The Swinging Detective

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The Swinging Detective Page 11

by Henry McDonald


  Heike rolled her eyes to the ceiling, shook her head and gulped down a glass.

  ‘Just ONE more thing Martin? How much more can you wring out of me?’

  ‘As much as possible. Look I hope one fine day we can be true friends again but I need you do this one thing. I think he’s going to call you again, soon. He needs to talk and when he does I want you to tell him about me. Tell him everything about me, all that stuff you know about me before the Turn. And give him my number. Tell him I want to talk. Play up the old soldier in me.’

  For the first time since they sat down for their peace conference in the Italian restaurant Heike looked genuinely puzzled.

  ‘What makes you think he’ll want to talk to the man charged with hunting him down?’

  ‘Because I think he’ll think I might just understand him. He believes he’s still a soldier. Maybe he would like to talk to another soldier. Give him my mobile. Insist he take it. And send it via those emails he’s sent although I suspect he keeps changing address so there’s no history in his outbox.’

  They sat in complete silence throughout their second course with Peters occasionally furtively glancing left and right across Sale to survey who was in. Heike meanwhile kept re-reading the printed out email.

  ‘He really does like attention our “Christopher”.....’

  Peters interrupted Heike’s latest thought on her correspondent-killer by holding up his and standing up.

  ‘Hold on. I’ve just spotted someone across the room. Give me a minute.’

  Heike recognised the woman being chivalrously shown to her table by a small, slight man in a grey suit. One of the financial journalists from a Berlin daily she recalled who had worked a couple of years ago on WAMS’ business desk when Heike was a cub reporter and was being sent to work across every section of the paper. Peters slid around their table and made his way towards the lunching couple with Heike remaining in her seat.

  It was Yanaev. He recognised that nervous twitching gait the second the Russian entered the restaurant.

  ‘Tavarich we should stop meeting like this. People will start talking about us.’

  Yanaev turned around, nodded to the attractive slender blonde facing him and replied:

  ‘People are already talking about you.’

  ‘What do you mean Herr Yanaev?’

  ‘You obviously don’t read the papers. I only scan the financial pages normally myself but you glance at the headlines sometimes especially when it’s a story as big as the serial killer on the loose and the Berlin murder squad haven’t a clue who he is,’ the Russian said smiling with just a faint trace of sadism across his face.

  ‘Personally I don’t read the rags. I only get on with my job. But I’ll get my man in the end just like I’ll get whoever decapitated those two gentlemen we found in the Havel, Herr Yanaev.’

  The blood seemed to drain from Yanev’s face, those darting brown eyes the only live feature in a visage that appeared otherwise frozen and lifeless.

  ‘As I said to you before I like a good detective story. So please come back and tell me how you get on because if you don’t mind I have to have lunch with this lady to tell her about all the exciting things my company is planning for this wonderful city.’

  Peters smiled back at the Russian: ‘But of course. I hope to see you very soon Herr Yanaev, possibly in one of our custody suites.’

  Yanaev shrugged his shoulders casually dismissing Peters’ threat.

  He then called back to the retreating Peters.

  ‘The next time you talk to me perhaps it should be in the presence of my lawyer. As he will tell you I have nothing to hide and besides, as I said to you before, what makes you think those men were Russian.’

  After paying the bill and shaking hands with the Italian waiters, Peters followed Heike outside onto Koch Strasse. It was then he noticed that Heike was firing back invisible daggers at the heavily made up blonde reporter sitting with Avi Yanaev. They never forgive their enemies or their faces. Hacks are like cops. Good, it meant they still had a few things in common.

  An icy downpour was about to break over Berlin when they stopped outside the Koch Strasse U-Bahn just before they parted.

  ‘Who was the weird guy you went over to?’ Heike asked in between lighting up her much awaited post-lunch cigarette.

  ‘Who was the ice cold bitch staring you out beside him?’

  ‘You first Martin.’

  Peters took a couple of deep breaths while Heike drew on her fag and shivered against the cold.

  ‘This bit is definitely not for publication...yet. A source of mine, the best source I have ever had, told me that that weird guy is the key to those headless horsemen you wrote about last weekend.’

  He bent over and kissed Heike on the cheek and noticed it felt like marble.

  ‘As for the ice cold bitch I don’t need to know Heike. You should go home and rest after what happened today.’

  She poked the detective playfully in the stomach and then smiled.

  ‘Martin, go fuck yourself, go back to your beloved Angi and Stannheim and leave me to do my job. I promise if he calls I’ll offer him a date with you,’ she said before racing across the road, avoiding taxis and a long tail of coaches full of tourists anxiously waiting to alight and get to see ‘Charlie’ and experience the artificial frisson at the old resurrected Cold War frontier.

  Twenty

  When Peters returned to Kottbusser Strasse Angi Domath was waiting for him with a brief lesson on the nature of blood.

  ‘Serology is the study of blood, which I had to take during my forensic science course,’ Angi said in her clipped, robotic delivery while her immediate boss stared down at two blown up photographs of the Havel corpses laid out on morgue slabs.

  ‘In Europe the percentage of Rhesus negatives is higher than in other parts of the world, somewhere between 12 and 16 per cent of the population. But in one part of the continent the proportion of Rhesus negatives can be at least 30 per cent and perhaps up to 42 per cent of European blood. That area is the Basque region of Spain.’

  She was standing awkwardly, her hands behind her back, one trainer arched up, the other balancing her entire body which was twitching nervously. All around her others in the squad were quietly working away at their desks, speaking lowly into telephones and handy sets, thock-thock-thocking at keyboards, or poring over notebooks, telephone directories and files stuffed fat with photographs of convicts. Peters looked towards Stannheim’s office and noticed that the blinds were up, the lair empty.

  ‘Angi, what is the relevance to our two friends from the Havel?’ Peters asked, gently.

  ‘According to serology experts Basques, in terms of their blood grouping, have an exceptionally “European” type of blood. But now we must move on from serology to anthropology. Basques are found to be two to three centimetres taller than the average French or Spaniard. And yet their limbs, despite their muscularity, tend to be quite delicate. These features alongside their blood belong to the men that were found in Lake Havel.’

  Angi rocked back and forward on her heels watching Peters attempting to absorb what he had heard.

  ‘So you’re saying these men might be from the Basque region of Spain?’

  ‘No. I only started from the hypothesis that they were Russian given the marks tattooed into their skins. But when I checked on their blood types I was curious. Then I had them measured. I remembered a paper I had to do at the university on the importance of serology classifications which mentioned the unique Basque blood. I cannot categorically say that these men are Basque but their blood type is the same and they have some of the characteristics of the larger Basque male. That is all I can say.’

  Peters was on the verge of losing his patience with his favourite officer when suddenly he recalled what Yanaev had said to him, not once but twice; the first time at the opening of the Jewish film festival, the second just an hour earlier in Sale.

  ‘What makes you think they were Russian!’ now Peters m
uttered just under his breath, enough so that only Angi could hear him.

  Despite his frustration she was one of the few officers in Kottbusser Strasse (the ‘basin of scorpions’ as Stannheim loved to call it) who he still implicitly trusted.

  ‘Angi. Get the lab to make further checks to confirm all that. And scan the wires if anything came up over the last few months involving Basques doing bad things in and around Berlin.’

  He picked up the pictures of the cadavers and brought them almost up to his nose as if he was trying to sniff out a trace of the deathly odour that may have been trapped in these captured frames of horror. Maybe there was a connection between them and the doomed men on film Blucher had led him to. For a start their heads had been severed in what appeared to be one single clean blow. Only a quality swordsman would have been able to do that. Yet there were no other visible signs of torture or abuse on the two Havel corpses.

  Their agony had been in no way as prolonged as the ordeal the others had been subjected to in front of the camera. In his bones, Peters knew that he was dealing with two very different assassins.

  Bauer, ruddy faced as usual with the flushes of last night’s drinking, little pearls of alcohol visibly seeping out of his pores, breathless yet eager as ever to impress, interrupted Peters focus on the photos with news from “Boyz R Us”.

  ‘Sir, Riedel’s on my line. He’s been trying your handy but it’s switched off. Insisted I get you immediately.’

  The former Vopo who had somehow escaped the purge through the security organs of the East German state after the Wall fell, reeked of stale beer and the sharp, clean laboratory trace of pure Schnapps on his breath.

  ‘Good, good Bauer. I’ll speak to him now. Any news from your former friends in the NVA about who our soldier-serial killer is?’

  ‘Not yet sir. I’m seeing some old friends from the old days this evening down in Friedrichshain. Maybe they’ll come up with some names.’

  Peters ignoring Bauer’s desperation to be liked by superiors, moved to the sergeant’s desk and picked up the phone.

  Riedel was barely audible, whispering down the line on his handy.

  ‘He’s here. He’s here.’

  ‘Who Rieldel? And for fuck’s sake speak up.’

  ‘I can’t. He’s on his own and there’s no one else in the shop. I came into the back to ring you, I tried texting. It’s the old perv from the other day who kept wondering what happened to his mate who had disappeared.’

  ‘Shit. Sorry for that Riedel,’ Peters was trying to think, he needed to keep this particular customer of Lothar Blucher to stay in the shop.

  ‘Riedel. Keep him talking. Be chatty. Bauer and I will go over now. It’ll probably take a while. Text again and send a description. We’ll wait outside and pull him in when he leaves the shop. Just keep him interested and smile a lot.’

  As he disconnected Peters was certain that Riedel was cursing him under his breath.

  ‘Bauer go round to the car park and get one of the Audis from the pool. I’ll meet you at the front. Let’s get moving,’ Peters said while signalling over to Angi.

  ‘Never mind the headless horsemen for now. Get me three print outs of “Christopher’s” victims and take them to the main interview suite, make sure you get the one with the head severed. That’ll be our ace card.’

  Angi looked bewildered which prompted Peters to add just before he bounded down the wall towards the stairwell: ‘All will be clear within the hour.’

  Just as Peters was about to push out the swing doors onto Kottbusser Strasse he spotted three satellite trucks and a knot of reporters huddled together in conclave, nursing cups of coffee from an enterprising mobile hot drinks vendor who had pulled up beside the television crews laying out thick, fat cables in the street which engineers were hooking up to monitors and microphones. Peters gave thanks to the heavens that the snow was falling again providing him with a fleeting curtain to hide behind while he jumped into Bauer’s Audi whenever he finally managed to negotiate the sleek, shiny-black, souped-up star of the station’s car pool out of its tightly packed car park.

  Inside the hallway Peters turned on his mobile and noticed five missed messages, one from Riedel, the others from reporters he had either never heard of or he had chosen a long time ago not to work with ever again.

  He heard the revving of an engine outside and peered through the glass to see that Bauer had attracted attention, the journalists had dropped their foam cups onto the road and were running over in a pack towards the Audi.

  ‘Oh shit!’ Peters cried out bounding through the doors, running down the concrete steps amid a gauntlet of questions.

  ‘Captain Peters. What can you tell us about the latest on “Christopher”?’

  ‘Have you been in communication with the killer?

  ‘Are all three men convicted paedophiles?’

  On hearing the last question as he pulled open the passenger door, Peters shouted back:

  ‘You tell me!’

  Instantly, inside the bubble of artificial warmth and dark luxury Peters regretted what he had just said. He had just admitted that he knew less than the press. Stannheim would have had a stroke on hearing that one, he thought.

  Bauer tore down Kottbusser Strasse, turned left and headed westwards in the direction of Sauvigny Platz. While he drove Peters watched this over-weight grey spiky haired 55-year-old sergeant and wondered why it was Riedel rather than Bauer who was the station’s malcontent. He had done well to worm his way into the murder squad as most of the Vopos had been purged from the newly united police force. Bauer however had a fat, bulging contact book full of names of informants and ex-Stasi spooks which Stannheim recognised as a potential asset for the unit. He was elevated from uniform to the murder squad although the chief of Kottbusser Strasse still ensured that the man with the reputation for harassing dissidents and punks while the DDR still existed would never make it beyond the rank of detective sergeant.

  ‘Good man, I didn’t need to tell you it was back to the shop. We’re here to lift someone. Riedel has done great work there too’ Peters said with genuine enthusiasm.

  ‘Of course sir,’ Bauer replied keeping his eyes fixed forward, weaving the Audi around the lanes of late afternoon Berlin traffic.

  Peters started an interrogation as they made their way towards Blucher’s shop.

  ‘Do you ever miss the old days Bauer?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ the sergeant asked suspiciously.

  ‘I mean before the Turn, before things fell apart. Don’t you think sometimes life was less complicated, more simple and clear cut?’

  He noticed that Bauer was watching him, diffidently, out of the side of his eyes.

  ‘Not really. I don’t think about the past. Best not to dwell too much there.’

  ‘But do you ever miss it? The clarity of it all. Don’t you Ossis not pine for all the security and comfort?’

  Bauer ignored Peters barbs and kept his eyes on the road cursing and yelling at the tourist coaches and the cyclists slowing his progress towards Sauvingny Platz.

  He must have something he really wants to forget and bury. In silence, they reached the blackened stump of the Kaiser Willhelm memorial marking the beginning of the west end. The English detective reached into his coat pocket and plucked out his mobile. After clicking on ‘received calls’ Peters found Riedel’s handy number and re-dialled.

  ‘Yes?’ Riedel said awkwardly as if he was talking elliptically to an inquisitive wife wondering where he was all evening.

  ‘Riedel, is he still there?’

  ‘Yep, just about,’ his undercover officer replied faintly.

  ‘We’ll be there soon. Meantime this will keep him rooted to the spot. Tell him the owner of the shop is organising a private trip for clients to Sri Lanka.’

  Riedel didn’t bother replying.

  Just in time, Peters had remembered the half-burnt postcard ‘from paradise’ lying next to the mutilated head of Eric Tisch and the video bo
x containing the bomb that killed ‘Christopher’s” third victim, it was probably the one thing that was going to save another pervert’s life.

  Twenty One

  ‘6FT 2. LANKY. G’SSES. TARTAN TROUS. BLU. WHITE PUFFD COAT. LVING NOW. R U NR?’

  He was midway down the street walking in the direction towards Sauvigny Platz, a plain black plastic bag under his right arm, nervously scanning his surroundings when Peters intercepted him.

  Riedel’s text message had been brief but accurate. Peters had spotted him the instant he came out the door of ‘Boyz R Us.’ Bauer thrust the Audi into short jerks slowly in parallel to the pavement only halting when Peters and the man he was following in front reached the junction. The sergeant watched as the Englishman caught up, passed the man and then swivelled around holding his Polizei ID card in front of him.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind sir I’d like you to get into the car,’ Peters asked politely.

  ‘I very much do mind!’

  Bauer stopped the car engine and bounded out towards the man.

  ‘Get in the fucking car or we’ll drag you in,’ Bauer shouted in the man’s face.

  ‘Am I under arrest?’ the bespectacled, awkward looking client of Blucher’s shop asked as if already resigned to his fate.

  ‘Just get in!’ Bauer kept up his menacing tone.

  Bauer sat in the front while Peters kept their ‘prisoner’ company in the back seat on the return journey to the murder squad station.

 

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