The Swinging Detective

by Henry McDonald

  ‘Hey boss you were one of the cops I saw on the news the other day talking about “St. Christopher”.’

  Peters waited in dread for yet another .38 special to be whipped out of the glove department.

  ‘Fame at last!’ Peters exclaimed.

  ‘You oughta watch yourself boss. He’s a popular boy our “Christopher”. My missus loves him. She’s gone out on of those bloody vigils.’

  ‘Vigils?’

  ‘Yeah, night time marches. Mothers Against Paedophiles. Personally I think “Christopher” is doing the right thing but still those women, eh. Bloody never shut up, do they?’

  It was a relief for Peters that his driver seemed to have as much contempt for ‘Christopher’s’ growing legion of fans than the killer himself. At least he wouldn’t be berated all the way back along Heer Strasse for standing in the way of ‘God’s work.’ When they reached his apartment Peters had a tip and a request ready.

  ‘Do me a favour mate. Don’t tell anyone you had me in the back of the cab once.’

  The cabbie saluted the ten extra Euros with a kiss and then stuck up one thumb.

  ‘Good luck boss...except when it comes to “Christopher”. You can count on me to say nothing but let him get on with the business.’

  The flat was still in semi-darkness, the street lights from the main street partially illuminating the living room, when he fumbled towards the telephone stand checking for messages on his answer phone. There were three, one from the Charite wondering where the hell he was, another from Karen telling him to meet her tomorrow night in a bar down in Friedrichshain or else it was over, the final asking if he was interested in buying a time-share in Majorca.

  He placed the handy beside the phone and undressed in the bathroom finally getting the chance to survey the damage the Russians had inflicted upon him 48 hours before. He looked down to where his cock was and noticed that it was a drooping leopard patterned series of yellow and black blobs and that it was aching once more. Peters then went off fully naked throughout the flat seeking out what booze there was remaining secreted in cupboards and sideboards.

  On returning from the kitchen with a half drunk bottle of Bushmills, Peters checked to see if someone had called on the handy. No calls. No texts. No answer messages. He sat down on a sofa in front of the flat screen television, found the remote control and switched on. He was just in time for a round-table discussion on one of the satellite channels that included two criminologists, a retired cop, a tabloid editor and a Lutheran pastor debating the moral challenge facing Germany over the killer they called ‘Christopher’. Just in time he could hear Miriam’s car pulling up outside, the familiar wail of Middle Eastern song being cut dead and the door slamming. Peters turned off the television, drained his glass and went to run a bath.

  Twenty Seven

  In his exhaustion Peters had crashed on the sofa, a thick duvet from the bed next door that had been cast over him by Miriam before she crept out of the house just before dawn, the candles extinguished, the lights off, the TV put to standby, and the shutters closed over the balcony. The only illumination was a slash of lime green screen emitting tiny bursts of fluorescent light on the other side of the room.

  At first he was sure he was dreaming when he heard the soft strains of Bach humming in the direction of the faint green glow. Then Peters remembered that he had switched his setting to ‘Classical’ from ‘Office’ and shot up from his half slumber and ran towards the handy on the phone table.

  A withheld number patiently ringing and ringing; two missed calls. His heart started pounding and he could hear blood throbbing in his ears. He managed to speak first.

  ‘Yes, Captain Martin Peters speaking.’

  There was a slight pause and then a clearing of a throat.

  ‘Excuse me for calling at such an early hour, sir. My name is Chet Miles and I represent a major Hollywood production company that is here in Berlin at present. We were wondering if....’

  Peters cut the caller off with a question: ‘Who the hell did you say you were?’

  ‘Chet Miles, sir and I represent a major....’

  He recognised a southern states’ drawl: ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

  ‘No sir, we understand that you are, let’s say, directly involved in the hunt for the serial killer known as “St. Christopher”. On behalf of my company I was hoping if we could arrange a meet....’

  ‘Sorry let me stop you there. I’m not even going to bother asking how you got this number but just be to clear – FUCK OFF!’

  The worst thing of all was that Peters couldn’t dare depressing the on/off button, pulling out the battery and locking the door for the weekend. He could have easily lay in his flat recuperating, doing odd jobs around the place he had neglected for months, writing to his mother back in England, watching Bundesliga on TV and later catching up with West Ham’s progress (or lack of it) on Radio Five Live via satellite, he could’ve even taken a taxi to a quieter corner of Kreuzberg and enjoyed a lunch alone with the English Sunday papers and let Angi and Stannheim and Bauer and Riedel and all the team at Kottbusser Strasse deal with the toxic fallout of “St.Christopher’s” wrath. What was even worse though than being a slave to the call was that the walls Peters had erected around his private sphere, in his life beyond the murder squad with its stresses, strains, politics, were all crumbling. He cursed the Laughing Cavalier for persuading him to attend the press conference in the first place. He would pay back whichever rat inside HQ had passed on his name and numbers first to the rags and now to one of the several American film companies flocking to Berlin to be first to put the story of “Christopher” on screen. He vowed to make that smug little bastard from the BND run around in circles before he would hand his quarry over to the spooks. And he promised himself that he and he alone would get his man.

  As the morning wore on Peters found himself, unconsciously, pacing up and down the living room, his hands on his forehead, only released to run through his hair, his whole stature resembling a lovelorn teenage boy waiting in vain for the girl who’s meant to ring but never does. Absorbed in the anticipation he had forgotten to tear back the blinds, flick on a light switch or dress himself; he even had stopped thinking about the dull pains still latent across his body from the blows he sustained in the Grunewald.

  The day crawled along to noon. No one called, not on the land-line, not on the mobile. It was as if the exterior world knew there was only one message he wanted to receive. He was trapped like a fly in amber, a prisoner of ‘Christopher’s’ own whim and timing. Why was he taking so long? Was he busy dismembering, decapitating or quietly dispatching yet another of his ‘targets’? Peters caught himself out using that word. Even he now found it hard to deploy the term he was trained, no obliged under law to use – victim. A torrent of questions roared through his brain and yet he knew the call when it came would be brief, exact and loaded with instruction. He knew he could no longer leave this place until the handy rang and the new phase would begin. His universe would alter, its axis would tilt, his perspective would shift and re-colour. It wasn’t Heike he had chosen but him. He sensed this deep down. One lesson learnt from spy craft in the claustrophobia of the late Cold War, when your enemy requests to meet there can only be two possibilities: they have either come to you with an offer or they are seeking one for themselves. What was “Christopher” offering? What could he possibly want?

  He recalled the general from “Christopher’s” army who had, through Blucher’s contacts in the east, opened a channel to Peters. Fearing that he would be ordered to in turn command the People’s Army to start shooting the citizen’s the General had sought Peters out. The general was looking for help from Peters to defect before there was mass bloodshed and he would have the blood of the People on his hands.

  Across town in the top floor of the Springer Building, Martin Peters was being unofficially removed from his role as SIO in the “St.Christopher” multiple-murder investigation.

  The same man
who had appeared to Peters inside his hospital ward was sitting crossed leg, sipping some coffee, in Christian Littbarski’s office. Heike Numann noticed how well turned out he was in his Italian cut light grey suit and black silk open necked shirt. His sleekness made her think immediately that here was someone not to be trusted.

  Littbarski was behind his desk fidgeting nervously.Her editor looked slightly deflated, put down, more than put out, by the presence of this other younger man purring intrusively in what was meant to be his lair.

  Fest stood up, stuck out his right hand and bowed ever so slightly.

  ‘Fraulein Numman. It’s nice to put a face to a by-line. I’ve always been a great admirer of your work.’

  Heike nearly stumbled and fell back in her chair. These were among the first words “Christopher” had spoken to her. For an instant she wondered if he had walked off the street to hand ‘WAMS’ a world exclusive. Her editor instantly shattered the fantasy.

  ‘This gentleman is from a branch of the BND and he’s come to speak to you about the “Christopher” investigation,’ Littbarski said, his voice quivering under the strain.

  She sat back down and opted to say nothing yet. The spook in the expensive suit did the talking.

  ‘We are all grown up adults in there, would you not agree?’ he said taking another sip from his cup before continuing.

  ‘We all know that the Berlin Polizei have been listening in to your calls and monitoring your email traffic since this terrible business first began.’

  The editor and his crime reporter nodded in unison.

  ‘What you didn’t know up until know is that we are also keeping a close eye and ear on your “relationship” with the serial killer known as “Christopher”.’

  This prompted Heike to butt in, something which surprised even her.

  ‘What do you mean “relationship”? You sound as if I’m fucking him or something. Not that that has anything to do with you.’

  The spook carefully laid the cup and saucer on Littbarski’s table and smiled back at Heike.

  ‘Fraulein, the only fucking going on is inside your head. He, I mean “Christopher” of course, has been mind-fucking you and half the Kottbusser Strasse murder squad since he started this crusade.’

  Heike looked over towards Littbarski who had his head bent over some pages. She spotted that he was doodling with the fountain pen as if he was trying to cover over his obvious embarrassment. She turned and stared at the BND agent.

  ‘Isn’t Kottbusser Strasse in charge of this investigation? Since when did a serial killer become an issue of national security?’

  The young BND man folded his arms and smiled again.

  ‘You know we have a lot of great stories we could pump your way.’

  ‘So what exactly is it you are looking for, Herr...? Sorry I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Just call me a “Security Source” for future reference. Isn’t that what you call all your friends in the Polizei who don’t want to go on the record?’

  Across the table Littbarski was shuffling in his seat, Heike sincerely hoped he was suffering from a severe case of piles.

  ‘Well I’ll ask you again Herr “Security Source” - what exactly is it you are looking for?’

  Mr ‘Security Source’ smiled over to Littbarski. ‘No wonder you say she’s good. With a ballsy attitude like that it’s no wonder she gets you so many stories. ‘

  He then turned back towards Heike, his expression and tone much graver than before.

  ‘Kottbusser Strasse may be in charge but ever since this man started blowing people and places up we take that as a matter of national security. That’s where we come in and that’s where you can help.’

  ‘What do you mean by help?’

  ‘Well for a start how about telling us everything that comes between you and “Christopher”. Like for example if you and he decided to have a little moonlight meeting that wasn’t organised on the mobile or cyberspace. Or for that matter if he sought out anyone else to spill his guts to.’

  ‘How the hell can I help you any more since you’re obviously helping yourselves to my mobile calls and emails?’ she protested.

  ‘We are not just thinking about you? How about your old boyfriend Captain Martin Peters?’

  That was designed to provoke, she realised that and managed to fight off the urge to erupt. She sat smouldering in her chair.

  ‘C’mon, we know that for whatever reason our “Christopher” has taken a keen interest in Peters. For all we know the Englishman could be in danger himself.’

  ‘I hardly think so,’ Heike bit back on the verge of losing it, ‘He only knocks off paedophiles.’

  ‘True, maybe, but this is his war and in war sometimes innocents get caught in the cross-fire, Fraulein.’

  ‘I should have known “Mr Security Source” that your sole agenda has been protecting Captain Peters from his mad man. Your concern for Martin is deeply touching.’

  ‘You cannot begin to imagine the stories in the future we can lead you towards Fraulein,’

  ‘Captain Peters is still the senior investigating officer in this case and I wish to speak to him only about this,’ she said defiantly.

  The spook rubbed his thighs along the perfectly ironed, razor sharp creases of his trousers.

  ‘I’m afraid you would be wasting your time. As of today Captain Peters is no longer in charge of that particular investigation. If you don’t believe me put a call into Supt. Stannheim. Captain Peters’ is on medical leave and when he returns, eventually, his sole focus will be on the unsolved case of the two headless corpses in the Havel. Supt. Stannheim thinks he’s been under too much stress dealing with two different inquiries.

  Martin must have told the spook to go fuck himself, Heike thought and was proud that he did. Instinctively she knew what she had to say next.

  ‘But of course. You are right. He does need to take some rest so if you forgive me I have a story, a very long story to write,’ she got up to go but he gripped her hand.

  ‘Please remember we are not on opposing sides here. We can all help each other. What we don’t want is someone going off on a tangent. That’s all.’

  Heike ignored the spook and nodded towards her editor who was watching the two of them with ever increasing alarm.

  ‘Christian, if you don’t mind I’ll get started on the new material about our man. How many words?’

  ‘As many as you like, space is no problem, you’ll have the lead and write through inside,’ her editor stammered, ‘Just let it flow Heike.’

  She made for the door and ran straight to the elevator outside, her stomach capsizing with fear and disgust. When she reached the ground floor Heike found a quiet corner inside the giant foyer of the Springer empire and sent a text to Peters:

  ‘M I need some tobacco and salt...now. H’

  Twenty Eight

  The voice was, as Heike said it would be, precise, calm, forceful. The message terse and to the point.

  ‘There is no time to chit chat Captain Peters. Please listen to what I say and make sense of it. The next time I call I will give you a means towards contacting me. I do not trust these things we are using to speak to each other.

  So next time open your ears and your eyes. Do you understand?’

  The accent was that of a Berliner, the tone and diction of someone who had lived a life of delegation and command. There was no quiver, no hesitation, no uncertainty. The voice was that of a long term planner.

  ‘How do I know you’re for real”’ Peters summed up the courage to ask.

  ‘If you want proof I can give it to you....but not for now Captain. As I said open your ears and your eyes.’

  Peters got bolder: ‘If you are Christopher and not some sad crank pretending to be then explain why you’re doing this...’

  The line went dead. He would cede no ground, surrender not a second, never lessen his grip.

  The call came just before Heike’s cryptic text which Peters had decode
d on a parallel line of his brain while deciphering the subtext of ‘Christopher’s’ words – if this was ‘Christopher’. At this moment he needed to be with her; they were like a self-contained support group, marooned together, survivors cut off from the world by this unique bond. Peters texted back ‘ok’ and dressed quickly in the first clothes he could find scattered all over the spare bedroom.

  Within less than an hour he was sitting in Sale e Tabbachi quaffing the first carafe of house-red and waiting for Heike to appear. Peters sat near the door but gazed down the restaurant towards the spot where he had interrupted Avi Yanaev’s lunch and paid for it with a hammering in the Grunewald. When Heike finally arrived about 45 minutes and two carafes later Peters pointed down to the table where the Russian sat and slurred: ‘One day they’ll erect a plaque in the place where the forces of justice confronted the forces of darkness.’

  Heike looked disappointed and ordered a large bottle of sparkling mineral water which she later tried in vain to dilute Peters’ glass with.

  When their starters arrived Peters shrugged his shoulders, pushed away his plate and called out for more wine. The place was filing up with the usual clientele of professionals who worked around the Springer building, the radical daily next door, Taz and the architect and legal offices at the far end of Friedrichstrasse.