Someone bundled Peers through the side-door of the black Mercedes People Carrier in which the armed back-up had travelled from Kottbusser Strasse. Inside sat Manfred Stannheim wearing body armour over a dark pin stripe suit. For some inexplicable Peters could not resist bursting out laughing.
‘You look utterly ridiculous sir,’ Peters said.
The old man bent over and lifted up a small green plastic first aid case underneath his feet. Stannheim flipped it open and threw a piece of bandage torn from its plastic wrapping at Peters.
‘And you once again look like you’re back at war. Put that over the wound.’
Stannheim bent across Peters and slid the door shut. Now that they were inside no one could see them. The Englishman collapsed into his seat, threw his head back and pressed the bandage tight to his cheek. A delta of blood started forming beneath the gauze, some of it cascading out of the bandage and disappearing into the soft dark carpet of the MPV.
‘Bauer isn’t going to make it,’ Stannheim remarked, fiddling at his earpiece, tuning himself into the pandemonium going on just a few yards away inside ‘Christopher’s’ lair.
Peters glanced out and saw a stretcher being carried out of the warehouse, no drip hooked up to a body, just a sheet pulled up over the head, only for a pair of bony bare-feet sticking out that indicated the cadaver was Briegel.
‘Briegel’s dead,’ Peters said and had to break hard and stop before he added ‘at least.’
‘Multiple lacerations and a severed artery, they’re saying. Lost too much blood, heart-rate flat-lining’ Stannheim reported with the clinical detachment of a consultant talking to a group of first year medical students.
‘Too much blood lost,’ Stannheim said conclusively pulling the listening device from his ear, plopping it into a coat pocket and tearing off the flak jacket.
‘I have decided to stop looking ridiculous Martin. Now the Mothers Against Paedophiles can tear me apart if they wish,’ the old man said motioning the gesture of surrender.
Of all the officers under his charge it had to be Bauer, the one cop in the squad who had more in common, probably even agreed with Streich, Peters thought.
‘What a total fucking sick joke! A sick fuck of a joke! And you know why?’
Stannheim simply shook his head at Peters’ question.
‘Because Bauer was the only one honest enough in the squad to have his doubts about what we were doing. That time in Vogel’s place and after when we watched that film with the little girl in it. Bauer thought maybe we should just let him get on with it. That none of them were worth saving. Look what happens to the poor bastard when he does try to save one of them. And just when we were thinking of promoting him. He even led us to “Christopher” and that booby trap. I should have spotted that, sir. I’ve seen them before, a long time ago. In Northern Ireland. Crude but effective. Deadly. I should have spotted that.’
The old man was smoking now, probably to steel himself for what he had heard and what he was about to see.
‘Of all the people. It had to be Bauer. The only closet fan our “Christopher” had inside Kottbusser Strasse,’ Peters repeated
Something bleeped which prompted Stannheim to reach into the back pocket of the driver’s seat in front of him. He rummaged around and pulled up a mobile with a message warning winking on the LCD. After reading the text Stannheim moved towards the vehicle door and slid it back.
‘Instructions! I’ll bring you in to get properly cleaned and patched up and then we have somewhere to go, Martin.’
‘Where’s that sir?’
‘To the turning point!’ Stannheim said before planting his feet on the gravel below, retracing his unit’s steps back to ‘Christopher’s’ make-shift studio and into the arms of Bauer’s inconsolable best friend and ally.
Forty Two
The ‘Laughing Cavalier’ kept patting Peters’ arm which in other circumstances might have provoked him to punch Schawbowski. He couldn’t figure out if the repeated gentle slapping was to steel him or a demonstration of Schawbowski’s nervousness in the face of the press pack. There was no point in worrying. They appeared defanged and sheepish rather than their normally feral selves.
Peters and Schawbowski sat alone on the top table of the raised stage of the Berlin Polizei’s conference room. They both blinked at the constant mini explosions of light pulsating from beneath them. Yet the atmosphere in the room was strangely still, the only noises audible were the whirr of the recording devices and the constant click of digital cameras.
Schawbowki tapped one of the two microphones in front of them and began:
‘Ladies and gentleman thank you for coming at such short notice,’ he took a breath and then a sip of water before continuing his preamble.
‘This afternoon the murder squad of the Kottbusser Strasse station went to a location close to Ostkreuz. They were acting on intelligence that a warehouse near to the S-Bahn station was being used by the serial killer styling himself “St. Christopher.” Having entered the building, they located one Albert Briegel, the man kidnapped by “Christopher” whom we have all seen on our television stations and in our newspapers. I can now confirm that Albert Briegel died at the scene having been held chained up in appalling conditions for so long.’
‘We can also confirm that there was one more fatality at the scene. Shortly after freeing Herr Briegel one of our officers accidentally trigged a booby trap bomb device. He was Sergeant Hermann Bauer. Although there was no sign of the man we now seek for questioning over a series of murders in Berlin over recent weeks, we are confident that this location was used by him not only to torture and kill but also to film these killings as well.’
The head of the Berlin Polizei’s press division bowed his head and then turned slightly to face Peters.
‘Beside me is someone who is now familiar with you. Captain Martin Peters wishes to say a few words about his colleague who fell in the line of duty today, who died in front of his eyes.
‘I cannot emphasise enough the enormous stress and pressure on Hermann Bauer’s colleagues in Kottbusser Strasse at this time. They are still in deep shock over the loss of their fellow officer. They need time to grieve. They need space. So with that in mind I hope you will understand that there will be no questions following Captain Peters’ statement.’
Peters decided to toy with them for bit by creating a short gap of silence between Schabowski’s opening remarks and his own. He used this hiatus to scan his eyes around the room, to zero in and out on friends and foe alike.
Behind the front line of television reporters standing to attention beside cameras mounted on tripods he saw the scribblers, among them, Heike who appeared detached and uncomfortable. Further back he could make out Fest doodling on a notebook with a pencil wrapped up in his long woollen coat, trying and failing to look conspicuous from the pack. When it was all over Peters reminded himself to make a lightening exit otherwise someone definitely would get slugged in the face this evening.
He focussed on one of the cameras, directly towards the team from ARD and kept his glare on it like a prime minister or monarch does when about to talk directly to the nation in times of crisis or at Christmas.
‘There are two sets of people I want to address,’ Peters said carefully without the need of a script or notes.
‘First I want to speak to you the people of Berlin, of Germany, even perhaps the world. Some of you out there might think that what the serial murderer who calls himself “Christopher” is doing, somehow, worthwhile. That he is killing people that many of you regard as candidates for the death penalty. But the law is the law. And it is the job of those who uphold the law to catch and convict men like Albert Briegel. No one else. Those who uphold the law such as Sergeant Hermann Bauer. He was a servant of this city who dedicated his life to protecting you. His entire working life was spent first in uniform and later in my detective unit serving the public. Sergeant Bauer is an innocent victim caught in crossfire. I want you to understand tha
t we, his colleagues, are devastated over our loss. I want you to appreciate the sense of shock and grief my team are enduring. And I want you all to remember his wife and grown-up son who have lost a husband and a father. Remember us all too, his grieving colleagues, the next time you rush to cheer-lead a multiple murderer.’
He clasped his hands together as if in prayer before continuing:
‘The other person I want to address is the killer himself,’ with these words Peters almost could physically feel the tightening focus of the battery of lenses trained on his face.
‘You too were once a loyal and faithful servant - just like Hermann Bauer. With this death surely the time has come to give up your crusade. Because you have killed a serving police officer. With this you have crossed the threshold. You know that! Time is up and you must hand yourself in whatever way you can. Bring this insane campaign to an end before there are more casualties caught in the middle, before further uninvolved civilians are killed or injured.’
He paused once more and added, softer in tone and delivery this time: ‘You were once a soldier, so was I. You and I both know when it’s time to leave the battlefield. That time is surely now.’
Then something happened that Peters had never expected, that Schawbowski had never experienced in all his years first as poacher and later as gamekeeper, the audience of journalists, camera operators, sound recordists, photographers broke into spontaneous and thunderous applause. Peters bent his head to the right during the ovation and noticed that Fest had got up and skulked towards the exit. He had been the only one on the floor down below that hadn’t been clapping. Fest and, also, Heike Nummann who was advancing towards the stage.
She was holding up a mobile phone, displaying a line of text on her LCD. Peters nodded in the direction of the door to the right of the stage. He took the short flight of stairs off it and whispered into the ear of the uniform guarding the door. The green coat pushed opened it and ushered first Peters and then Heike through while Schawbowski started a walk-about amid the media throng some of whom were still applauding.
Peters chose a back room which had been turned temporarily into an information centre printing out statements from the press office relating to Bauer and Briegel’s deaths. He asked the PR girl guarding over the printer to give them five minutes. When the press officer had disappeared Peters took the handy off Heike and studied the message.
‘TELL HIM TO GO HOME!’ he said reading it out loud.
‘It’s you he wants,’ Heike said barely unable to conceal her jealousy.
‘I see that now. When did it arrive?’
‘Just before you started to speak so eloquently.’
‘How do you know it’s him?’ he asked ignoring her barbing sarcasm.
‘Because he used the same number this morning. To tell me your team was getting closer.’
‘He must have known then that we were on our way to Ostkreuz because he seemed to have left in a hurry. Anything else?’ Peters hadn’t meant to let this out and had tried to camouflage it with his question.
She shook her head: ‘Only up until a few minutes ago nothing. I expect that that’s the last time he will use that number ever again. Maybe the last time he’ll ever speak to me.’
Peters thought she looked drained and washed out, her hair lank and greasy, no make-up, even her clothes were all dull greys and browns, as if she too was curling up to conceal herself from the external world.
‘I need a cigarette,’ she complained.
‘You can’t Heike. We adhere strictly to the smoking ban. Maybe we could go to Anna’s instead.’
‘Or how about Heer Strasse?’ she added acidly, ‘Or would I just be coming between you and him?’
‘It’s not like that Heike,’ he felt he was on the edge of losing his temper without even knowing it.
‘And you know I’ll tell you everything and then some.’
‘Ok then, what’s his name?’ she asked Peters.
‘I can’t tell you that yet.’
‘I’m not publishing until next Sunday for fuck’s sake Martin. I’m hardly going to run to “BZ” tonight am I?’ Numann protested.
She stopped for a moment and thought: ‘‘How about a trade then?’
‘What have you got?’ he asked sceptically.
‘I know the reason why your Russian friend had those two Basques decapitated.’
‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Peters countered coldly.
‘It’s not what you think. They were double crossed. I mean the Basques were. And when they lost the rag one of Yanaev’s soldiers got killed. For that there had to be payback....and a message as well. I have my sources Martin.’
‘And the message was?’
‘The message was to ETA. “Don’t come to Berlin a second time seeking pay back. That we are serious people”.’
So she had found out about Magdeburg and the shooting in the pub car park, the Basques later killed in revenge for the Russian who got clipped. Peters realised she had more and wondered if she had finally succumbed to Fest’s temptation.
‘In what way were the Basques double-crossed?’’
‘They had been sold a pup. They had been sent on an arms buying mission and were disappointed with the goods on offer when they arrived here. ETA got in touch with Yanaev and his empire because they heard he and his team could get their hands on anti-aircraft weapons. New Russian hardware that could take down planes.’
Peters never realised how good Heike was or how extensive and deep her contacts were throughout the city. Even Gavrilov hadn’t been able to dig that far into Yanaev’s network. The thought of her knowledge terrified him especially if the woman that he hated to admit he still loved had really had entered a ‘Festian’ pact with the devil from the BND.
‘Go on,’ Peters said with trepidation in his voice.
‘My sources tell me ETA was going to use the weapons to spook tourists from all over Europe. They had planned to film a pilot-less aircraft being shot down with one of their new Russian toys. Then ETA would circulate the video to every broadcaster in the EU and beyond along with a statement warning that unless tourists stayed away from Spain they would do the same to a charter jet anywhere flying over Spanish airspace, possibly one on route to the Costas. Without killing a single soul they could then devastate the Spanish tourist industry and bugger up the economy and perhaps bring Madrid back to negotiate with them.’
‘When you say “my sources” I suppose there’s no chance of telling me who told you all of this.’
‘I think I’ve told you quite enough. So now what about our “Christopher” then?’
Peters own mobile bleeped. It was a message from Stannheim, a summons to join him in Anna’s. When he exited from text messages Peters smiled at Heike.
‘His name is Hans-Joachim Streich. Formerly of the National People’s Army and a hero of the German Democratic Republic. If you have any contacts in what’s left of “Neues Deutschland” you’ll find him somewhere in their archives marked under “Heroes”.’
She did not reply, but visibly appeared to be absorbing what Peters had just told her.
‘Maybe that was his major problem after all,’ Heike smirked back after a while at the Englishman, ‘Perhaps he just missed being a hero and decided to go after some paedos for renewed glory.’
‘Wish it was as simple as that Heike. Oh and by the way he is not in the phone book,’ he called out as she left the press room and headed for the door leading back into the chaos of the briefing room.
Forty Three
A phalanx of green coats had surrounded an inconsolable Riedel who was hunched over the bar at ‘Anna’s’. They had screened Bauer’s best friend off from the pub entrance so Peters had managed to elude him on his path towards Stannheim’s alternative ‘office’, the snug where he preferred to hold court. After Peters slid between the tables he sat down beside his boss who already had a Kindl and Korn waiting for him.
‘Riedel will be carried out of here tonight,
’ Stannheim observed as Peters knocked back the snaps in one go.
‘Sir, I have a request to ask of you,’ Peters said ignoring the old man’s concern for Bauer’s grieving ally.
‘Go ahead Martin.’
‘I need to go home.’
‘Naturally. You are in need of a rest. You have been for some time by the way.’
‘It’s not for a rest sir. I think if I’m home “Christopher” will contact me.’
Peters explained the texts to Heike and the messages from the killer that he should return to Heer Strasse.
‘I believe not only will he contact but he’s going to give himself up.’
‘Belief? Cases aren’t solved on the grounds of faith Martin,’ Stannheim retorted.
‘Sir, I know that but I just think he will be in touch.’
‘Ok. There’s no harm in giving you 24 hours R&R but if and when he does contact you call me immediately after.’
Stannheim’s expression then became graver seeming to detect what his officer was planning.
‘Under no circumstances are you to meet this man alone, Martin. He’s already killed one police officer; I don’t want to lose another one. Don’t be so sure he is ready to end all of this.’
‘I’ve no intention of going on any solo run, sir,’ Peters found Stannheim’s eyes and smiled his way though a lie.
‘Good! As long we understand each other. Anything else before you slip off?’ Stannheim asked in between several draughts of Pils.
The Swinging Detective Page 28