‘Name?’ Bauer demanded while Peters opted to remain silent.
‘I want to call my lawyer. Now! I have done nothing illegal.’ At that the man fumbled and spilled the contacts of his bag onto Peters’ lap.
There were three A5 sized magazines tightly wrapped in plastic film, showing drunken Punks and Gothic boys in various straights of undress at locations ranging from a dockland waterfront to a public park. On the front of one of the magazines whose headlines were written in Dutch there was a Mohican haired punk wearing a kilt performing fellatio on an older pension-age man up against a tree.
‘All is perfectly legal and the right age,’ the man shot back his confidence growing.
Just you wait chum, just you wait.
From the second he was picked up to the moment they alighted from the Audi at the back of Kottbusser Strasse station and into the labyrinth of halls and office doorways, the man they had gripped continued to demand to see his lawyer. Peters was surprised that he didn’t have a mobile phone to call one.
Angi was standing at the entrance to one of the interview suites which was a brightly lit room with a water cooler at one end and a table on top of which sat bottled fizzy water and a jug full of apple juice. She ushered the three of them inside and then slammed the re-enforced door shut.
Once in the room Peters gestured to the water and juice and finally spoke to the man they had picked up:
‘Please feel free to have a drink but absolutely no smoking!’ he pointed to the No Smoking sign above the desk on the wall beside the clock.
The three police officers stood in strategic positions around the man: Bauer behind him, his fists pumping, his stare glacial; Angi was closer to the door clutching a large envelope tight to her chest and Peters, himself, stood leaning over the table where the man sat. He spoke first.
‘To answer your earlier question in the car, no you are not under arrest.’
‘Then what the hell am I doing here?’
‘Firstly you should tell us your name.’
‘Not until I see my lawyer.’
Peters nodded towards Angi and beckoned her over. He took the envelope off her and lifted one of three blown up coloured photo-prints out and dropped it in front of the man. The sight of what he was being shown almost jolted him out of his seat. He blanched in his chair, gripped the table and started retching towards the ground.
‘What’s a matter sir? I thought someone with a strong stomach like yours would be un-shockable. Aren’t you used to the kind of sights the rest of us would regard as revolting?’
The man reached over to the bottled sparking water, wrenched off the top and took a slug, the liquid fizzing out and shooting up his nose. After slamming the bottle back on the table he took several deep breaths and without looking at it again pushed the picture onto the cell floor.
On Peters’ instruction, Bauer picked the picture back up and held it up like someone would display a placard at a political protest.
‘Look at it. Look at it.’ Peters cried. ‘Take a good look at it and tell me who the hell he was.’
But their prisoner couldn’t look at the image of the severed head captured on camera and copied from screen by the squad’s forensic photographer. Instead he kept his eyes fixed on the desk observing the graffiti engraved into the wood by a succession of suspects. His mind appeared to be drifting as he read the carved out messages: ‘Jurgen 10-12-98’ ‘Fuck the cops’ ‘Turks out’ ‘Herta Berlin’ ‘For a good ride ring.....’ the last one with the number scrawled over.
‘Come on and stop wasting our time. I want your name and then I want his.’ Peters said.
‘Why should I?’
Peters flopped down in the chair opposite his interviewee and leaned over the table once more.
‘Because I think you might be next! Angi shown him our other two friends.’
It was the sight of the second photograph that seemed to conduct a current of terror through his entire frame, which began to shake, his hands trembling so much he dropped the plastic bottle and its contents onto the floor. Peters knew it was that instant of recognition; the faces he knew, the fate that lay for him captured in the terror on the murdered men’s visages.
‘Right, stop the fucking bravado and tell us your name and theirs – all of them!’ Peters stared over his interviewee’s head and noticed that Bauer was smiling. Directly beneath him Peters heard the sound of a throat clearing and then heavy breathing.
‘My name is Oskar Beer.’
‘Well that’s a start,’ Peters said continuing the pressure.
‘And what about this one?’ the detective pointed to “Christopher’s” first target.
Beer’s voice was now trembling in tandem with the rest of his body.
‘He is, I mean was, Ulrich Hoeness.’
‘And this one?’ this time Peters slapped down the picture of the head of number two.
‘I think this was Felix Gerster. I’m almost sure it was.’
‘And you already know this was Eric Tisch. Tell me, why do think Tisch had so many Thai stamps on his passport? Fourteen to be precise. I counted them all.
‘Please I need some air. I can hardly breathe.’
‘You’re going to stop breathing permanently unless you help us more Herr Beer.’
Angi noted down the names, gathered up the photographs and put them back into the envelope and made towards the door.
‘Angi.’ Peters stopped her in her tracks. ‘Not yet. Just a few minutes more.’
He moved closer to Beer who had his head in his hands.
‘Right Herr Beer. Please explain how you got to know this band of brothers. Through the shop I suppose?’
‘Yes of course. We used to meet there regularly.’
‘What was it you were up to?’
‘Up to?’
‘Look Beer don’t play stupid. I’m going to send my officer out to the computer and check up on each and every one of you. I’ll bet you my army and police pension combined that you’re all on our records somewhere. Tisch had convictions for sexual offences against young boys. That’s what bound you all together. You’re not gay at all. That’s an insult to the gay community. You were a paedophile club!’
Beer did exactly what Peters had been hoping he would and rose up to face the detective.
‘There is nothing wrong with man-boy-love. It’s been going on for centuries. Since the Greeks. There are rights organisations in America fighting for our acceptance.’
Bauer’s knuckles were white with fury now. He’s going to hit this fucker in a minute and turn this interrogation into a human rights violation.
‘What I do? How dare you assume you know anything about me.’ Beer croaked in protest.
Peters flared at this newly found haughtiness: ‘There is one thing for certain I know about you. Do you want to know what that is? No? Well our friend out there who carved up, blew up and battered your chums is coming for you next and WE are the only people who can stop him. So start co-operating more. Besides, if you don’t I’ll make a phone call to ‘Vice and have them turn your home upside down looking for something that is actually illegal.’
‘What else do you want to know?’ Beer asked, visibly crestfallen.
Staring at Bauer, perhaps for his benefit as much as Beer’s, Peter said: ‘Me? I’m like the Stasi. My aim is to know everything. So tell me everything.’
Starting with Tisch, Peters’ prisoner unravelled the intertwined sexual predilections of this intimate circle who met once a week at ‘Boyz R Us’ and each fortnight in the back-room of a decaying corner pub in Prenzl’berg. Like Tisch they all shared the same convictions, offences against boys whom Beer protested weakly they had never imagined had either been under age or weren’t in any way happy to go along with a bit of fun. Their ‘education’ as Hoeness used to remark to Beer every so often.
They met under the auspices of a card club gambling in the back lounge of the Kneipe pub playing for a few Euros ever alternating Thursday. No, they d
id not exchange anything. They simply had found each other out while lurking around that part of Blucher’s shop with the images of the cute innocent faces of young boys. Nothing illegal there either, Beer insisted. The group was more like a support network for men who had been inside and suffered the consequences of being the ultimate outcasts in there. They would recall the beatings, the adulterated food, the constant threats, the dark sarcasm of the Screws. They were survivors thrown together who helped each other. That was all.
Peters didn’t believe a single word of what he was hearing but what Beer said next suddenly interrupted his fantasy of pistol whipping the old pervert to a pulp.
‘All of the group were ‘round about the same age. We are all in our sixties. We’d all done time. Except this one guy who joined us towards the end of last year.’
‘Tell me about this other guy. What was so different about him?’ Peters said noticing that Angi’s perceptive powers were also zeroing in on what Beer was now saying.
‘Oh apart from his age. Much younger than us. Possibly late forties, early fifties but fit and very good looking. We often wondered at first what he was doing latching onto us. Felix and Ulrich were very fond of him though, but not in a sexual way of course.’
‘No I suppose he wasn’t their type,’ Peters quipped. ‘Now tell me Beer what was this man’s name? What happened to him?’
Beer made a throttling sound in his throat and added:
‘Just after the New Year he told us he was going away. He’d booked a holiday to Sri Lanka. He said he’d been before. He told us it was a nice place to meet gorgeous boys. Cheaper than Thailand. Less commercial. Far more friendly.’
He already knew the answer to the next question but pressed Beer so that Bauer and Angi both heard the answer.
‘What did he say he was called?’
‘He only gave us his first name. He said he was called Christopher but I haven’t’ seen him since.’
The trio gathered around Beer were reading each other’s thoughts. Angi nodded towards the door and Peters, glaring up at Bauer, accompanied her leaving the room. The former Vopo stayed put in his chair to guard over Beer.
In the hallway Peters kept his volume down to a whisper
‘Bring the photo-fit team over pronto and get them to do a make-up of Beer’s good friend Christoph. Then find Beer a cell for the night to sleep in.’
‘Yes sir?’ Angi inquired as she turned on red high heels away from him.
‘Oh Angi?’
‘Yes’
‘Track down Beer’s address and when you have it call in Vice for a raid.’
She laughed when she knew she shouldn’t have.
‘I thought you and him had a deal.’
‘Balls to a deal with someone like that. I’m off to bring the old man some good news. I’ll let Bauer escort Beer to his hotel room.’
Later on his way to the incident room in search of Stannheim, Peters sent a congratulatory text to Riedel. It had been easier to stomach than a direct call.
‘Reidel. Good work. We got our man.’
Twenty Two
To: [email protected]
Subject: Manifesto
Fraulein,
Perhaps I have been a bit harsh on you.
To: [email protected]
Subject: re Manifesto
Tell me more about you.
To: [email protected]
Subject: re re Manifesto
I am not important. What matters is the struggle.
To: [email protected]
Subject: re re re Manifesto
You keep saying struggle. What struggle? Why you?
To: [email protected]
Subject: re re re re Manifesto
Don’t think I’m naive. I know they have your phones bugged and your emails tracked. They would be failing in their duty if they didn’t. I would do the same in their shoes.
To: [email protected]
Subject: re re re re re Manifesto
There is so much I want to ask you. Is that why you asked to go on MSN messenger, to finally explain what you are doing?
To: [email protected]
Subject: re re re re re re re Manifesto
Everything it seems in these times is a commodity to be bought, sold, exchanged and discarded. EVERYTHING! These men simply understood supply and demand. They merely pushed it to the outer extremes. And for such clarity they put themselves in the firing line.
To: [email protected]
Subject: re re re re re re re re Manifesto
Your firing line? Is this personal? Has someone hurt you or someone close to you?
To: [email protected]
Subject: personal!
This type of pop psychology will get you nowhere. Oh yes, and you can cut that sentence from your ‘copy’ for Sunday. Permission not granted. I don’t wish to cause any embarrassment but please don’t try any more of this psycho-babble. The personal is definitely not political. That was a bourgeois concept invented in the west to obscure the true nature of struggle. As I said before these are acts of advertising, the transmission of a message.
To: [email protected]
Subject: re personal!
Message? What is the message?
To: [email protected]
Subject: re re personal!
We must remain slightly opaque until the time comes and in the right forum.
Just tell your readers and the world this is not some crude self-gratifying crusade. Ask yourself this: what do these men ultimately represent, these beings that think they can prowl around the world with their pockets stuffed with dollars buying up anything that their eyes covet?
To: [email protected]
Subject: re re re personal!
You are bugged by the way. I had no choice. The SIO in your case wants to talk to you...
To: [email protected]
Subject: re re re re personal!
I’m saying goodbye for now Fraulein. I’ve been on here quite enough.
It was the third time she had spooled through her MSN messages on the Blackberry that afternoon reading and re-reading the brief exchanges between herself and ‘Christopher’. Heike was sitting now right at the back of the hastily convened press conference at the Rathaus, three empty rows of chairs separating her from the rest of the pack hunched together amid a battery of television cameras, lights, microphones and human hands outstretching silver coloured digital recorders. She was enjoying her isolation from the phalanx of reporters as well as the visible discomfort of Martin Peters squirming at the top table in between a silent Mannfred Stannheim and the deputy Federal Interior Minister who had came across from the Bundestag to lend support to the city’s embattled police department.
She would make him wait. Once the broadcasters and the daily journalists melted away only then she would approach him and reveal the substance of this weekend’s scoop for ‘WAMS.’
As her rivals fired questions up towards the police officers and the politician Heike ran over in her mind Christopher’s answers. There was a creeping clarity to his rationale. She felt like someone who had wakened with vision temporarily impaired and who was slowly seeing the external world in milky patterns of light.
‘Captain Peters! Captain Peters!’ she heard the familiar voice of a correspondent from ARD calling out.
‘Captain Peters! Can you confirm reports that the explosive device that killed a man in Wedding this morning contained Semtex?’
Heike watched Peters shuffling nervously in his seat and turning to whisper something to Stannheim who simply nodded. The Englishman raised his head and seemed to blink as he stared back towards the media in front of him.
‘I can only confirm that traces of plastic explosive were found in the device but of the type I can’t be specific...yet.’
A forest of hands shut up from the rows ahead of Heike.
‘Are you saying officially this murder was the work of “Christopher”?’<
br />
‘Why has he not killed this victim on film?’
‘Are you helping paedophiles with their personal security?’
The last question came from one of the mean, lean young hacks out of the ‘BZ’ stable, the muscular Berlin tabloid whose coverage of the killer and the killings had gone into hyper-drive over the last 72 hours. For the last three days each edition carried an icon of St. Christopher on its masthead with promises below of widespread reportage inside. Further there were 500 psycho-profiles of the killer by one of Germany’s leading shrinks. There was even a report that a Hollywood script-writer was flying in this weekend to start researching a movie about Germany’s latest real life star. Another, hardly a report more a picture caption, revealed in colour the upper left arm of a middle aged housewife from Dahlem who had just had a tattoo of St. Christopher permanently etched into her skin.
Heike knew that the ‘BZ’ reporter had scented blood; it was a dubious gift she had also nurtured in herself.
‘Once again Mr Peters – are you and the Berlin Polizei actively helping with convicted paedophiles’ personal security?’
Mister! She almost admired the way the hack had belittled her ex-lover with formality.
The Swinging Detective Page 12