The Swinging Detective

by Henry McDonald

  They crossed the Elbe and followed the course of the river towards that part of the old city relatively untouched by the RAF air raids during the war or the Stalinist reconstruction of the DDR years. Fischer kept entirely silent through the short drive to an old fashioned inn with a walled garden close to the waterside.

  ‘We’ll eat and then talk Captain,’ Fischer pointed to the gravelled driveway as they arrived, ‘Here be the scene of the crime.’

  Inside, the pub was decorated with hunting portraits, the heads of stuffed dear, horns, ancient rusting muskets, shelves with lines of Steins and brass pots. There were several bored looking elderly waitresses in white shirts and black waist coats standing about at each end of a long mahogany coloured bar behind which stood a tall man with a handlebar moustache washing and polishing beer glasses. On seeing Fischer, he bowed over towards the two detectives and then called one of his staff to attend to the only guests inside. They were ushered towards a snug near a roaring fire, two menu cards dropped onto their table and drinks ordered.

  After their beers arrived and their glasses tinkled together Fischer did finally explain.

  ‘The shooting took place outside. I thought it would be best to go straight here. Our friend over there saw most of it. We’ll get a chat with him once we’ve eaten.’

  ‘You sure these guys were Russian?’ Peters inquired.

  Fischer licked the froth which has been twisted into the shape of an ice cream dollop off the top of his glass.

  ‘No, but he’s sure.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Captain Peters they spoke the language they all grew up with over here. It was compulsory to learn Russian...even for future barmen. He was certain they were Russian. Well, all except for two of the party.’

  ‘I know a bit of Russian myself. What do you mean by a party?’

  ‘Yes Captain, a party of them. Three or four Ruskies and two other guys. Now let’s eat.’

  Once they had polished off their pig and stodge lunch and downed several more Pils, the two detectives went to the bar.

  ‘This is Herr Karsten, Captain. He was here the day the party got out of hand,’ Fishcer said introducing the barman with a sweep of his hand.

  Karsten poured out three shots of schnapps and knocked back his in an instant.

  Peters flicked open a palm sized pad he had taken from the inside of his coat and started to take notes.

  ‘Sir, I wonder could you tell me about the other men? The ones you didn’t think were Russian,’ Peters asked licking the tip of the pencil and fiddling it around the inside of his mouth.

  ‘They weren’t Russian that’s for sure. One of them could speak German but the other only talked in this weird language.’

  ‘Spanish?’

  ‘No. I know a little Spanish. We go to Ibiza every year. It was something completely different, nothing I had ever heard before.’

  ‘So then what happened?’ Peters went on.

  The barman filled up the three shot glasses again before answering.

  ‘Things got a little out of hand; they were arguing and shouting with one another. Then the fists started flying, the “others” were getting the shit kicked out of them but managed to run to the door. The Russians went off after them and the next thing I heard was boom-boom, a car’s wheels screeching and I go outside and there’s one of the Russkies lying bleeding all over our car park.’

  ‘Did you get any of what the Russians and the “others” were saying to each other? Before things started up,’ Peters asked.

  Karsten again knocked back his Schnapps and judging from his breath Peters gathered that the barman had been shoring up his day with several early snifters even before he and Fischer arrived.

  ‘What am I a translator?’ Karsten complained before slamming down the shot glass.

  Fischer face hardened and he leaned across the bar top until he was within an inch of Karsten’s.

  ‘Just tell our English friend here what the Russians told their guests and stop wasting our time.’

  ‘What is there to tell? I heard one of them say “the price has gone up....pay that or you don’t get the merchandise.” Who were these low lives by the way? Drug dealers?’

  ‘Wrong product Karsten,’ Peters interrupted, ‘Try arms. By the way, you just keep that to yourself Herr Karsten. I mean, if I was you, I wouldn’t want to draw any more negative publicity down on this lovely hostelry.’

  Peters felt Fischer’s elbow colliding with his arm.

  ‘Ok Herr Karsten thanks your co-operation,’ Peters smiled weakly as Fischer paid the bill.

  Driving back over the Elbe Fischer was more candid behind the wheel this time.

  ‘Would you believe that that guy had the cheek to ask me to put pressure on to keep his pub’s name out of the press? A fucking cheek.’

  ‘Why?’ Peters said jotting a few more points down in his notebook.

  ‘A cheek because that place attracts a right motley crew. Russian criminals. Fucking neo-Nazis. Bikers. Football thugs. He whined about having no other clientele, what with being on the wrong side of the river. My guess is that he knew the Russians. Regular customers probably on first name terms but he can’t afford to piss them off. Would piss himself with fear if we wheeled him and tried to get him to name a few of them.’

  ‘Well why don’t you do just that?’

  Fischer didn’t reply but instead drove northward out of the city centre, out towards the grim suburbs and beyond to the rural hinterland before taking a B-road through a forest until they came to a small lake with a boating house. Peters guessed that Fischer would feel more comfortable talking candidly in this location.

  The two detectives got out and sauntered over to the lake edge, Peters lifted a flat stone and sent it skimming across the surface of the water.

  ‘Karsten’s an untouchable,’ Fischer shouted unprompted, unprovoked.

  Peters knew where this was going, but re-started the questioning anyway.

  ‘We didn’t drive for nearly 20 minutes just to get some fresh country air Fischer. Why is he an untouchable?’

  Fischer nodded his head slowly to assuage Peters’ impatience.

  ‘Just after the shooting my boss called me in and introduced me to this young arrogant fucker who starts to tell me that we can’t be hassling Karsten. So I says “What’s so special about this glass washer and pint puller?” And this asshole in his “Boss” suit tells me it’s an issue of national security. Which I assumed meant that Karsten was an earwig for the spooks at the BND. Which is funny because I checked his file and Herr Karsten is “Gauck Positive.” He was a Stasi snitch in DDR times. So anything he’s got to say, anything really deep, about his Russian punters goes straight to the BND.’

  It was only then that Peters detected from his distinctive accent that Fischer was a Saarlander, yet another ‘wessie’ who had crossed over from the west after the Turn, possibly, no probably, to train up, to de-contaminate his detective unit of all traces of Stasi taint. Peters felt guilty that he had on first meet suspected that Fischer might have been Stasi. And everywhere Peters turned, in each corner of the two cases, there was the security service minding their sources, closing down entry points, watching their rear. He knew all this because it had once been his job, to obscure, to confuse, to conjure up legends, to protect, at all costs his assets.

  ‘We have something in common Lieutenant. My boss likes to refer up too. Seems we’re both being stymied. But don’t worry, Karsten might be out of bounds because he’s working for the snoopers but I have enough to keep me going.’

  ‘You sure about that? I wish I could help more otherwise I’ve just got another unsolved Russian mafia hit on my books,’ Fischer said apologetically.

  ‘At least we both know now that my headless horsemen were knocked off over some arms deal gone wrong. It sorta confirms a few things I’ve already suspected.’

  ‘I don’t need to ask Captain. You wanna go somewhere for another beer?’

  ‘Why
not, as long you’re buying, I’m not off to Berlin until tea time. Tell me this, if Karsten is working for BND then he must have known all this is connected to arms deals?’

  The Magdeburg detective got back into the Audi before replying.

  ‘Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. But he isn’t forwarding any names of his regular clients. I suppose he keeps that for his other bosses.’

  Which makes one of them yet another source for the spooks, Peters thought but was reluctant to speak out loud.

  They drove back towards the Alstadt, all the way Fischer bitching about his bosses and their craven attitude when the BND started calling. Most of all he complained about Karsten and vowed a lifelong mission to find something, anything that would lead to the closure of his business. As they cut across tram lines in the Audi Peters’ mobile bleeped in the top corner of his pocket. There was a message from Heike Numann.

  ‘Hurry back from the weeds. He’s back on the job!’

  At the station entrance he shook Fischer’s hand, promised, or rather lied, that he would pass on anything he picked up from his headless horsemen from the Havel inquiry back in Berlin. On the train on the way back Peters noticed that every table on either deck had been covered with free-sheet coloured newspapers, all of them dedicated to Christopher’s Wrath, the headline recording the public vote on the fate of the paedophile Briegel, an overwhelming majority rejecting pleas for mercy.

  Thirty Four

  To: heike.numann@wams.de

  Subject: a parting gift

  Triangulation! Isn’t that what your ‘sources’ call it? To trap a killer who likes to talk on the phone or chat in cyberspace you use triangulation. Track the patterns of the calls and emails, use the latest satellite technology, build the links between messages until you pin point where your quarry is moving? They did well down in Kottbusser Strasse to keep my photo-fit out of the papers. Yes, I know that Beer gave them a good description and that your dashing English detective has been circulating it quietly around the city. So the swords are approaching fraulein and it’s time for us to say goodbye...although not forever.

  To: chriswrath74@yahoo.com

  Subject: re: a parting gift

  What do you mean by ‘not forever?’

  To: heike.numann@wams.de

  Subject: re: re: a parting gift

  There’s that lack of patience again! I won’t abandon you fraulein. I chose you for a reason. Just keep faith.

  To: chriswrath74@yahoo.com

  Subject: re: re: re: a parting gift

  I didn’t know they had your image.

  To: heike.numann@wams.de

  Subject: re: re: re: re: a parting gift

  I’ll let you work that one out. I’m probably more likely to be recognised by one of my fan club. Imagine that! Being caught while being mobbed in the street. But I digress. Do you want to know what my parting gift to you shall be?

  To: chriswrath74@yahoo.com

  Subject: re: re: re: re: re: a parting gift

  I can hardly wait especially after the last few.

  To: heike.numann@wams.de

  Subject: re: re: re: re: re: re: a parting gift

  You shall find it at 22 b St. Moritzer Platz. That’s not far from the west end, further up off the Ku’damm. And do bring a friend.

  To: chriswrath74@yahoo.com

  Subject: PS...

  Why the ‘74’?

  To: heike.numann@wams.de

  Subject: re: PS....

  Why ‘74’? Don’t you know it was our finest year?

  Heike not only heard but felt the faint jets of breath from Martin Peters’ nostrils as he leaned tightly over her shoulder while still maintaining a slither of air between their two bodies. Without a word between them they knew that the latest communiqué was meant for them both.

  Peters tried to resist a desire to wrap his arms around her, a temptation made all the worse by the expression of exhausted doom on her face. He yearned to stroke her skin softly, but Peters knew he could never make it right any more.

  ‘You’re not going to stop me going there even though part of me almost wishes you would,’ she said coldly without lifting her eyes from the lap top screen.

  Her remark forced him backwards on his feet, further away from her, out of touching distance, adrift.

  ‘Heike,’ he used her name apologetically. ‘Heike. I have to call in the whole team on this one. We can’t afford to be walking into another bomb. I know that street and it’s tightly packed. We have got to evacuate it.’

  She still had her back to him, re-reading those clipped, teasing sentences in front of her.

  ‘As long I tag along I don’t care if you call in the entire British Army on the Rhine Martin. How was your trip to sunny Magdeburg by the way?’

  ‘Useful.’

  ‘Useful for what? This case?’

  ‘No, the other one. The headless horsemen from the Havel. Maybe when you get away from him you can go there yourself. I’ll come with you.’

  ‘How romantic! You want to whisk me away to Magdeburg. Is it because you are jealous of “him”?’

  ‘No, I’m just jealous that he’s stopped talking to me,’ he replied pithily.

  She swivelled around in her chair to face Peters and smiled.

  ‘Martin, we could sit here all day and discuss our one to one relationships with a multiple murderer but isn’t it time you called in the cavalry?’

  Peters looked at the digital alarm clock to the side of Heike’s computer. 11pm. Not a great time to be emptying a street of its residents and cordoning it off. He would ask Stannheim to give the order for a dawn raid. Whoever was inside the flat would probably already be dead.

  ‘We’ll move in at first light Heike. You can come over on your own. No snappers though. Ok?’

  Heike nodded and got up to hug Peters, which astounded him although the embrace was loose, semi-formal, weak, a signal he would still sleep alone if he slept at all. Instead he decided to stay up and resist the lassitude tugging at his consciousness. He would find an all-night Kniepe and sit among his fellow insomniacs waiting for that time before the light breaks through the gloom, when the darkness is crumbling and the air gets chillier in a last act of nocturnal defiance against the emerging sun.

  He found shelter in a pub near the Landwehr canal close enough to walk back to Kottbusser Strasse and sat for over an hour with a ‘Kindl’ working out in his head how to worm his way back into the investigation. Officially, Stannheim had taken him off ‘Christopher’ so he could concentrate solely on Yanaev and the Basques. Yet Peters had found a way back into the ‘Wrath’, the ‘parting gift’, so kindly shared with him by Heike Numann. Peters pondered the balance of forces confronting him. Stannheim might have been spooked by the BND but only he and Heike had this channel to ‘Christopher’ and, perhaps if his latest tease to the reporter was genuine, the path to the terminus of his crusade.

  Around half past four he was shaken from his torpor by a row at the bar between some grizzled vagrant and the young Polish barman who refused to serve him any more drink. Peters went over, flashed his ID and escorted the drunk out of the pub smoothing his exit with a ten euro note pressed into a filthy, calloused hand.

  When he returned the Pole had placed a fresh beer on Peters’ table. As he sat down Peters was suddenly gripped by panic. ‘Christopher’ knew about the photo-fit, that was why he had gone back to Beer. But neither he, Stannheim, the press office or anyone in the Berlin Polizei had authorised its release to the media. They had even ordered Bauer and his team only to show the photo-fit to the chosen few among the ex-Stasi and party people whom the Kottbusser Squad interviewed down in the deep east. No one was allowed to hand over a copy of the artist’s impression. Now Peters started to wonder if Germany’s favourite serial killer had someone on the inside.

  Before dawn broke he was travelling in a taxi back through the west end passing street sweeping crews, the hard-core hookers who were just about to come off duty taking shelter in the doorw
ays of the sex centres around the Zoo station, the last of the all night revellers staggering down the Ku’damm searching for that final elusive drink to tip them over into unconsciousness and thus avoid the avenging cruel clarity of the morning. Peters checked in the inside pocket of his Duffel to see if his Glock automatic was still there and not in the hands of one of the drunken and the desperate he had been surrounded by in the pub earlier. Bending over pretending to tie a lace, he slipped the weapon out of his coat and cocked it gingerly.

  For someone who had been awarded ‘flashes’ for expert marksmanship, who had slept in barns with only a Heckler and Koch for companionship on stake-outs in damp dank corners of rural Ulster, who had fired point blank into the leather clad body of a pillion passenger of a motorbike murder team returning from a sectarian killing spree in Belfast, Peters had always hated carrying a firearm around Berlin. His success in the city had been through the force of his mind and power of his persuasion rather than the vulgar threat of cold steel. Each time he was instructed to be armed on an operation Peters felt as if he was once again betraying his beloved, adopted home.

  He recalled his one and only encounter with death close up and how he had removed from the earth an assassin the British tabloids had branded ‘The Angel of Death.’ She was the other girl on a motor-cycle, a murderous Marianne Faithful, a visored avenging pin-up wet dream of the loyalist paramilitaries. Peters’ undercover unit had been tracking her and her partner that Saturday morning a year before his transfer to Berlin. From the moment they had picked up the bike from a small lock-up garage on a housing estate at the foot of the Cavehill Mountain, to the ‘safe house’ in another grim housing project at the very bottom of the Shankill Road where she was given the Uzi to be used in a spray job on a bookmakers shop across the peace-line in republican Ardoyne.