The Swinging Detective

by Henry McDonald

‘So did he buy your legend?’ Peters asked in spook-speak, which Bauer seemed to understand instinctively.

  ‘Sure. He panicked and offered to help immediately. Claimed he met the guy about a year ago and that he paid in advance. In cash. Told him he wanted the place for about six months.’

  ‘Where is he now, this owner?’

  ‘Across the road in the station, sir,’ Bauer replied matter of factly.

  ‘I told him we needed him to make a formal statement, that I couldn’t be absolutely sure he wasn’t in on the gig too. He keeps blabbering about wanting a lawyer. I thought that once we picked him up this morning it could buy us some time.’

  ‘Good thinking Bauer. Well done. If you’d have told him the truth, he would have went straight to the press and sold his story.’

  ‘Or contacted Streich,’ Stannheim butted in, ‘He could a member of the fan club for all we know.’

  ‘Any background on this owner?’ Peters said.

  ‘Clean, sir. He’s just some arrogant young prick who saw an opportunity and got lucky. Owns about ten places down there. He bought them when they started evicting the squatters. He’s wearing a Che Guevara shirt by the way but at heart he’s a good little capitalist.’

  Peters stood up and almost knocked over the piles of paper that Bauer had brought with him to the pub. Six months! He only wanted the lock-up for six months. His time was nearly up. His task almost done. “Christopher” was now in the final phase, Peters realised. The kidnapped Briegel would be his grand finale.

  He excused himself and went to the toilet, making sure to lock the door behind him. Then he took out his mobile and spooled down to his messages, the last one that implored him to get back to Heer Strasse. The number had been withheld.

  On his return to the bar Peters congratulated his Sergeant, paid the beer bill and without speaking summoned his underling and his commanding officer back to Kottbusser Station.

  After running the gauntlet of reporters desperately scratching around for news, any news, of the ‘Christopher’ investigation and the shrill protests of the Mothers Against Paedophiles, Peters got inside and started searching for Angi, Bauer peeled off towards the custody suites and Stannheim retreated to his office where he once again dropped the window blinds to keep out the rest of the world.

  When Peters found Angi fiddling on the keyboard of a computer in the murder room he tapped her on the shoulder.

  ‘Where’s our latest guest?’ he whispered. She pointed to suite number two which had a red light on above the door.

  What they found inside was a man in his early twenties, red hair pulled back into a pony tail, a fringe of hair sprouting from his chin, wearing rimmed glasses, the Che T-Shirt, an army jacket and camouflage trousers, a pair of thick soled trainers plonked on top of a table. Bauer stood behind him, those fists clenched white at the knuckles again, old habits the ex Vopo clearly found hard to bury.

  Peters sat in the seat directly in front of the young man, stared straight into his eyes for a second and then said, quietly but with force: ‘The last man to sit where you are now sitting is dead. Do you know why that is?’

  There was a smirk from the other side of the table.

  ‘No, you going to tell me cop?’

  ‘My name is Captain Martin Peters. What’s yours?’

  ‘I don’t say anything until I speak to my lawyer. Unless you are going to charge me with something I demand to be freed this instant.’

  ‘Ok mystery man, we can keep up the pantomime if you wish but you should know this is serious stuff. The reason the previous occupant of that seat is dead is because he came into contact with the man you did business with down in Ostkreuz.’

  Bauer was starting to smile; he could see the neck of their interogee reddening by the second. Peters meanwhile pressed on.

  ‘The man you rented that warehouse to happens to be the most wanted man in Germany. The serial killer called “St. Christopher” - maybe you’ve read about him. He’s been slaughtering his prisoners on your premises and now I’m wondering if he had an accomplice.’

  Peters leaned back, folded his arms and waited for the terror to rise like mercury in heat through the man’s body.

  ‘He said he was working on an art project, a piece of installation art involving machines and video. I swear to God I knew nothing about him. I didn’t even go near him.’

  ‘Which is just as well Herr...?’

  ‘Lichtenberger. My name is Utz Lichtenberger. I swear to God, sir, I hadn’t a clue what he was doing in there,’ he was on the verge of tears, shaking, his earlier cockiness consumed by this numbing, physically evident fear that had taken hold.

  ‘Herr Lichtenberger I need you to tell me, and this is urgent, the exact address and location of the warehouse,’ Peters said.

  ‘Angi get this man some coffee and while we wait Herr Lichtenberger can tell us what he knows.’

  Lichtenberger lifted his face from his hands and looked at Peters with a mixture of desperation and protest.

  ‘What can I tell you? What is there to tell? A well-dressed guy turns up one day at my office and offers me six months rent in advance for the use of a warehouse. Cash too. No questions answered. No interference. No hassle. That’s all there was to it.’

  ‘Did he give you his name, leave a home address, say what he did for a living?’

  ‘Only his name. He told me he was called Herr Schultz.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No, except he kept asking me if I had been born in the DDR. I told him I was from Potsdam originally. He seemed to like that.’

  ‘He would. So Herr Lichtenberger where exactly is this place of yours?’

  ‘It’s in a car park, to the left of the Water Tower overlooking Ostkreuz station. It’s the only lock-up there.’

  Bauer had noted down the location and left the room leaving Peters alone with Lichtenberger who was now in tears.

  ‘You’re going to have to stay here for a while as our guest Herr Lichtenberger. Contact whatever friends or family you have and tell them you’ve had to go away for a few days on business. Do you need a mobile?’

  ‘No. I have one.’

  Angi returned with the coffee, handed it to Lichtenberger and was ushered outside by Peters. In the hallway, with Peters continuing to check through the glass over Lichtenberger, Angi spoke first.

  ‘I heard him say he has a handy with him. If he rings out he could blow our advantage.’

  ‘I know Angi. I’ve got Bauer out in the station rounding up the heavy gang. All we need is a fucking convoy of satellite trucks following us down to Ostkreuz. We’ve got to shut him up for a while. I’m going to do a deal.’

  ‘A deal?’ Angi looked perplexed which tickled Peters.

  ‘I’ve learned a few things in my time out socialising with journalists Angi. I’ve a brainwave for our young friend in there,’ he said. ‘I’m going to appeal to the one thing that always got me what I wanted in the bad old days.’

  ‘What’s that sir?’

  ‘His greed,’ Peters replied pushing open the door back into the interrogation room.

  ‘Herr Lichtenberger, I have a proposal! Have you ever thought of branching out into the movie business?’

  Lichtenberger slurped at his coffee and leaned forward across the table to face Peters again.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about Captain?’

  ‘I’m taking about an American film producer whose been calling at my house all times of the day looking for help on a movie he’s in town researching about your tenant down in Ostkreuz. If I was to tell him I could get him the actual place where “Christopher” carved and chopped his way through his prisoners our Yank friend would start waving the cheque book.’

  ‘And why would you do that for me?’ Lichtenberger asked slyly.

  ‘Because I want you to do something for me. I need radio silence on your lock-up for the next few hours. If you are going to make any calls out I want Angi standing beside you to make sure you do
n’t happen to mention that you’ve been renting out a place to a serial killer ... not yet anyway.’

  Bauer interrupted entering the suite looking twice as heavy as normal. Peters saw that his Sergeant was wearing body armour; the team must be ready to go.

  ‘Well Herr Lichtenberger do we have a deal then?’ Peters said.

  ‘Yes, we have a deal.’

  ‘Good man. Angi stick close to Herr Lichtenberger.’

  Once back in the nerve centre of Kottbusser Strasse station Peters found himself surrounded by burly uniformed men, all of them nursing Heckler and Kock machine guns, each with mounted sights and lights on them. Stannheim stood at the entrance of his lair, looking graver than ever. Some of his plain clothes squad like Riedel were putting on flak jackets, checking their short arms, one of the uniforms wielded a sledgehammer, another held a chain cutting device down by his side. The room was filled with the sound of weapons clicking and the murmur of men and women suppressing panic with small talk. For Peters it all felt like the eve of the ground war back in the Gulf years before. He needed to gain their attention.

  ‘Colleagues!’ Peters cried out above the din. ‘Colleagues. First a few ground rules. We are going to Ostkreuz without a siren wailing or even in a cop car. I want unmarked vehicles preferably ones which the general public can’t see into. Second, no gung-ho shit. No one opens fire unless on my command. Finally, I will lead the unit into the building. That’s all. We move once the cars are ready. Riedel you are in charge of securing the transport.’

  When he had finished Peters saw Stannheim returning to his office, the blinds once more dropped, the shuffling of doors being pulled open as the boss searched for whatever medication he was taking at the time. Peters followed him into the room and shut the door.

  ‘You sounded like that Major on the eve of battle,’ Stannheim said slyly.

  ‘Thanks for the promotion sir.’

  ‘You are welcome. Speaking of promotion do you think we should elevate Bauer?’

  ‘Why not sir. He has the nose of a bloodhound. To be fair Riedel might as well get one too. They’ve done well even thought I would never have them them on my Christmas card list.......Anything else?’ Peters asked.

  ‘No. I just wanted to wish you luck.’

  Forty One

  The tower that cast a shadow over Ostkreuz, once held all the water used to power the steam engines that criss-crossed this rail hub of eastern Berlin for more than a century, resembled a hybrid of a First World War Wermacht spiked helmet and the head of Darth Vader.

  Peters’ team had arrived in almost complete silence, fanning out of their People’s Carriers and hiding, crouched down, behind the lines of vehicles in the car park outside the lock-up belonging to Utz Lichtenberger, all of them trained their Heckler and Koch machine guns or their Glock automatic pistols on the chained up door of the single storey warehouse. The only sound around was the decelerating and accelerating whine of the S-Bahns running east and west, halting at the platform and the muffled crackled voice of the station’s PA announcing the ultimate destinations of the suburban trains.

  Peters was the last to draw his Glock out from the holster strapped between his left breast and arm pit. The sight of so much carbon-coloured weaponry suddenly produced a churning, reeling sensation in his stomach. This was not how he wanted it to end. He immediately tried to block out a mental apparition of Appolonia Winston.

  Leading from the front Peters strolled across the gravel towards the black wooden door of the building and was relieved to see that the chain had been padlocked. So no one at home, he said to himself.

  He looked over his right shoulder in the direction of the Ostkreuz platforms and noticed that a small crowd had gathered to watch him, at least one was holding up a mobile phone. Pretending he hadn’t seen this little gathering audience, Peters signalled to two uniforms, one with the manual chain cutter, the other with a battering ram, to join him at the door. He whispered to them to get it done quickly as possible before someone phoned, texted or emailed from the S-Bahn station.

  ‘Break the chain, knock the door down but don’t follow me in. You understand?’ he said to the two green-jackets. They both nodded back in unison and went about snapping the links in the chain and bashing down the entrance within a matter of seconds.

  Peters went from the fading afternoon light into complete blackness, for every window inside had been obscured. He retreated back to the entrance and summoned the firearms unit to follow him, their lights mounted on top of their guns switched on before plunging into the artificial darkness of the warehouse. Little bulls-eyes of illumination bounced off brick work, thick black curtains, a familiar looking chair and two internal doors at the far end of the room. Peters meanwhile fumbled first on the wall to the left of the entrance and then, crab-like, retraced his steps slapping his way along it until he found what felt was a round switch which he compressed downwards. Immediately the room lit up to reveal only Peters’ armed back up. They appeared to be entirely alone.

  Behind stood a breathless Bauer, red faced and sweating as always, his own Glock clasped in both hands.

  ‘I had to send some of the uniforms to keep those onlookers back but it can’t be long before the sat trucks arrive,’ Bauer said almost into Peters’ ears.

  ‘Never mind them. You take the door on the left, I’ll get the one on the right and fucking be careful,’ Peters said through gritted teeth, as they paced forward slowly, past the seat where ‘Christopher’ had battered Ulrich Hoeness to death in his first film. Beside the chair on the right was an open silver flight case with a DVD camera protected in grey foam inside. On the other side was a closed up slim white Apple laptop laid on the ground. Peters suddenly put one of his forefingers over his lips and then wagged it at Bauer.

  From behind the right-hand internal door there was a squeak that grew increasingly audible until it reached the pitch of desperation. Peters signalled to Bauer to cover him as he inched forward, one hand holding the Glock, the other stretching towards a rusting iron bar slammed into a latch. He wrenched the bar’s flap upwards and then pulled it across the door which creaked open.

  They were met with a revolting stench that temporarily blinded them as well polluted their nostrils, Peters imagining as if he was walking into a gas attack. But the sounds from inside indicated that the prisoner in front of them, arms tied tight behind his back with handcuffs, legs bound together with roll upon roll of thick battleship-grey masking tape, the same coloured tape over his mouth, his trousers and pants pulled down at half mast, resting on a foul smelling toilet bowl, was still alive, if only barely.

  Placing one hand on the twitching body, Peters put his gun back into the holster and tore off the tape over the captive’s face.

  ‘Herr Briegel I presume,’ Peters whispered without a flicker either of sympathy or horror, his only disdain being for the overpowering reek of rotten food and misdirected archipelagos of faeces spread all around the W.C.

  He could hear Briegel attempting to suck in the toxic air all around them as he laid him down and began to unwind the tape that his legs had been wrapped in. Just as Peters was about to call out to the uniforms for an ambulance he looked sideways towards where Bauer was standing. His sergeant seemed captivated by something he had seen on the upper end of the left side door. Lights from the Hecklers bounced off it and made the object twinkle and gleam. It was a brand new bright, shiny door key. Before Peters had a chance to shout a warning Bauer turned it clockwise and the door blew out on top of him.

  The blast knocked Peters off his feet landing him parallel to a prostrate Briegel who was shaking and jerking violently on the floor. There was a seething, hissing noise in Peters’ ears and a hot, wet trickling sensation on his face. He touched his cheek and discovered a clump of thick bristles protruding from his skin. Then his legs gave way.

  As he writhed on the ground in pain, Peters sensed a parallel force juddering on the opposite side to where Briegel lay dying. The uniforms had tore of
f the door on top of Bauer to reveal man with a smoking crater where the left side of his face once was filled with tiny pin pricks of hot metal. Close to Bauer’s Adams apple there was a nail embedded deep into his skin. A hysterical Riedel was standing over his friend, trying to punch in a number on his mobile while all the time begging Bauer ‘to hold on.’ In the distance Peters could hear the faint sound of sirens wailing. His hearing had started to return along with the searing pain now shooting across the side of his face.

  Peters used the palms of his hands behind his back to force himself onto his feet again. As he staggered forwards Peters saw a medical team surrounding Briegel.

  ‘Treat him later,’ he cried out. ‘My officer first. Treat my officer fucking first.’

  Two of the firearms unit had grappled Peters under his armpits to prevent him from falling again. As they dragged him towards the entrance Peters looked back to see Bauer now obscured by the paramedics around him; there was no sign of movement at all from Briegel’s body.

  A booby trap, Peters kept repeating to himself outside, a booby trap. Perhaps ‘Christopher’s’ grand finale wasn’t Briegel at all but something altogether more spectacular.

  The crowd had thickened on the Ostkreuz platforms when Peters was taken outside into the air. The car park was filling up with ambulances and satellite trucks. A throng was surging forward towards a green, arm-locked line of uniforms while a plain-clothes officer he recognised from the station rolled out a line of white tape between two lamp-posts at a half-way point from the cars to the warehouse.