riley.’
If that’s the case, slim is about all I’ve got to offer.
‘Where does all the stuff sold here come from?’
‘The Czech Republic,’ he says. ‘A good hour’s drive. You can buy as much as you like there.’
The Czech Republic.
From Hamburg that seems hideously far away. A couple of hours by train to Leipzig and suddenly you’re very close by.
‘Shall we drive over there?’
‘Sure,’ he says. ‘But first I want to show you something else.’
We go back towards the station. In a side street, we get into a white Ford Transit with tinted windows. A monster.
‘What is this?’ I ask. ‘A mobile TV studio?’
‘Bit eye-catching, I know,’ he says, shrugging. ‘But every dealer within a two-hundred-K radius knows me anyway, and the junkies know who I am too. Which is bad for stake-outs, but the advantage is I can drive whatever car I like. And I like this old, white juggernaut.’
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