The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  ‘Not necessary. I’ll try again later.’

  Charly hung up. Goddamn it! Was it really so hard to talk to someone when you worked in the same building? Had she asked her colleague to leave for this? Again she turned to the file in front of her, but again her mind wandered until the telephone rang, and she gave a start. Had he simply been feigning absence, only now to call her back?

  ‘Ritter, G Division,’ she said, heart pounding.

  ‘Gennat here!’ The beat of her heart slowed again. ‘I wanted to take the opportunity to wish you all the best at the start of your training year.’

  ‘Thank you, Superintendent,’ Charly said politely, trying not to sound too disappointed. She thought the world of her former boss, worshipped him even, and knew that an accolade like this was no given, even if she found herself incapable of enjoying it.

  ‘I think I speak for all of A Division when I say we are very sorry that you are no longer with us in Homicide.’

  ‘I’m sorry too, but I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done about CID’s organisational structure.’

  ‘Quite,’ Gennat said. ‘Not even I can help you there.’ He cleared his throat before continuing. ‘But I can make you an offer, Charly. If you agree then I’ll speak with your superior officer. If I know Frau Wieking, she’s unlikely to object.’

  ‘What sort of offer, Sir?’

  When he told her, Charly was glad she’d sent Karin van Almsick away after all.

  8

  The interrogations had eaten into their lunch hour. Against expectation, Gennat had failed to provide any additional troops, not even a cadet. With no time for a proper break or to discuss their findings, Rath paused at the Aschinger on Leipziger Strasse for a Bratwurst and red cabbage. The interrogation marathon had confirmed what they already knew, the only item of note being that one of the witnesses failed to show up.

  Rath had sent Gräf and Lange out to the Lamkau office in Tempelhof. ‘Lamkau’s widow is expecting you. Take a look at the company papers, most recent bills and so on. See if you can’t find some explanation for the thousand marks in Lamkau’s overalls.’ With that he had not only dispensed of his colleagues, but kept his promise to Edith Lamkau.

  Arriving at Haus Vaterland he was glad to have eaten en route, since he met Alfons Riedel, the spirits buyer, in the afternoon hurly-burly of the Rheinterrasse. Behind a glass pane, the end wall of the saloon displayed a huge, illuminated Rhine panorama: Sankt Goarshausen complete with moving trains and ships. Riedel sat in a quiet corner of the restaurant before an array of bottles, testing the quality of various digestifs. ‘Yes, yes. Lamkau.’ He nodded. ‘A tragic business.’

  Rath ordered a coffee from the waiter who had led him over. ‘You knew him personally?’

  ‘More professionally, I would say.’

  ‘But you’ve shaken his hand? Spoken to him?’

  ‘Naturally.’ Riedel sniffed calmly at the glass he’d just filled.

  ‘We found a large quantity of cash on his person, the source of which is still unclear. Could it be that Lamkau made the delivery in person on Saturday morning because there was an outstanding balance here in Haus Vaterland?’

  ‘Kempinski pays by cheque or banker’s order. Not in cash!’ Riedel sounded almost indignant.

  ‘So, is there an outstanding balance between Haus Vaterland and the Lamkau firm, or not?’

  ‘Kempinski,’ Riedel said. ‘I don’t just buy for Haus Vaterland, but Kempinski too.’

  ‘Right. So does the Kempinski firm still owe Lamkau?’

  ‘I’m not directly responsible for company accounts, but no, not as far as I know.’

  ‘Then can you explain why he had so much cash on him?’

  Riedel shrugged. ‘Perhaps he’d just delivered somewhere else. I don’t know how other companies settle their accounts.’

  ‘We’re surprised the company owner should’ve made the delivery in person on Saturday.’

  Riedel looked around, as if afraid someone might be listening. ‘One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,’ he said at length. ‘But you’re bound to hear it at some point.’

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘His delivering in person might’ve been a gesture of . . .’ There was a pregnant pause. ‘ . . .goodwill. The Lamkau firm has a little ground to make up.’ Rath pricked up his ears as Riedel gestured towards the bottles in front of him. ‘This is all high-quality stuff. No such thing as rotgut at Kempinski. Our clients know that, and so do our suppliers.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with Lamkau?’

  ‘A recent delivery was tainted. Several crates of the stuff. Not Luisenbrand, like it said on the label, but cheap hooch. A layman might’ve fallen for it, but an expert – impossible.’ Riedel sniffed at a glass of light pomace brandy. It wasn’t hard to believe the man was an expert in all things alcoholic, and not just because of the colour of his nose.

  ‘You’re saying Lamkau tried to palm you off with low-grade hooch?’

  ‘Who knows? He may not make the stuff himself, but he’s the sole distributor of Mathée Luisenbrand across Central Germany. Either way, this sort of thing shouldn’t happen.’

  ‘But it did.’

  ‘Yes. Which is why the Lamkau firm stood to be removed from our list of suppliers. In fact I had invited Herbert Lamkau to a meeting today.’ He looked at his watch. ‘He ought to be sitting exactly where you are now.’

  Suddenly everything in the room went black, and a murmur passed through the crowd. Behind the glass pane there was a flash of lightning, followed by a peal of thunder, and rain started falling over the miniature Sankt Goar. Cries of astonishment suggested the majority of diners had never been here before. Rath doubted there was anyone who would watch the show a second time.

  ‘Im Haus Vaterland ist man gründlich, hier gewittert’s stündlich,’ Riedel said with a shrug.

  A reference to these simulated hourly storms, the tired slogan was designed to entice potential customers. Riedel made it sound more like an apology. Rath waited until the noise had died and lit a cigarette. ‘This meeting. What would it have been about?’ he asked, waving the match out. At the same moment the lights came back on.

  Riedel took a sip from one of the glasses before him, taking notes on the individual drinks. ‘Staying on our list of suppliers,’ he said.

  ‘What happens now that he’s dead?’

  ‘I can get hold of their other products easily enough. It’s only Luisenbrand the firm has sole distribution rights to.’

  ‘What about Danziger Goldwasser?’

  ‘Lamkau isn’t the sole distributor there.’

  ‘So, if the Lamkau firm had been dropped, who would supply Haus Vaterland in their place?’

  ‘Do you know, honestly, I haven’t given it much thought, but Luisenbrand isn’t the only decent Korn about.’

  Rath tore a sheet from his notebook and passed it across the table. ‘Write me a list of potential alternatives and their suppliers.’

  ‘You think it’s a competitor who has Lamkau on their conscience?’ Riedel shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine it.’ He wrote down a few names and Rath briefly surveyed the list. He didn’t recognise any of the companies on it.

  ‘Let’s get back to your meeting with Lamkau,’ he said, stowing the paper in his pocket. ‘What could have persuaded you to change your mind?’

  ‘An apology.’ Riedel held a glass containing a yellow-gold liquid against the light. ‘A reasonable explanation as to how it could’ve happened. And, naturally, a guarantee there would be no repeat. That would have been enough.’

  ‘Perhaps the odd banknote might have helped.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You have a lot of power here. In the whole Kempinski firm, in fact. Surely the odd supplier has tried to bribe you?’

  ‘In my position, you can’t afford to be susceptible.’

  ‘But a thousand marks? Wouldn’t that make you more . . .susceptible?’

  Riedel laughed loudly. ‘A tho
usand marks? You must be joking. The quantities Lamkau supplied, how d’you suppose he’d recoup a sum like that?’

  On the way up to the fourth floor Rath noted that both freight elevators were back in commission, before reaching the heart, or rather the stomach, of Haus Vaterland. There was so much equipment on display the central kitchen felt more like a small factory. Inside, Rath found a line of gas stoves: huge cauldrons, big as bathtubs, full of steaming soups and sauces, numerous coffee machines, stirring machines, slicing machines, mixing machines, potato-peeling machines and mincers. Set slightly apart, an enormous metal structure went about its business, a kitchen-hand loading a never-ending supply of trays and dirty crockery onto its conveyor belt. Everything hissed and scratched and rattled and clanked and jangled and turned, while countless staff scurried between the glistening technology snipping vegetables, stirring pans, tenderising meat or loading trays of food onto the little paternoster.

  Directly above the time clock at the entrance hung several job advertisements. Dishwasher, kitchen-hands wanted; office worker wanted (knowledge of shorthand and experience of commercial kitchens desirable). Rath flagged down a boy pushing a crockery trolley. ‘Where can I find Herr Unger?’ he asked. ‘Apparently he’s the head chef.’

  The boy nodded towards a large window before wheeling his trolley on. The window was more like a glass wall, and belonged to a small office. Inside, a man with a chef’s hat sat behind a desk, making entries in a thick notebook. Before him were shelves of files. Here, too, vacancy notices hung by the window. Rath gave a brief knock and entered.

  For a chef Manfred Unger was surprisingly thin. He seemed less than pleased at the interruption. ‘What are you doing here? The entire kitchen is closed to unauthorised personnel.’

  The room reminded him of a shift supervisor’s office at Ford. The large viewing window made it possible to keep a close eye on the kitchen. ‘Manfred Unger?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’ Rath reached for his badge, and the chef stood up. ‘So that’s what this is about! Don’t you see I can’t come to the station now?’ He gestured towards the milling mass that was the kitchen. ‘We’re in the middle of a rush.’

  ‘Who said anything about now?’ Rath looked at his wristwatch. ‘You ought to have been there four and a half hours ago.’

  ‘When it was even busier. If no one comes to relieve me, there’s nothing I can do.’

  ‘I’m not sure you understand the gravity of being issued with a summons.’

  ‘What summons? On Saturday your colleague requested that I come to the station this morning. I’m afraid it wasn’t possible.’

  ‘I’m not here to argue, Herr Unger, but I’d advise you to make a little time for me now, otherwise things could get nasty.’ Unger sat down. ‘You do realise you’re an important witness in a murder inquiry . . .’

  ‘A murder inquiry?’

  ‘ . . .and refusing to co-operate can very quickly turn a witness into a suspect.’

  ‘Inspector, as I’ve just explained . . .’ Unger gestured beyond the viewing window, a hint of desperation in his eyes.

  ‘I just wanted to make those things clear. Now, am I right in thinking you do have a little time for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Rath lit a cigarette before taking his notebook from his pocket. Examining the point of his pencil, he asked his first question. ‘It was you who found Herr Lamkau?’

  ‘I’ve already explained everything to your colleague.’

  ‘But not to me.’

  ‘It scared me half to death, seeing him there like that. I almost fell on top of him.’

  ‘What were you doing by the lifts?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Why did you push the button?’

  ‘Why do you think? I needed to get something from downstairs.’

  ‘What did you need to get?’

  ‘How should I know? I imagine it was something to eat.’ Unger laughed, but fell silent when he saw Rath’s expression.

  ‘Aren’t the cold store and stockrooms up here?’

  ‘Most of them, but not all.’

  ‘Surely you don’t often go down to fetch goods? It would mean serious disruption.’

  Unger looked rattled. ‘What are you getting at? What does this have to do with a murder inquiry?’

  ‘Leave me to worry about that. You wanted to fetch something, but have forgotten what?’

  ‘I never had the chance, did I, not when your people showed up. Talk about serious disruption. They were here for hours.’

  Rath made a lengthy note. Not because there was much to write, but as an unsettling tactic. Unger had spent the whole time fidgeting on his chair. His legs hadn’t stopped moving for an instant. Time and time again he craned his neck to look out of the viewing window into the kitchen. What he saw only seemed to make him more nervous. Rath was about to ask his next question when he sprang to his feet, opened the door and issued a volley of instructions.

  ‘Friedhelm! Get the pot roast out of the oven, for God’s sake! Carsten, if you’re not finished with that chicken ragout soon, I’ll come out there personally and light a fire under your arse. And where the fuck is the mash? The first orders will be here in less than an hour! Now get a move on!’

  ‘Im Haus Vaterland ist man gründlich, hier gewittert’s stündlich,’ Rath murmured.

  ‘Did you say something?’ Unger closed the door and returned to his desk.

  ‘Herr Lamkau . . .’ Rath cleared his throat. ‘Did you know him personally?’

  ‘The spirits man? Why should I? I’m a chef.’

  ‘I was only asking, Herr Unger.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Again the thin man squinted through the window. Rath wasn’t sure if it was their conversation or the lack of kitchen supervision that was making him so uneasy.

  ‘Is there anyone here who did know Herr Lamkau?’

  ‘No.’ The chef shook his head.

  ‘Herr Riedel perhaps?’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘A colleague of yours. Spirits buyer at Kempinski.’

  ‘Yes, I know the one.’

  Rath made another note, before continuing with his questions. ‘Apparently he had some trouble with a batch of spirits . . .’

  ‘There’s always issues with suppliers. We don’t have much cause for spirits in the kitchen. For seasoning perhaps, or if something needs to be flambéd.’

  ‘So you didn’t hear anything about the tainted schnapps? Luisenbrand. A whole consignment apparently.’

  ‘Come to think of it, that does sound familiar. Though we absolutely never use Korn.’

  Unger was still gazing out of the window. His mind seemed elsewhere. Suddenly he sprang to his feet and ran to the door. ‘What the hell is that?’ he screamed at an unfortunate who had just carried an enormous plate of roast beef past the window, and now froze mid-motion. ‘Who the fuck’s going to eat that? It’s overcooked! Pink! It has to be pink! Only place that’s good for is the pig pail!’ Unger struck out, and there was a clatter as the plate landed on the tiled floor. ‘Now clean it up!’ he said, face the colour of beetroot. ‘I want to see you in my office!’ He slammed the door and returned, still breathing heavily as he took his seat.

  ‘I hope we’ll be finished here soon,’ he said. ‘You see what happens when you take your eye off the ball.’

  Rath stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. ‘That’s it for now,’ he said, looking through the window to where three kitchen-hands in white aprons were scooping roast beef up from the floor. ‘Sorry to have caused so much trouble. Next time just come to Alex when we ask, and this sort of thing won’t happen.’

  Rath drove to Hannoversche Strasse from Potsdamer Platz, arriving at the morgue half an hour early. Dr Karthaus wasn’t in the autopsy room, so the porter sent him up to the first floor. He heard a typewriter clattering behind the office door, and knocked. The clattering ceased as he entered and gazed into the eyes of Karthaus and his secretary. The doctor squi
nted over the rim of his reading glasses and glanced at his watch.

  ‘What are you doing here? Did I give your secretary the wrong time?’

  ‘Punctuality is the politeness of princes,’ Rath said.

  ‘In my estimation, arriving too early is far worse than arriving too late. Or is this a way of compensating for your legendary tardiness?’

  ‘Don’t make such a fuss, Doctor. You were more or less on my way – so, here I am.’

  ‘Then you must simply be dying to hear my assessment.’ Karthaus turned to his secretary. ‘Wouldn’t want to disappoint such scientific curiosity, would we, Martha? Pack your things. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.’

  With that the doctor swept out of the room and down the stairs, white coat flapping in his wake. Rath struggled to keep pace. Karthaus didn’t say another word until they had passed through the swing doors into the autopsy room. ‘You do realise that was your hotly anticipated written report I was working on?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I was hoping to have it ready for you by this afternoon. Now you’ll have to wait for the internal mail tomorrow.’

  ‘I prefer my reports to be delivered orally.’

  The pathologist shook his head as he sat behind a messy desk and offered Rath a rickety wooden chair. He straightened his reading glasses. ‘So,’ he began. ‘The results of the blood analysis.’ He glanced at a sheet of paper, then reached for another. ‘I’ve found evidence of an unusual substance in the dead man’s bloodstream.’

  ‘Unusual in what respect?’

  ‘It’s something you might expect to observe in the South American jungle. It’s called tubocurarine.’

  ‘Tubo . . .what?’

  ‘Curarine. We have the Indians from South America to thank for it. Savages in the Amazon jungle hunt with a blowpipe, killing their prey with a deadly arrow poison, curare. The stuff paralyses the musculature, affecting a victim’s breathing. The speed depends on the dosage.’

  ‘Are you saying we should be looking for an Indian? Why don’t we start in the Wild West Bar in Haus Vaterland?’

  ‘You can spare me the unhelpful jokes. Now, let me finish.’ Karthaus actually seemed offended. ‘There are different forms of the curare poison, one of which is tubocurarine . . .’