The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  ‘But you do supply Kempinski?’

  ‘For two years now. I remember my Berlin visit very well. Cost me a grazing shot and a few bruises. Managed to get you out of trouble and land my contract with Kempinski on the side.’

  ‘Just how important is that contract with Kempinski?’

  ‘Very. Not only in terms of revenue, but reputation. Once upon a time you could be a purveyor to the court, to the Kaiser or King. Now you can supply Kempinski. The name means something, not just in Berlin.’

  ‘Is it hard to get in there?’

  ‘Let’s just say, other clients are easier. For Kempinski quality is the most important thing, and then the price.’

  ‘Can Kempinski buyers be bought?’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Can you jog their goodwill? I don’t know, with gifts for example.’

  ‘I don’t know how you think these things work, but I’ve never done anything of the sort.’

  ‘I’m not saying you have. I’m just asking if it’s a possibility.’

  ‘Fundamentally, anyone can be bought. But if the quality isn’t right, no Kempinski buyer would be interested. The supplier would be out on their ear right away.’

  ‘Supposing the quality wasn’t up to scratch just once, and you were in danger of being out on your ear, might a gift help then? Provided you swore blind it would never happen again?’

  ‘Gereon, listen, I don’t know if I can help. I don’t know what desperate people do. I can’t predict how Kempinski buyers might react.’

  ‘But it could drive you to despair, losing your Kempinski contract . . .’

  ‘It could certainly ruin your good reputation. Provided, of course, you had one in the first place.’

  13

  The Femina-Bar was at the top of Nürnberger Strasse, right by Tauentzienstrasse, in a large, modern premises with an apparently endless, elegantly curved façade. Nowhere was Berlin more fashionable than here. A man in a red-gold uniform opened the taxi door and helped Charly out, while Rath pressed a note into the driver’s hand. Already he knew the evening wouldn’t be cheap. A few hundred metres further towards Wilmersdorf was where he had lodged with the widow Behnke, three years before. Back then the Femina had still been a construction site.

  Charly stood next to the taxi and smiled, looking stunning in her midnight-blue dress and light summer coat. Rath was glad he’d purchased a new dinner suit. He offered his arm, and she took it in hers, and how amazingly proud he felt to be strolling with her through the night, following the gold-braided porter as he led them to the entrance, a row of modern glass doors, a wide, inviting strip of warm, bright-coloured light, above which the rest of the façade was lost in darkness, broken only by ribbons of neon: Femina, das Ballhaus Berlins. Berlin’s ballroom.

  It was the hottest ticket in town, but he wanted to show her that she was worth it, that she meant more to him than money could buy. In the taxi they had barely exchanged a word. Rath had the feeling that Charly was at least as nervous as he was, although he didn’t know if that was a good sign or a bad.

  The porter opened one of the glass doors. Unseen by Charly, Rath thrust five marks into his hand, upon which the man entrusted them to a colleague in the lobby, who in turn led them to the cloakroom, where he was likewise rewarded with five marks. All the while Rath took pains to ensure that Charly saw no money exchanging hands. After relieving them of their coats, the man accompanied them to a large lift. As they stepped into the car Rath couldn’t help thinking of Herbert Lamkau’s dead eyes.

  The lift took them up to a huge ballroom with a wrap-around gallery, the imitation gold Rococo offering the perfect contrast to the modern façade. Another five marks guaranteed a front row seat and an unusually obliging waiter. Rath was glad when they finally sat down. He was starting to run out of change.

  The first dancers began moving to the sounds of the jazz band, who played flawlessly despite their stiff appearance. Rath ordered champagne to start while Charly studied the menu. Apparently she was hungry. He watched her eyes widen as she whistled quietly through her teeth. ‘You must be feeling flush!’ she said, placing it to one side.

  ‘It’s a special evening.’

  She threw him an enigmatic glance. All of a sudden he felt overcome by the insecurity which had dogged him these last few days.

  The champagne arrived and they clinked glasses. ‘What are we drinking to?’ he asked. ‘To us?’

  ‘How about we start with tonight, and your bulging wallet,’ Charly said, revealing her dimpled smile. At that moment he knew she had long since made up her mind, and that her answer would be more complex than a simple ‘yes’. They were silent for a time as they browsed the menus.

  ‘So, you want to marry me,’ she said at length, fumbling a Juno out of her handbag, the trailing vestiges of a smile still on her face. ‘Do you have any idea what you’re letting yourself in for?’

  ‘I think so,’ he said, and opened his cigarette case. ‘I mean, we’ve been practising long enough.’

  ‘Marriage means more than performing your conjugal duties,’ she whispered across the table.

  ‘Keep talking like that and I’ll jump on you right here.’

  ‘Seriously, Gereon. How do you envisage our everyday life?’

  Here they come, he thought, the complex Charly-style questions, and even though he’d been expecting them, he still didn’t have any answers. How could he? He didn’t envisage his everyday life or his future, he just wanted to live them, with her by his side.

  ‘It’ll be like a fairy tale,’ he said, drawing the words in the air with his cigarette: ‘And they lived happily ever after.’ He held his lighter first to her Juno, then to his Overstolz. ‘What about you? How do you envisage our everyday life?’

  Charly’s response came promptly. ‘I know I don’t want to spend the whole day in the kitchen looking after our hundred kids, just waiting for the master of the house to return so I can serve him dinner and pamper him.’

  ‘What a picture. But who said anything about a hundred kids? I’d settle for between one and three . . .’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, stop being such a silly clot! I’m not saying I don’t ever want kids! Just that I want a career first!’

  The waiter came to take their order. The table held nothing like the romantic atmosphere Rath had been hoping for. Somehow it felt as if they were negotiating a contract, rather than deciding to spend the rest of their lives together out of love.

  Charly waited until they were alone again. ‘Don’t misunderstand me, but I know there are lots of women who’d like to work, who are forbidden from doing so by their husbands, and I’ve no desire to join their ranks.’

  ‘What do you mean “forbidden”? All I’m saying is I earn enough to support us both.’

  ‘Gereon, listen to me, I’ll work for as long as I please, there’s nothing you can do about it. If you should ever try, I’ll divorce you on the spot!’

  He could have embraced her, the way she sat there looking so indignant. He lifted his glass and grinned. ‘Let’s drink to that.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Well, if I’ve understood correctly, you’ve just said “yes”. If we can’t drink to that, what can we drink to?’

  For a moment she looked bewildered, only for her dimple to reappear. ‘No flies on you pigs, are there?’ She reached for her glass, and they clinked before she took his hand in hers and gazed at him through her brown eyes. She was worth every grey hair she’d already given him, as well as those that were still to come.

  ‘Seriously, Gereon,’ she said. ‘These things are important to me.’

  He nodded. No one had said it would be easy with Charly, but that’s not what this was about. ‘I promise,’ he said and smiled. ‘I’ll never prevent you from working. But . . .that doesn’t mean I don’t want kids with you . . .at some stage.’

  She smiled, revealing her dimple again. ‘We can have a hundred as far as I’m concerned, but I must warn you: I can only ha
ve girls. And they’ll all be exactly like me!’

  ‘Lord have mercy! Perhaps we should reconsider after all.’

  ‘No chance. Now, give me that ring!’

  He took the little case out of his inside pocket and opened it. ‘If I could ask for your hand, Fräulein Ritter.’

  She stretched out her hand and skilfully he eased the ring onto her finger. It was a perfect fit. ‘You’ve done this before,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you knew.’ He raised his glass. ‘To us. To the best engagement I’ve ever had!’

  She inspected the ring from a distance. ‘You’re lucky it’s so pretty, otherwise I’d be throwing it straight back in your face. The effrontery.’

  ‘No can do. It’s official now.’ Rath took the champagne from the cooler and poured. ‘But I want to hear it from you, just once.’

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘What do you mean “what”? That little word. “Yes”.’

  ‘I thought that didn’t matter until the registry office.’ She smiled.

  There was a commotion. It must have been going on for some time, but up till that point the music had mercifully drowned it out. Now the piece was finished, however, a man could be heard screeching into the applause.

  ‘If I want a beer, then it’s your job to get me one, fancy pants!’

  Rath turned around. The waiter stood at most three tables away, wine list in hand, trying to pacify a beetroot-coloured customer who seemed determined to kick up a fuss. His companion, a full-figured beauty, was clearly ill at ease. The waiter spoke at a civilised volume, meaning Rath could only catch the odd snippet. ‘ . . .I’m sorry . . .’, ‘ . . .you have to order wine here . . .’, ‘ . . .beer is only served in the gallery . . .’ Then the loudmouth started again, with the whole room listening this time.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me what I can and can’t order? I’m the customer here, so bring me a goddamn beer! Or do I have to make you?’

  In the meantime two elegantly dressed, well-built men had approached. The waiter discreetly took his leave to see to the other guests, while they quietly persuaded the troublemaker to start looking for his cloakroom ticket. The loudmouth still wasn’t ready to accept defeat. He sprang to his feet, thrusting a hand from his shoulder. ‘I won’t stand for it, not in a goddamn Jew restaurant! You can’t treat a German like this!’

  He was wrong, of course. As discreetly as possible the strongmen ushered the hothead out of the room. ‘Someday you’ll be in for a surprise,’ he ranted, before being bundled into the lift. ‘You Jews!’ he yelled as the doors closed. ‘Think you’re better than the rest, but you’re wrong!’

  His companion gazed around in embarrassment, then took her handbag and stood up.

  By now the musicians had finished turning their pages. The band started up again, and the guests, who had listened to the exchange in silence, resumed their conversations. The dancers swayed as before, as if nothing had happened.

  ‘Maybe that’s a possibility,’ Charly said.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘Anti-Semitism. Haus Vaterland is a goddamn Jew restaurant too, to borrow that delightful man’s turn of phrase.’

  ‘As a motive for murder? I’m not sure. When people like that curse the Jews, they don’t mean it seriously. It’s like getting worked up about a “Jew club” winning the German league. It’s just a manner of speaking.’

  ‘It’s anti-Semitism. I was angry Bayern Munich won instead of Hertha, too, but you don’t catch me talking about a “Jew club”.’

  ‘There you are, talking about work again.’ Rath grinned. ‘You know, you can tell you’re a pig too. We aren’t on duty again till tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Doesn’t quite work calling a female CID officer “pig”, does it?’

  ‘What should I call you then? A sow?’

  ‘No animal names until we’ve been married at least ten years.’

  ‘As you wish, honey bear.’

  ‘Buffoon!’

  Rath grinned. ‘What will Gennat make of it when he hears?’

  ‘Make of what?’

  ‘Our engagement.’

  ‘Let’s keep it to ourselves while the Vaterland investigation is ongoing.’

  ‘And go public as soon as it’s closed.’

  ‘It’s a deal.’ Charly stood up. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to dance.’

  ‘Before dinner? I didn’t hear anything about it being ladies’ choice.’

  ‘You’re engaged now. You’d better get used to it.’ With that she stretched out a slender arm and waited for him to lead her to the dance floor.

  14

  Erika Voss’s typewriter clattered on the adjoining desk, but if Charly covered her ear when making a call everything was fine. Gereon had assigned her a spot on the visitor’s table in the outer office with his secretary and Kirie. The dog had taken it better than Erika Voss, who seemed personally aggrieved that she should curl up under Charly’s table. The secretary had been just as surprised by the noisy greeting Kirie afforded the new girl, but accepted both with a shrug. Only when Charly asked to use the telephone did she give a slightly venomous look.

  ‘So long as you answer when it rings,’ she said.

  Charly offered a disarming smile, and Gereon’s secretary left her in peace. Sitting at this wobbly table, she was scarcely able to believe her luck.

  Who’d have thought she’d be working for Homicide again? Certainly not her. A transfer like this was exceedingly rare, hence the looks when she appeared at A Division’s morning briefing. She had revelled in her colleagues’ surprise, before taking her place with the Vaterland team and Gereon Rath.

  From time to time she’d asked herself whether Gennat suspected her relationship with Gereon was more than simply professional. But then he wouldn’t have allocated her to him. Or would he?

  At any rate, neither of them had let on during briefing or back in the office. They greeted one another politely, as usual, when their paths crossed. It was a strange feeling after yesterday evening, and last night. She had stayed over, but they’d travelled to Alex separately, he in the Buick, she on the BVG. She’d arrived on schedule; he a little behind. Then, for the second time that day, she’d bid him good morning, this time using the polite form of address.

  She had to take care that she didn’t get things muddled with her new colleagues. She was on first-name terms with Reinhold Gräf, whom she’d known for ages, but not with Andreas Lange, although they’d worked together before. With Gereon, of course, she was also on first-name terms, but not in the Castle. It was pretty complicated. As for Erika Voss, she had absolutely no idea. Under normal circumstances she’d have gone for ‘informal’, but wasn’t that a little too pally? Shouldn’t a candidate for inspector keep her distance from a secretary?

  Resolving not to worry too much she focused on the task at hand. Gereon had started her off on a piece of drudge work, of course, since he couldn’t display a preference. She was to canvass suppliers for a paralytic poison called tubocurarine, which had been used to kill the man in Haus Vaterland. Reinhold Gräf had provided a long list of addresses where the drug was stocked: South American researchers and institutes for tropical diseases, as well as a few hospitals. Setting to work on her telephone marathon, she was sceptical that someone who’d employed the poison as a murder weapon would have access by legal means. They’d either have stolen it, or got it from someone who’d acquired it illegally themselves.

  After two hours she finished working her way through Gräf’s list with her suspicions confirmed: no thefts, no unexplained dwindling of supplies; curare reserves all intact.

  Erika Voss was still hammering away while giving her new colleague the silent treatment. No doubt Charly had made a rookie error in finishing something she’d been given to keep her temporarily occupied, but now wasn’t the time to think about that. She wanted to do something meaningful, and not just sit around. There was no option but to disturb the gentlemen’s club, and request a fresh assignment.r />
  Erika Voss reclaimed her telephone with an expression faintly reminiscent of a smile, as, address list wedged under her arm, Charly knocked on the connecting door, entering to find Lange and Gräf engaged in conversation over a box of files, some of which lay open on the desk. Gereon was on the telephone, and merely raised his eyebrows when he saw her. She hardly took any notice and felt a perverse delight in effecting to ignore him, only to discreetly stroke his hand as she passed. On no account could she think about what happened last night in this office, otherwise she’d have dragged him by the tie into the nearest broom cupboard.

  She stood before the desk with the files and cleared her throat. ‘No joy. We can rule out hospitals and South American researchers.’ Gräf and Lange both looked up. No doubt they had been hoping to keep her occupied until at least lunchtime. Before they could say anything, she continued. ‘I suggest we concentrate on known illegal sources of supply.’ Hearing no opposition, she continued. ‘Perhaps I should speak with Narcotics?’

  Reinhold Gräf was staring at her goggle-eyed, and she almost burst out laughing. ‘Finished already?’ he said disbelievingly, looking over her list. ‘You didn’t find any irregularities?’

  ‘None. They all checked their stocks and called back. We’ve no reason to disbelieve them. They’re all reputable establishments.’

  ‘I see,’ Gräf said. ‘And now you want to look into the disreputable ones.’

  Gereon finished his telephone conversation and stood to cast his eye over the list. ‘Good work, Fräulein Ritter,’ he said, ‘and good thinking about Narcotics, but you don’t have to go through the proper channels right away. It can be rather painstaking here at headquarters.’ He gestured towards the wall, and the obligatory portrait of Hindenburg. ‘A few doors along from us is Detective Inspector Dettmann. He joined the department from Narcotics two months ago. Perhaps he has an idea. People say he knows his way around the streets. If that doesn’t work, then you can always make it official.’

  He spoke the last sentence in such paternal, schoolmasterly tones that it was all she could do to keep her facial muscles under control. At that moment Erika Voss poked her head around the door.