The Swinging Detective

by Henry McDonald

  Peters had one hand fiddling on the keyboard, the other holding up his mobile to his left ear. He was rewinding the posted attached message in his in-box while trying to talk to Angi on the other, all the time attempting to forget about the gale force 9 hangover battering his brain and distracted by the thought of what “Christopher” was planning for his current captive and by what means would he dispatch the old wretch in front of the lens from the world. He clicked back to the last few seconds of film and then froze the final frame of Briegel. There were no signs of fear or self-pity anywhere on his face, not even the trace of a tear drop: Briegel already knew what lay ahead.

  ‘Did you see his latest artwork on film sir?’ she asked.

  He couldn’t believe what he was seeing or hearing.

  ‘Has this been sent out on general release?’

  ‘Yes sir, some of the 24 news channels has already broadcast it. It’s all over the ‘net. CNN and the BBC are currently talking to us about what they are going to do with it. Schawbowski has asked them to hold back...’

  On hearing that name Peters broke in: ‘That fool will hardly stop them. He’ll only piss them off and they’ll screen it in revenge. Have you checked on Briegel’s form?’

  ‘Riedel has sir. He looked up an old police-contact from his time in the Ruhr who remembered our latest star. Our colleague over there confirmed to Riedel that Briegel had done time for paedophile activity. Not bad work for a Sunday.’

  ‘Bully for Riedel.’

  Angi paused for a few second before adding: ‘We’ve been tipped off that Mothers Against Paedophiles are running a vote on their website.’

  ‘Oh fuck!’

  ‘Indeed sir. When it’s up and running the tabloids will get hold of it and then our friend is doomed.’

  He felt the sudden urge to make light of the latest development, unable to resist broadcasting his thoughts.

  ‘Vote 1 to have Briegel freed, 2 to have him killed by a thousand cuts, 3 to have him knocked off quickly, 4 to have him.......’ Peters stopped himself and darkened his tone. ‘Seriously, should I come in today Angi?’

  ‘There’s no need. Everybody here works flat out. Anyway the boss still thinks you are in hospital recovering. Or at least he is pretending to for the top brass. The team will still know that you are in charge from the sidelines. Riedel says are you are like the Bayern manager who gets sent off into the stands by the referee. You may not be in the dugout but you are still barking out the tactics on the phone.’

  Peters was despite himself more than slightly touched that even Riedel was a loyal member of the team.

  ‘Alright Angi but do me a favour.’

  ‘Anything sir.’

  ‘Book me a meeting with our dear leader mid-morning tomorrow. We’ve a lot to talk about and then get the whole team together later for a pep talk.’

  ‘Sure thing. He’s freaking out, complaining that the minister is sitting on his chest. I’ll make sure “Anna’s” is open for the both of you tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, Angi?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you heard any rumours about me being taken off the “Christopher” case?’

  She sounded genuinely stunned: ‘Not at all. Who’d be spreading that kind of shit?’

  ‘Cheers Angi. Appreciate that. Now I’m locking the door just in case Mothers Against Paedophiles find out where I’m living.’

  ‘Check out their website just in case they’ve already posted up your address.’

  ‘Thanks for being such a comfort Angi,’ Peters signed off.

  His phone had beeped throughout their entire conversation, he guessed correctly who was anxiously trying to get through to him.

  ‘Yes Heike, I’ve seen it too. Hope it doesn’t blow your scoop away.’

  There was a backtrack of garbled conservation, glasses being filled and re-filled, jazz, the odd shriek of laughter down the line – Heike had been out celebrating.

  ‘I’m miffed you haven’t invited me to your party madam.’

  ‘Screw you Martin. I still meant what I said in Sale. And I only go drinking with men who can hold their own. I had to pour you into the cab. By the way what is “Der Zug”?’

  At least she didn’t know that, at least he hadn’t been stupid enough to let his defence down completely and tell her exactly what it was.

  ‘Just some late night club down in Steglitz where I go to ward off Lady Insomnia but get to the point Heike. What did you see?’

  ‘I watched it on my Blackberry. I caught it on youtube, it’ll be viral in a few hours.He really has done it this time our boy.’

  ‘Yep, he never ceases to surprise us. Next thing he’ll be doing one of them live on TV....by the way, you OK?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, two of those publishers are here tonight fighting for my attention. Good luck to the broadcasters if they use this latest stuff. Clever of him to use an orange jump suit, just like the Jihadis. By the way yourself - did you by any chance, actually see my article?’ there was disappointment loaded into her voice.

  ‘I’m sorry Heike. I haven’t left the place all day, never got a chance to check your web edition,’ it was then that he remembered he should normally be in the Widow Schusters’ pub playing bus boy for her.

  ‘It’s fine Martin. I’ll send you a copy or you could read it on-line. I’m more worried about you.’

  Heike seemed to sense that he was drifting from her.

  ‘Martin, are you listening to me?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, of course.’

  ‘You really do need to get some rest, or talk to someone, somebody who can help, who can be objective.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake don’t get back on your therapy crusade again Heike,’ he snapped recalling those dying days of their relationship when she would persistently urge him to seek help.

  ‘That was some other dame who suggested that.....Martin?’ she was calm despite his petulance.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m saying all this because I care, because I think I still might be in love with you.’ She hung up and instantly he imagined her burning with equal anger and embarrassment for what she had just said to him. Seconds later he was ringing a cab to pick him up in Heer Strasse and take him to Westfalisch Strasse when he should gone to Heike’s. He knew what was holding him back; what made it easier to rush into the arms of the widow Schuster; that he no longer had the right to be ‘normal’ in love.

  Later, alone at home, as he watched from his balcony, the short belts of light pulsating that went from west to east and east to west along Heer Strasse below, Peters remembered that first tour of the Gulf when he was seconded by the Military Police to investigate rumours about a massacre of Iraqi POWs in the Kuwaiti desert. The reports turned out to be entirely false but in the course of his inquiry Peters’ team had come across a video tape belonging to a squadron from a tank regiment first accused of executing prisoners. It had been taken hours after Day 2 of the Ground War when the troops had pushed into Kuwait and discovered a landscape of cratered graveyards filled with Saddam’s soldiers. The ragged conscripts had been caught by the full force of a B52 raid and the shock of the explosions had de-capitated dozens of the retreating Iraqis.

  The video cut to a row of giggling and smiling squaddies with their arms wrapped around headless Iraqi troops , some of the Brits had even tied football scarves around what was left of several of the cadavers. A number of others had been stripped naked and their private parts shown off to the lens in full close ups. Off camera were distended voices, one asking where the heads where, offering a reward to the first colleague who came back with one. Then the camera panned to a Scottish soldier using a spray can to paint in luminous orange the words ‘Dundee United’ onto the side of a charred, upturned Armoured Personnel Carrier to the soundtrack of his comrades singing ‘Flower of Scotland’. This was Peters’ first breakthrough in his mission. Which was to ensure that the footage never made it on to television or into the papers. In the first war on earth to
resemble a video game images of destruction from thousands of feet in the air were deemed palatable for viewing; scenes of desecration on the ground were not.

  His other job was to track down and quietly destroy the military careers of those directly in charge of the ghoulish revellers. Once he had identified the NCOs and the captain that led the unit and passed them over to the board of inquiry Peters admitted to himself, finally, that he was retreating, inexorably, from the army. It was then that he knew he would be going back to Berlin for good.

  Thirty

  ‘Why did you come here? Why did you come here?’

  It was the only words she spoke to him all through a long night of tethered captivity at her house.

  In the morning stealing along the tree lined street past a row of twitching net curtains. Inside the taxi taking him back to Heer Strasse to freshen up, change and collect some painkillers. On the S-Bahn as far out as Friedrichstrasse Station relieved that none of his fellow half-catatonic passengers had recognised his face. And on the brief journey by cab down to Kottbusser Strasse and through the gauntlet of reporters gathered outside headquarters.

  ‘Why did you come here?’ she had kept up in severe repetition, her smoky breath and tangy, slightly-off cologne invading his nostrils as she maintained her interrogation. The words that had echoed through a sleepless night and a dank grey morning now propelled him forward into the day. He had been prepared. He had told Frau Schuster nothing. She had expected and received just this obedient silence, and he was grateful for that.

  His confidence restored, Peters was ready then for whatever those now gathered around him on the murder squad’s floor were going to throw at him.

  Bauer was first to raise his voice at the morning meeting, amid detectives dotted all over the office, some slumped in their chairs, others with their buttocks balanced on the edge of desks.

  ‘Sir it’s good to have you back.’ The rest of the murder squad started knocking on tables in approval.

  ‘I spent yesterday trawling through firms that rent out lock up garages, warehouses, mini-factories from the Mitte to Marzan and anywhere beyond,’ Bauer licked the top of a pencil and scribbled something on a notebook he was holding.

  ‘I’ve 12 left to check, the remainder, 242, have no records of anyone matching our friend’s description renting out one of their properties,’ the ex Vopo looked extremely pleased with himself.

  Stannheim stood at the entrance to his glass lair, arms folded, staring straight ahead at his officers, his glare trained on all except Peters.

  ‘12 to go. Well done Herr Bauer. Now can we get down to the business of finally tracking down this maniac before he stages his next execution live on the Internet,’ Kottbusser Strasse’s boss barked sarcastically.

  ‘I cannot believe that we have got nowhere and I mean nowhere with this investigation,’ he added and turned and slammed the door.

  Peters marched to the top of the room and replaced Stannheim. Sulky bastard was what Peters wanted to say.

  ‘Right it’s time to pound the pavements again. That means not calling any of these 12 businesses but physically going down there and checking on each and every one of them in person. It also means getting around parts of the east where the Stasi and the party were once strong, and quietly, discretely showing a chosen few the face of our friend “Christopher”. I want all of his victims checked and re-checked. Knock doors around where they lived, ask neighbours if they have seen this man, pick up any detail no matter how trivial it may seem. Get out and sniff about.’

  He tapped lightly on Stannheim’s door until he could hear the lock turning in the key. The old man was giving up on the case and his fatalism was spreading like contagion through the entire unit. Peters looked at the clock - ‘Anna’s’ would be open in half an hour.

  ‘I’ve scattered the troops to the four corners, thought it might be a good idea to make them take in some of the famous Berlin luft,’ Peters said on entering while trying to sound enthusiastic.

  ‘Let’s go to the pub now that the children have gone out to play sir.’

  Stannheim jerked a thumb behind him towards the window overlooking Kottbusser Strasse.

  ‘What about those children down there? The last thing Schawbowski will want to see is the two main detectives in the “Christopher” case sneaking out to a bar.’

  ‘We can go out the back through the car pool. I’ll get a couple of umbrellas because, God is good, it’s starting to rain. We can hide from the hacks under them,’ now it was Peters turn to point to the window and the deluge outside. Stannheim reached for his nicotine-reeking rain coat from the stand and nodded that they should both go.

  The lurid lights of ‘Anna’s’ created the feel of being inside a photographic dark room. Red and black décor all around them, chequer board colours that exaggerated the sinister whiteness of each man’s eyes and teeth.

  ‘I think I need to see a shrink sir.’ Peters said only half-joking.

  There was a snort from the corner where Stannheim had collapsed into.

  ‘Jesus Christ not you too Martin.’

  Peters knocked back his Korn in one go and slurped the top of his beer. He hadn’t been allowed a drink either inside the widow’s bar or later in her place, tethered as he had been to one of the pillars in her hallway,

  ‘Why did you come here?’

  He tried to shake himself away from the memory of just a few hours ago.

  ‘Not for me sir! For our friend.’

  ‘We’ve an army of head doctors and profilers on the case Martin.’

  ‘Well, get me the best one.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ Stannheim asked, his interest audibly rising.

  ‘Because I want to ask him a question.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Why does he want to talk directly to me?’

  The beer glass almost slipped through Stannheim’s fingers.

  ‘Are you taking the piss?’

  Peters shook his head and lay back on his chair.

  ‘Martin if he speaks to you then you must speak to me.’

  ‘He seems to have moved his affections from Heike onto me and I think for a reason.’

  He noticed that Stannheim said nothing in reply.

  ‘I don’t know what that is but it might be worth talking to someone about why he enjoys chatting so much.’

  Stannheim lit up and then did his pointing act again in Peters’ direction.

  ‘Martin, every call, every chat you have I want to hear about it. Do you understand? There can’t be any solo runs here.’

  ‘So you will recommend a head fucker then?’

  ‘Of course but you and I will keep a close eye and ear on your conversations?’

  Peters finally played his hand.

  ‘I thought someone was already watching over us, someone from the BND maybe?’

  ‘What do you mean by “us”?’ Stannheim interjected.

  ‘Heike and I. She got a visit and so did I. And do you know what our spook chum told her?’

  The old man shook his head and returned to his beer. Peters detected that the atmospheric pressure inside ‘Anna’s’ had suddenly altered. Now the weight of interrogation was bearing down on Stannheim.

  ‘No answer to that, sir? Not going to enlighten me as to why the BND think I’m off the “Christopher” case?’ against his better self, Peters was revelling in the role reversal.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to think that my commanding officer would bend the knee to the BND and replace his SIO. Is that what’s happening here, sir? Are you suffering from amnesia?’

  Across the table Stannheim twisted in his seat, fumbled with a set of keys and supped at his Pils. Peters hoped his boss was like him, rewinding in his mind their greatest hits together. The pimp that bashed a Natasha’s brains out. The father who came back from a weekend break on the Baltic coast to inform the Kottbusser team that he had found his wife and child with their throats slit in their apartment and who neither Peters nor Stannheim believe
d for a minute. The dentist who faked his mistress’ suicide in a fume filled car. The nurse who was convinced she was sending her tiny little charges to heaven with a single jag each inside a hospital’s paediatric wing. All of them safely locked away from doing anyone else harm. All of them behind bars in large part due to the deep intuition and innate probing qualities of Mannfred Stannheim.

  Very well Manny, Peters thought. Just keep up this silent, wounded act. Two can play at theatrics.

  Out loud Peters hissed: ‘Don’t let nearly ten years of loyalty at your side count for nothing now.’

  With that the Englishman stood up, drained his beer glass and marched out of the pub, Stannheim following desperately in his wake without settling up their bill at the bar.

  ‘Thank God for the rain,’ Peters cried out as he shot across the street trying to elude the gaggle of reporters around the front steps of Kottbusser Strasse station.

  Once inside HQ, Stannheim grabbed Peters’ arm and held his favourite officer, his unofficial successor, his chosen one back in the hallway.

  ‘I’m doing it to protect you, you fucking idiot.’