The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  He was about to climb out when he heard someone cough behind him and spun around. Dressed in a light summer suit, looking spruce and freshly coiffed, was Richard Fleischer, director of Haus Vaterland. The guard below must have sounded the alarm, or perhaps the engineer had told him he couldn’t access the lift.

  ‘Inspector! I must say I’m rather surprised to see you here. What are you doing?’

  ‘My job.’

  ‘Yesterday you hampered business, today you are preventing necessary repair work! Sneaking through the back entrance like that. Who do you think you are?’

  ‘Would you have preferred me to use the front entrance and tell everyone I was from Homicide?’

  Fleischer made a face as if he had bitten into a lemon. ‘No need to go shouting from the rooftops. It was an accident, after all.’

  ‘Wrong! It now looks as if we are dealing with a premeditated killing. I can tell you already that in such cases CID makes no allowances for operating procedures, nor for your good reputation.’

  ‘But who would want to kill Herr Lamkau on our premises?’

  ‘You have no idea?’

  ‘Of course not. You think that one of my employees would beat a delivery man to death?’

  ‘Herr Lamkau wasn’t beaten to death.’

  A few waiters came past and gazed in bewilderment at their director, standing in front of the freight elevators in conversation with a stranger and his dog.

  ‘Be that as it may.’ Fleischer lowered his voice. ‘Now, if we must continue this discussion, I would prefer if we did so in my office.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m to wait here until my colleagues arrive.’

  ‘Your colleagues?’ The prospect of more police officers descending on his premises hardly filled him with joy.

  ‘Forensic technicians,’ Rath said simply, turning to the window once more. ‘We have to examine a possible escape route.’

  ‘That takes you to the balcony. You can’t get down to the street from there, at most back into the building somewhere.’

  Rath offered Fleischer an Overstolz, convinced that smoking together was the best way to dispel animosity or suspicion.

  ‘I get the impression your building is well guarded,’ he said, giving the director a light.

  ‘Oh yes, our people are on the ball.’

  ‘Where, would you say, is it possible to enter or leave unnoticed?’

  ‘I would say, nowhere.’ Fleischer drew on his cigarette, and gestured with his head towards the open window. ‘Unless you’re a cat burglar.’

  ‘How many people work here? Two, three hundred?’

  ‘Three hundred?’ The director gave a pitying smile. ‘There are around four hundred waiters in the service department alone, then in the central kitchen upstairs eighty chefs alongside one hundred and twenty temporary workers. We cater for around a million guests a year. All in all, we have some eleven hundred employees working around the clock. We’re almost a miniature city; we even have our own waste incineration.’

  ‘With so many employees, it wouldn’t be possible for you to know each one personally.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘How many people were on duty yesterday morning when Herr Lamkau was murdered?’

  ‘You ought to know better than me, seeing as you rounded them all up. Fifty, sixty perhaps, if you count the technical staff, and security. There was hardly anyone from service.’

  Their conversation was interrupted when two men in grey overalls emerged from the stairwell. Rath immediately recognised them as forensic technicians and pointed them towards the battered elevator door. ‘Take a look at the window over there afterwards. See if you can’t secure some fingerprints on the handles and check if there are any marks on the balcony outside.’

  The men nodded, unpacked their suitcases and got to work. Rath watched them for a time. ‘What do you hope to find?’ the director asked at last.

  ‘Information concerning the murderer’s escape route,’ Rath said. ‘Perhaps his identity too.’

  ‘I just hope you don’t make too much of a fuss. I could do without the press.’

  ‘Do you have a medical department here?’

  Fleischer looked surprised. ‘A first-aid room with several mattresses. For emergencies. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Do you keep medicine there? Hypodermic syringes?’

  ‘Naturally. Should I draw up a list?’

  ‘Please. Today, if possible. Have someone you trust check all your medical cupboards. We need to know if anything’s missing.’ The director nodded like an obedient schoolboy. ‘Did you know Herr Lamkau?’ Rath asked suddenly. ‘Personally, I mean.’

  ‘No.’ Fleischer’s response was immediate. ‘I saw him yesterday for the first time.’

  ‘Were any of your employees privately acquainted with him?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, but with such a large staff I couldn’t say for certain.’

  ‘What surprises me is that Herr Lamkau made the delivery in person. To say nothing of the time of day.’

  Fleischer shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Owners do sometimes deliver themselves. The timings vary according to how suppliers plan their route. I’m sure Herr Riedel will be able to tell you more.’

  ‘Herr Riedel,’ Rath repeated, pulling out his pad.

  ‘Alfons Riedel. One of our buyers.’

  ‘Is Herr Riedel on site?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. It’s Sunday. Purchasing is closed.’

  ‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ Rath said. ‘Please let Herr Riedel know.’

  Director Fleischer was still smiling, but it looked as if he had developed a severe toothache.

  The Lamkau firm had its headquarters in Tempelhof, beside the canal. The company buildings had an organised look about them, with half a dozen or so newly cleaned delivery vans arranged neatly outside. Rath drew up alongside one of the vehicles as it gleamed spotlessly in the sun. In comparison, his dull, dusty Buick, which he had since collected from Kreuzberg, was like a street urchin that had wandered into a group of confirmands. The vehicles were similar to the van discovered yesterday outside Haus Vaterland, which was still in the hands of Forensics. Some advertised Lamkau’s liquor dealership and Mathée Luisenbrand; others promoted Danziger Goldwasser or Treuburger Bärenfang.

  Rath got out and took Kirie by the lead. Walking to the residential building, he realised the hairs on her neck were standing on end. She issued a soft yip. ‘Easy, old girl,’ he said. ‘Easy.’

  Then he gave a start himself, for behind him he heard loud barking and the rattle of a chain unfurling at rapid speed. He turned around and saw a whopping great brute making straight for him. Instinctively he took a few steps to one side. Just as the dog reached him, the chain tightened and held the beast in check. The barking didn’t stop, however, as the guard dog threw its entire weight against the choker, and continued rasping at the visitors. In the meantime Kirie issued her own response, so that the Sunday afternoon peace and quiet was now well and truly destroyed.

  The front door opened and a maid looked at him. She had to shout to make herself heard above the din.

  ‘How can I help?’

  ‘First, you can stop me being eaten.’

  ‘I’m afraid Nero doesn’t listen to me. And his master is sadly . . .’

  ‘Dead. I know.’ Rath showed his badge. ‘My condolences. I’d like to speak to his wife. Is she here?’

  The girl gestured towards the company buildings. ‘She’s in the office next door.’

  ‘How do I get there without being torn to shreds?’

  ‘By giving Nero a wide berth.’

  Rath proceeded to do exactly that and finally gained the premises, consisting as they did of a warehouse, in front of which the delivery vans were parked, and a simple little office wing at the building’s head. The guard dog stopped barking when it realised Rath was beating a retreat. It seemed the company premises were outside its jurisdiction. A brass plate hung next to the entrance, glisten
ing in the sun, as spick and span as everything else around here. The glass door stood half open and Rath went inside. The office wing appeared neat and tidy, with a slight smell of alcohol.

  Inside, a woman with greyish blonde hair sat at a desk, leafing through a muddle of opened and closed files. Bills, contracts, orders, staff lists. A gust of wind and the chaos would be complete.

  The woman was so engrossed she didn’t look up until Rath knocked on the open door and showed his badge.

  ‘Edith Lamkau?’ he asked. She nodded. ‘Rath, CID. My condolences on the death of your husband. Please excuse our disturbing you again.’

  The widow Lamkau nodded and gazed at the files she held in her hands. She seemed to be somewhere else entirely, the very picture of despair.

  ‘What a mess,’ she said.

  ‘That’s an awful lot of paperwork,’ Rath added sympathetically.

  She nodded, and gazed with a wounded expression at the litter of files on the desk before her. They, rather than the death of her husband, seemed to be the cause of her despair. ‘What the hell am I meant to do with all this? Orders, bills . . . Then all these people asking what’s going to happen. Somehow word on Herbert’s death has got about quicker than news of our latest promotions.’

  ‘Don’t you have someone who knows their way around the business, and can help you out?’

  ‘Herbert looked after everything himself. No one could have known that he . . .’

  She let the papers drop, breaking into a sob so suddenly that Rath gave a start. He remembered the lily-white cotton handkerchief in his jacket. Edith Lamkau dabbed gratefully at her wet eyes.

  ‘Frau Lamkau,’ Rath said, when she had composed herself again. ‘In the meantime, our suspicions that your husband died an unnatural death have been confirmed.’

  ‘Oh God! Did someone kill him?’ Rath nodded awkwardly. ‘Who?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out, Frau Lamkau. It’s the reason I’m here.’ He pointed outside, to where Nero had barked again. ‘You’re well guarded here. Was your husband afraid? Did he have enemies?’

  She shook her head. ‘Herbert was only concerned with our safety. There have been a number of break-ins here recently.’

  ‘In your husband’s overalls we found an envelope containing a thousand marks. Can you explain where it came from?’ She shook her head. ‘Did your clients settle their accounts in cash?’

  ‘Some maybe. I don’t know.’

  ‘Then there must be an invoice for this amount somewhere. Do you know which clients your husband visited yesterday? Is there a journey log? A list of suppliers?’ Edith Lamkau didn’t seem to know anything about her husband’s affairs. Perhaps they weren’t all above board. ‘How about I send a few men over tomorrow to look after your papers?’ Rath said.

  She smiled gratefully. ‘You’d do that?’

  ‘But you have to promise to forget about all this. Just make sure you lock the door when you leave.’

  ‘Of course. Gladly!’ Edith Lamkau looked as if a burden had been lifted from her soul.

  6

  Dear Gereon,

  Back in Berlin, yet here we are still writing to one another . . .you’re harder to pin down than the police commissioner!

  My darling, I’d have liked to see you again before our paths inevitably cross tomorrow at the Castle. I assume that for the time being our old agreement still holds. No one should realise just how collegial our relationship is. It’d mean a lot to me, you know . . . It’s my first day tomorrow, and there are already more than enough people who think there’s no room for women on the police force. Let’s not give them any further ammunition by being over-familiar on duty. You know how quickly the Castle’s rumour mill can be set in motion.

  Aside from that I think it’s important we meet as soon as possible. I still owe you a response, after all.

  Forgive me for abandoning Kirie, but she seemed rather well acquainted with your friendly porter, and I didn’t want to kidnap her, even if I’m certain she’d have come willingly. The thing is I just had to get out of your flat. I hope you understand, and that you’re not angry with me. I’m not made to spend hours waiting for a man – that’s something you’ll have to get used to.

  In the meantime, I’ve settled nicely back into Berlin life. You wouldn’t believe how many people have visited already. Old Krause from the grocery store round the corner snapped at me as though I’d never been away – ‘you touch it, you buy it’. Nice that Berlin’s so pleased to have me back.

  A thousand hugs

  C.

  Rath folded the letter and placed it back in its envelope, took it out and read it again. A quarter past seven. One more cigarette and it would be time to head over to the conference room. He sat in the Buick by the railway arches, watching his colleagues streaming into the Castle from all sides. He lit an Overstolz and opened the side window.

  He swallowed another aspirin from the bottle, washing it down with a slug from his silver hip flask. It felt as if the cognac did more for his headache than the pill. Lack of sleep coupled with too much alcohol was a deadly combination, but last night the bottle had been his only consolation.

  From the moment the night porter pushed the envelope across the counter, he knew it was from her, tearing it open in the lift going up. Reaching his apartment, he fetched a bottle of cognac and, still in his coat, slumped into an armchair and began to read, not knowing how to feel.

  He didn’t know how many times he had read the letter since, only that he still didn’t understand. She wasn’t made to spend hours waiting for him? Was that a ‘no’ to his proposal? Berlin was pleased to have her back, was she referring to another man, or just old Krause? All right, she hadn’t forgotten him, but did she really have to emphasise how many people had already been to visit . . .

  Even now, with a slightly clearer head, he couldn’t decipher the letter’s meaning, but her words seemed more positive, friendlier somehow. The best thing, however, better than any single word, was that the letter smelled of Charly. He could still smell her this morning in among the odour of paper and rubber lining, and realised it was the thing he had missed most last year. Sniffing the note a final time, he returned it to its envelope.

  Kirie, who was crouched on the passenger seat itching to be released, issued two short barks. ‘You’re right, old girl, time to go.’

  They made a detour via Alexanderplatz, so that she had a chance to pee before entering the station. The enormous building loomed as sombre as a medieval castle, hence the name given to it by employees: the Castle. Once upon a time, the red brick of police headquarters had held sway over Alexanderplatz, but the various new additions had since relegated it to second place. The police commissioner, who had previously enjoyed a clear view from his private office on the first floor, now had to content himself with the windows of Alexanderhaus, in which the Aschinger restaurant had also found its new home.

  Rath’s office on the first floor was still locked. He ought to have remembered that his secretary, Erika Voss, didn’t arrive until eight. He had no choice but to bring Kirie into the conference room. It was already busy, with the meeting due to start in a few minutes. He pushed through the crowd, as far as possible towards the back. A few colleagues were amazed to see him with Kirie on her lead, but what else could he do? He could hardly tie her up outside.

  ‘Are they introducing the new police dogs as well?’ an officer asked. The bystanders laughed, and Rath forced a grin. To his astonishment, he brought the nervous-seeming Kirie to heel with a sharp ‘sit’, as the cadets started filing in: the latest batch of candidates for inspector. Lange was third, followed at the end of the line by Charly and another female officer, with Bernhard Weiss taking up the rear. Even though he had known she’d be here, his heart started beating faster. Despite wearing an unremarkable mouse-grey ensemble, she still contrived to look stunning, and Rath felt as if all eyes were on her. For a moment he actually thought the male officers were whistling, although nothin
g of the kind occurred. Seeing them gawp like that, he felt the old rage returning and gritted his teeth until it passed.

  The cadets took their seats, out of sight in the front row, as Dr Weiss climbed on stage and the whispering subsided to a murmur. The deputy commissioner waited until the final coughs had abated.

  ‘Before we turn to happier affairs, allow me to say a few words on the current situation,’ he began. Owing to his thick spectacle lenses, it always felt as if Bernhard Weiss were looking you straight in the eye. ‘It is no coincidence that, in the two weeks since the SA and SS have been allowed to display their uniforms and march again, the situation has become spectacularly worse. This weekend alone political confrontations in Wedding and Moabit resulted in five casualties and a death, and that is merely in Berlin.’

  ‘Wasn’t the dead man an SA officer, gunned down by the Reds?’ a colleague whispered, careful to ensure he couldn’t be heard up front.

  ‘There were good reasons for the uniform ban,’ Weiss continued. ‘Deprived of it, SA men could be seen for what they are: a brutal gang of thugs. In their uniforms, however, they don’t regard themselves as criminals. Indeed, some even presume to act as police officers. More and more often, SA members are taking the liberty of carrying out house searches in Communist apartments. There are reports from Friedrichshain that an SA troop stormed an ice-cream parlour and attempted to carry off all members of the Reichsbanner, as though it were a police raid. Fortunately, our colleagues were able to intervene in time.

  ‘Such behaviour, ladies and gentlemen,’ Weiss said, casting a friendly glance towards the front row at the word ladies, ‘must be nipped in the bud. We cannot allow the mob to rule the streets, whether they are dressed in red or in brown.’

  Weiss paused, and a few colleagues began to clap. The applause soon died, making it more awkward than if there had been none at all.