The Swinging Detective

by Henry McDonald

  As they lay back together under the Egyptian cotton duvet on one of the last evenings of his incarceration, she rolled over on her side to face Peters planting one of her hands on a shoulder.

  ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you for a long time, to be honest since the first night you stayed over,’ she said staring directly into his eyes.

  ‘What’s that then?’ Peters croaked back wearily, fighting against the tiredness that was tugging at his consciousness.

  ‘It’s not what you might think. It’s not about the age gap or anything like that. It’s just that I often wonder why it’s all one-way traffic?’

  Peters propped himself up in bed and rubbed his face.

  ‘One-way traffic?’ he asked perplexed.

  ‘You take it but you don’t give it out darling...unlike my late husband,’ she whispered conspiratorially.

  ‘We liked to have it both ways. Don’t worry I’m not complaining. In fact, these last few days have been divine, delicious. I’m just curious that for someone who is in such control can roll over so easily.’

  ‘Do you want me to start beating you then?’ Peters replied which provoked wicked sniggering from the widow.

  ‘You’d only look ridiculous darling. Anyway, I’ve been around the scene long enough to know the master-side is not for you. And you know why? Maybe it’s because you need that switch over, to reverse your role. That’s why a lot of guys I used to know on the scene, usually always the bigger, the harder ones, loved to cross-dress. They had to cross over to their feminine side but you just need to lose control.’

  Peters rolled out of his side of the bed, crossed the room to the widow’s dressing table and returned to her side with her cigarettes and lighter.

  ‘There you go darling,’ she said as he lit her up, ‘The will to serve. As always!’

  Then she kissed him lightly on his lips and ran her forefinger down his cheek.

  ‘Look, Martin darling, I know you are not in love with me. At my age I’m lucky to get what I’ve got from you. And what’s more important to me is not whether you are sub or dom but why you haven’t found some nice girl to settle down with.’

  It was Peters turn to snigger: ‘Nice girl? I’m not interested in nice girls only the naughty ones.’

  ‘That’s too easy darling, far too easy an answer. You see you like to lose control with me once a week because for the other six days you have to be totally in control of everything else.....and everyone else, no?’

  ‘I suppose so, I try not to think about it too much.’ Peters answered.

  ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Now we’re making progress. You don’t try not to think it about; you avoid thinking about it. You know why? Because you’re afraid. Don’t worry – I’m not trying to judge you darling. I judge no one.’

  He was impressed by the feeling in her voice, and her authentic concern for him, enough for him even to open up, slightly.

  ‘It’s not fear. It’s just that I don’t deserve anyone to make that kind of commitment to me. I couldn’t give them what they would really want.’

  She kissed him again softly, smiled and closed her eyes in a gesture of what seemed to Peters like overwhelming gratitude.

  ‘Deserve darling! What an interesting word to use. That’s more progress. Now I begin to understand you a lot better. Whatever it is you are trying to get over you should seek out some help and eventually get away from it Martin. It’s weighing you down, sometimes I can even feel it bearing down on top of you, physically. You come over here, put your burden down for a few hours and then pick it up again as you go. It’s going to crush you no matter how many lovers in bolt-holes you have dotted all around Berlin. And that’s something you don’t deserve. I watched my husband play in those clubs with lots of other women while I played with plenty of men. But we always went home together and I had 36 wonderful years with him. I still miss him, terribly, but that loss doesn’t make me regret a single day we spent together. You deserve the same! Because I sense that there is still is someone really special for you, she always has been and you won’t admit at least not yet.’

  He was shaken by her insight and candour which made him in turn feel uneasy and nervous. Blinking as he stared at her close up, Peters pursed his lips and shuddered.

  ‘I’m sorry you feel the weight too. You shouldn’t have to,’ was all he could say back to her.

  She placed the palms of both hands on his face and compressed his cheeks slightly.

  ‘It’s not a rock you carry around with you but a pillar. You’re a wannabe Sebastian, my darling, tethered to stone and peppered with arrows. I’m going to print out a picture of that saint and put it right over the bed here to remind me of you. Stop punishing yourself!’

  St. Sebastian in pursuit of St. Christopher, Peters almost laughed out loud but resisted for fear of souring this moment of unsettling revelation.

  On the ninth day, the widow offered to switch on the television or radio for him now sensing that he was ready to reconnect with the outside. Instead, Peters asked for half an hour on her computer so he could search for the one thing he wanted to be certain of.

  In one of the spare rooms that she had transformed into an office where Frau Schuster did her accounts, ordered on-line, booked her cruises and linked up via webcam to the world wide S&M community, Peters logged on and searched for the Guardian Unlimited.

  In the website’s search engine he typed in ‘Christopher’s last will and testament Berlin’ and found 39 direct links. He clicked on the first and it flashed up that frozen image of Streich standing in front of the flags and on the top right corner of the mini screen the words ‘Courtesy of Wams.de.’ When it played there were English subtitles at the bottom. Eleven hits down the list of searches Peters opened a file containing an interview with the journalist who had received Streich’s final message, who had corresponded with him during his reign of terror; one day Heike Numann would thank him for these triumphs.

  Although there were 112 missed calls on Peters’ mobile when he switched it back on after returning to Heer Strasse he only answered three. His first call out was a reply to Heike who had wondered in one of her messages if he was dead.

  ‘Heike, it’s Martin. I’m back from the underworld.’

  ‘My God, where have you been hiding?’

  ‘As I said, the underworld. I just came up for air to congratulate you.’

  ‘You haven’t exactly been around to share my good fortune. Did you see “Christopher’s” video?’

  He paused before answering, resisting the urge to scream down the line about all what he had done for her, or over what he had seen.

  ‘Yes and once again congratulations,’ he replied weakly.

  ‘Then for fuck’s sake let’s go out and party when I get back’ she shouted down the line.

  ‘I can’t Heike. I’m getting out of this town for a while. Probably go to England for Easter,’ Peters said thinking on his feet, forgetting her last four words.

  ‘You lead such an exciting existence Martin and as usual you are not listening.’

  Her voice was drowned out by a ping-pong jingle and the rushed nasally voice of a woman calling out various destinations.

  ‘Where are you Heike?’

  ‘In Tegel. I’m on my way to Bilbao.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re walking barefoot all the way to Santiago de Compostella for Holy Week, Heiki,’ Peters jibed, reminding her of her Catholic Rhineland roots.

  ‘You’re more in need of that than I am,’ she served back, ‘I’m off to see some people who might have known your headless horsemen from the Havel.’

  She was on her way to the Basque country, in all likelihood Peters realised, to track down ETA’s political allies, to ask them directly if any of their people had disappeared in Berlin.

  ‘For Christ’s sake be careful down there,’ he implored as her line started to crackle and break up. All he heard from her was that she was passing through security and would call hi
m when she got there. There was something equally confident and dismissive in the way that she had signed off, Peters felt. He cursed himself for not having the courage to tell her what he really wanted to say to her, to repeat the words she had once let slip to him in a previous call, that he too was still a little in love with her.

  Later after he had packed a rucksack full of clothes and toiletries and booked himself via his own laptop on the boat train to Hoek van Holland and the Harwich ferry, Peters reminded himself to return another call.

  Peters made several attempts to ring Blucher but each time the weird bleeping tone on the other end of the line sounded like he might as well have been on another planet. Eventually he gave up and called Angi on her mobile; fortunately she wasn’t in the station when she answered.

  ‘Angi, I want you to do me another favour?’

  ‘Sure, sir, just say it.’

  ‘Tell Stannheim I’ve taken more leave. I need a few weeks more away from all this madness.’

  ‘Where have you been hiding? I came around to your place a few times but you were away.’

  ‘I was staying with a very old friend. As you probably noticed there were lots reporters and snappers milling about the place. I have no intention of talking to any of them.’

  ‘Schabowski is doing his nut. He keeps insisting you turn up and give your side of the story.’

  ‘Screw Schabowski. No, on second thoughts don’t. I wouldn’t wish that even on Riedel. Did you know that there were two rival American film producers pestering me?’

  ‘You could be sitting by a pool in Hollywood next week, sir,’ she sniggered down the line.

  ‘Bastards spent most of their calls bad mouthing each other. It sounded a bit like Kottbusser Strasse,’ Peters said.

  ‘You got that right. Sir, where are you now?’

  ‘Back in Heer Strasse but don’t tell anyone. I’m going to sell up here and move somewhere else.’

  ‘A wise idea as long as you don’t put in for a transfer. The boss would throw himself out of the window if you left us,’ she said.

  ‘How is the old goat?’ despite himself Peters had inquired, kindly, after Stannheim.

  ‘Worse than ever. It’s because you’re not there to drain all that negative energy out of him. He misses his sparring partner.’

  Peters felt equally unnerved and touched over what Angi had just said because he knew it to be true.

  ‘You tell the old bugger I miss him too.’

  ‘I will sir,’ Angi hesitated slightly before adding, ‘Have you seen her lady-ship? She has been a constant presence on television screens and headlines for the last week and a bit.’

  Her ‘lady-ship’! How he loved Angi’s cattiness sometimes.

  ‘Streich stayed loyal to her to the bitter end. I supposed there was only going to be one person who would receive his pay off to the world. ‘ Peters lied.

  ‘Still you have an even better story to tell I would imagine,’ she said.

  ‘And one day I will sit down with you and tell you all about it. Meantime I’m off for a run in the Grunewald, haven’t done that for a long time either,’ he paused uncertain what next to say to Angi as he was overwhelmed by a strange sense of gratitude towards her.

  ‘Thanks for everything Angi. Just don’t forget to mark me down as leave-of-absence.’

  She hesitated for a few seconds before replying, Peters detecting a nervous concern in her breathing.

  ‘Sir, I’m glad you called because there’s just one more thing. One thing we didn’t know about Streich before now.’

  ‘Nothing would surprise me. Go on with it.’

  ‘I don’t know whether to run to the boss with this, or Schabowski, or you...’

  ‘You should always consult your line manager first - that’s me Angi.’

  ‘I ran a check out of curiosity on Streich’s nearest and dearest. He had been married young, before the Wall came down although it didn’t last.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘Petra Scharner. She was a teacher from Rostock. They had known each other from the time they had met at an FDJ summer camp in the early 70s. I asked around, looked up the “Neues Deutschland” archives, consulted some of old friends from the DDR times,’ Angi halted momentarily, coughed slightly and went on.’

  ‘There was a trial. That’s why there was so much detail about the couple and their child.’

  ‘Their child?’

  ‘Her name was Greta. When it happened she had just reached her second birthday.’

  ‘What happened?’ Peters asked.

  ‘Streich was away, on special duties, the paper never mentioned that, just that he was an NVA officer dedicated to defending “Actual Existing Socialism”. They had to fly him back home from wherever he was stationed. There was an accident on the Schoenhauser Allee in Berlin. Their little Trabant didn’t stand a chance when the Audi struck it at full force head on.’

  ‘Wife and kid killed?’

  ‘Instantly. It was a big scandal for a while. A West German businessman over the limit, speeding, losing control. Streich was promised swift justice and probably a firing squad for the marauding capitalist speed-freak. His name was prominent in the “Neues” and “Berliner Zeitung”, at least for a few weeks but then it suddenly disappeared. Everyone assumed that this Wessi murderer behind the wheel had either been shot or else locked away for good in prison. No one imagined he would ever walk or that the West German authorities would barter his freedom in the hard currency-for-bodies exchange scheme with the west. The skin trade between east and west saved him.’

  Jesus, thought Peters with growing dread, I know where this is going.

  ‘I only found about the driver’s freedom when I searched on the Internet, in the archives of the Rhineland papers.’

  ‘What was his name? Tell me his name,’ Peters demanded.

  ‘His name was Wolfgang Schultz although he later changed that by deed poll following the deal that secured his freedom.’

  This time it was Peters’ turn to pause and try to calm down.

  ‘His name to what, Angi?’

  ‘To Oskar Beer. The only one “Christopher” actually never laid a hand on.’

  So Beer had sought refuge twice, once after his release from a DDR jail into a new identity back at home in the west, burying the memory of Wolfgang Schultz, and once again when he had to flee this time to the east when his crimes on the Rhine against children were out in the open. The pervert who ended up swinging from the back of his own kitchen door in Berlin, who had painted a perfect mental portrait of ‘St. Christopher’ for Peters and his squad, had failed to see in this man a younger self whose life Beer had shattered so long before the Turn. Peters now knew that Streich had been tracking the man who had casually wiped out his family and must have stumbled by chance across Beer’s sordid, secret predilection – so this was where ‘Christopher’s Wrath’ first began. Streich had chosen to spread out his own pain, to expand his anguish, to collectivise his grief, to cover an entire world gone-by and lash out at the one he was forced to inhabit in which men like Oskar Beer were free to walk and stalk.

  He had led Streich to his end without the completion of the serial killer’s mission to explain. He had been bait for Fest and whoever else in the BND had given the order to prevent an entire system from being put on trial. Now he felt weighed down by a debt he felt he owed. Peters decided there and then he would keep ‘Christopher’s’ first cause where Streich had hidden it.

  ‘Was Petra Scharner buried as Petra Scharner, Angi rather than her married name?’ he enquired softly.

  ‘Yes, sir, how did you know that?’

  ‘Intuition. So was the child I assume. Why don’t we leave the two of them to rest in that name! And while we are at it why don’t we keep Wolfgang Schultz apart from Oskar Beer! That by the way is an order not a question. Do you understand why I am saying this Angi? ‘ Peters said this time with force.

  ‘Yes, of course. Now I understand. Goodbye sir.’
<
br />   Peters wondered if at this moment she was daddy’s girl protecting Streich’s secret for her father’s sake as much as due to loyalty to her commanding officer.

  He was about say ‘Goodbye Angi. Take care’ when something struck him, something that was missing from her brief account of the accident and Schulze’s trial.

  ‘Angi, one more thing before you go. Were there any witnesses to the crash? Did anyone give evidence in court.’

  ‘I’m sorry sir I never mentioned it before. There was just one, it was early in the morning. Petra Sharner and her child were on their way to take a holiday in the north.’

  ‘What was the witness’ name?’

  ‘General Thomas Weber. He was driving to the Ministry of State Security when he came across the crash scene. He was the only one to give evidence in court.’

  Peters almost dropped the phone after she spoke, the second surge of shock felt as if he had been cattle prodded. Bad enough that Beer, as Schulzt, had killed ‘Christopher’s’ family, worse still that the only one to have seen it had been the general he and Stannheim’s network eventually later smuggled out to safety in the west.