The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  The interview with Unger was the highlight of her day so far, although he had spent the entire time ogling her legs. He had dictated a small sample text but had failed, so far, to actually use her shorthand skills.

  ‘You can start immediately,’ he had said, giving her a vexed look when she reached for her pad. ‘No, no. It’s kitchen work for the moment. I’ll get someone to train you up.’

  She had put her pad away and asked to make a telephone call, meeting Unger’s furrowed brow with a friendly smile. ‘My mother. She’ll worry if I’m not home for lunch.’

  Unger pushed the telephone across the desk. ‘It’ll cost you twenty pfennigs. To be deducted from your wage.’ He left to fetch the apprentice.

  She had been looking forward to a few words in private with Gereon, but got Erika Voss instead. The inspector was elsewhere. Moments later Unger returned with the redhead in tow.

  Thinking back to last night: it had helped to finally tell someone, even if recounting the incident made her feel small and dirty again. Despite having nothing to reproach herself for, it had felt like a confession. As if Gereon had actually absolved her of sin. At once she felt her anger return, that same, helpless rage. For a moment he’d said nothing, just sat there looking at her, incensed.

  ‘Why didn’t you defend yourself? Give that arsehole a piece of your mind?’

  ‘Gereon, it sounds as if you’re blaming me. Haven’t you ever been rendered speechless by someone’s sheer audacity?’

  ‘Sorry. You know I have.’

  She had watched his eyes fill with anger and made him promise not to mention anything at the Castle, neither to Gennat nor anyone else.

  In spite of everything, it had turned into an enjoyable evening. Somehow she had managed to laugh again, properly laugh through her dried tears. They had made themselves comfortable in Carmerstrasse, in the huge apartment she still wasn’t convinced Gereon could actually afford, at least not with his salary payments alone. Perhaps his Uncle Joseph had left him something. The family had money, she had seen as much during her visit to Cologne the previous year.

  They had drunk a little wine before retiring to the bedroom, where Gereon was so tender she almost burst out laughing. ‘I’m not made of china,’ she said, finally.

  ‘Now wouldn’t that be a thing,’ he replied, before throwing caution to the wind. Soon, asleep in his arms, she was no longer thinking of Dettmann. That much, at least, Gereon had achieved.

  She surveyed the mound of onions before her. It was as if a wicked magician had cast a spell not only on them, but on the large clock hanging above the office window, halting the passage of time. These onions would keep her busy the whole day, making it impossible to have a poke around, let alone discreetly. Unger’s face appeared behind the glass wall-pane, casting disapproving glances whenever she paused for breath. At least her tears were abating, or perhaps she simply had no more to shed.

  If all they had her do was chop onions, she would never work out what really went on here, either in public or behind closed doors. Haus Vaterland was a huge complex with hundreds of employees. The kitchen alone was bigger than most Berlin restaurants. She reached for the next onion. At least she was getting a little practice in. As for the rest . . .perhaps she’d have to accept that she’d never make the perfect housewife, despite her mother’s best efforts. Not that she wanted to be one anyway.

  19

  Rath could have handled Böhm’s report being as dull as the technical summaries of ED Chief Werner Kronberg, but not the presence of Harald Dettmann in the row in front, wearing the sort of smirk he’d have happily wiped from the man’s face. Dettmann usually skipped morning briefing, often on the flimsiest of pretexts, but today, of all days, he was present and grinning like a Cheshire cat. It was unbearable.

  Rath had arrived at the station weary and several minutes late, and not just because Charly had spent the night. In point of fact, they had gone to bed relatively early, or at least Charly had. He, on the other hand, had spent the night watching her or staring at the ceiling, unable to get her story out of his head. She was right: she couldn’t mention anything to Gennat or her direct superior, Wieking, since that would make things official. If, as he’d intimated he would, Dettmann denied both his outrageous behaviour and his even more outrageous remarks, then she would be pigeonholed as a resentful liar out to discredit male officers. And that would only serve to confirm existing preconceptions. Most Castle workers regarded female CID as superfluous, but deploying a woman in Homicide was nothing short of a catastrophe.

  Now they were in the conference room, with Harald Dettmann smiling cheerily in their midst. The bastard must have felt like a million dollars.

  Rath had taken his seat scarcely able to follow Böhm’s report, but twigging, nevertheless, that the detective chief inspector had as good as solved the shaving knife murder in Schlosspark Bellevue. At least the Bulldog was doing something to improve A Division’s detection rate, in contrast to Inspector Gereon Rath, whose desk housed a growing number of unsolved cases. Perhaps now there was a chance that Henning and Czerwinski would be stood down from Böhm’s command and assigned to the Vaterland team.

  A twitch of Gennat’s eyebrow told him he was up next. He walked to the front and summarised the latest findings in the Vaterland case.

  ‘We have three starting points. First, the anaesthetic agent tubocurarine, whose source of supply we are hoping to isolate . . .’ He glanced towards Dettmann, who looked as though it was the first he’d heard of it. ‘Thanks to the help of Narcotics officers, we have managed to draw up a list containing the relevant addresses of known drug traffickers, which Officers Gräf and Lange are working through as we speak.’ Dettmann displayed the same languid interest as everyone else in the room.

  Rath realised he had paused for slightly too long, and continued. ‘Second, is the prospect of irregular goings-on at Haus Vaterland, in which Lamkau, our victim, could be involved. This is backed up, among other things, by the thousand marks we found on his person. In order to gather more information here, a covert operation is underway as of this morning.’

  He didn’t give any further details.

  ‘The third starting point for our investigation,’ he continued, ‘is something we discovered only yesterday afternoon. We were able to establish a link between the Vaterland case and a second, apparently identical, death in Dortmund. The victims appear to be connected, although we cannot, at this moment, say how. We found the death notice of the Dortmund victim in Herbert Lamkau’s possession, as well as that of another man, the circumstances of whose death remain a mystery.’

  He finished his report and, for once, Gennat saw fit to praise the work of his team. He reclaimed his seat, assuming morning briefing was over, and that Buddha, as was customary, would close with a few words. Not on this occasion.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the superintendent began, ‘there is still no mention of it in the press but you’ll know by midday at the latest. Shortly before midnight last night, there was a fatal incident outside the Lichtburg multiplex in Wedding. The victim was killed by a precision shot to the heart that took half his chest with it. Despite our immediate intervention, the killer has vanished without trace.’

  Though Gennat named no names, everyone in the room knew what it meant. The Phantom had struck again.

  Too late for the mornings, but the midday and evening editions would take great pleasure in breaking the news. The headlines would carry the name Phantom once more and refer to the fact that, despite more than six months of investigations, police still hadn’t made an iota of progress. One or two articles would mention the name Gereon Rath, citing him as the officer who had been chasing the Phantom in vain all these months.

  In the room, all was silent. With increased public scrutiny, everyone knew that the next few days would be tough, whatever case they were handling. As the officer in charge of the Phantom case, Rath was surprised they hadn’t tried to make contact with him last night, though the reason soon became clear
enough.

  ‘The Bellevue case is now closed, save for the final report,’ Gennat continued, ‘meaning that Detectives Henning and Czerwinski can rejoin the disbanded Phantom troop, which is hereby resurrected under new leadership.’

  Most officers in the room were aware that Rath had been in charge, and turned to face him. He put on a brave face, as if he’d known all along.

  ‘I have chosen to place the case in new hands,’ Gennat explained. ‘With Inspector Rath making great strides in the Vaterland case, it would seem churlish to dissolve his team at this moment in time.’

  The superintendent gazed kindly towards him, but he felt as if he were being pilloried. Looking at the floor, he feigned boredom, and wondered who would be taking over. Wilhelm Böhm, most likely.

  ‘Through happy coincidence,’ he heard Gennat continue, ‘we were fortunate yesterday that an experienced colleague found himself in the vicinity of the crime scene, enabling us to initiate search measures in and around the area with immediate effect. Two suspects were apprehended and are awaiting questioning. I intend, therefore, to pass the case onto the man whose courageous actions may finally have gained us an advantage in our fight against this unscrupulous killer. Please step forward, Inspector Dettmann, and outline the particulars of yesterday’s incident.’

  Rath thought he had misheard, but no, a few seats away, Harald Dettmann rose from his chair and strolled forward, a small file wedged under his arm.

  He had to make every effort to stay seated, and the longer he listened to Dettmann recounting his heroic deeds with that unbearable strain of faux humility, the angrier he became.

  The Phantom’s latest victim was a drug dealer, a figure ‘not unknown’ to Dettmann due to his ‘many years’ of service in Narcotics. Dettmann provided this characterisation of the victim to stress that his was not a loss the world should mourn. The man had emerged with his girlfriend from the picture palace’s late showing and been dropped by a single shot outside Gesundbrunnen Bahnhof. His girl had been unharmed, but the force of the shot had thrown the man to the floor and shredded his chest.

  After Dettmann’s report Gennat concluded the meeting, with Rath among the first to leave, preferring to take his anger to the sanctity of his office. Perhaps, he told himself, it was better to be rid of the accursed Phantom case, but the manner of it, and the fact that it was Dettmann who would reap what he and his team had sown, made it hard to take.

  ‘No interruptions,’ he barked at his secretary as he disappeared inside his room and slammed the door. No sooner had he sat down than Erika Voss poked her blonde head around the door. ‘Didn’t I make myself clear?’

  Erika Voss refused to be intimidated. ‘Why not take your anger out on this,’ she said, handing him a file. ‘Just in from Dortmund. Our colleagues there sent a car especially. With best wishes from Detective Chief Inspector Watzke. To Superintendent Gennat too.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he grumbled, accepting two thick lever arch files.

  ‘There you are, you see!’ Erika Voss said and smiled. ‘By the way, Herr Watzke telephoned while you were at briefing.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’ll try again at lunch. He has an appointment at court this morning. And Fräulein Ritter said to tell you she got the job. Stenographer-cum-kitchen maid, as you said.’

  ‘Wonderful. Thank you, Erika. You’re a gem.’ He opened the first lever arch file. ‘But I really did mean no interruptions.’

  ‘So you don’t want coffee then?’

  He smiled for the first time since entering the Castle that morning. ‘You win,’ he said, ‘but close the door on your way out.’

  Smelling as though it had been freshly brewed, sometimes he thought his secretary made the best coffee in the whole of police headquarters. Either way she certainly knew how to make him happy. He lit a cigarette and took a sip before burying himself in his work.

  After two hours he had gone through both files and made a whole raft of notes. He might not have unearthed any fresh insights, but experience told him the devil was in the detail. He took the Lamkau file from the shelf and placed it alongside the Dortmund papers on his desk. There were still two Overstolz in his cigarette case. He lit one and compared the dead men’s personal details again.

  Herbert Lamkau, born 1890 in Tilsit, married, two children, with a business registered in Tempelhof since 1925; no prior convictions and . . .

  . . .Hans Wawerka, born 1898 in Marggrabowa, a Zollern Colliery employee since 1924. Unlike Lamkau, Wawerka had been placed on police file two years before, following a politically motivated bar brawl that escalated. The incident had led Dortmund homicide detectives to their sole suspect, a Communist who had fallen victim to an arson attack and subsequently been eliminated from inquiries.

  Erika Voss knocked on the door. ‘Apologies, Inspector, two things. Herr Kronberg just called. The Forensics report is as good as finished.’

  ‘At last. What was the second thing?’

  ‘I’d like to take my break. If you don’t need me.’

  ‘Go, but it isn’t that I don’t need you.’ He took out his wallet and gave her a two-mark coin. ‘Can you do me a favour and look after Kirie? Buy her a few Bouletten from Aschinger. Treat yourself to a coffee while you’re at it. I need a few more minutes for my own peace of mind.’

  He lit his final cigarette and got to thinking. The two dead men were linked to one another, but how? Why had Herbert Lamkau been sent Hans Wawerka’s death notice? It wasn’t clear from the files. Perhaps he had overlooked some connection between these two very different men? What on earth was it that bound them together? He took a long drag on his Overstolz, as if the truth were concealed somewhere inside the cigarette.

  20

  No amount of scrubbing could get rid of the onion smell from Charly’s hands. Even her cigarette tasted of them, but at least she was on her break.

  After what seemed like an eternity, her red-headed mentor had reappeared, cast a sceptical glance towards the still imposing mound of onions, and ordered her to lunch; she had a quarter of an hour. ‘Then get back to it, and see if you can’t up the tempo.’ She almost threw in the towel.

  With strictly no smoking in the kitchen, the longer she was made to wait for her break, the more feverish her anticipation became. Now she was standing on the fourth-floor balcony, with a cigarette that smelled of onions. Imagine having to do this your whole life . . .

  There was no such thing as a joint break at Haus Vaterland. Lunch was the busiest time of day. Vast quantities of food went out, and, clearly, most of the recipes contained onions.

  She stood on the south-eastern side of the building, and gazed at the sea of houses, in the middle of which the great hall of Anhalter Bahnhof appeared like a ship floating bottom up. Europahaus seemed almost within touching distance. The tower block was where she had spent her first evening with Gereon, more than three years ago. He had hurt her more than any other man but, even though she’d wished him to hell, they were together again after a year, and now they were engaged. She didn’t know if he’d make a good husband, but she did know she didn’t want anyone else.

  Could a police marriage really work? There couldn’t be many who had tried. They might even be the first.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself, Cadet! You aren’t a police officer yet, and you’ve a job to do here first.

  She looked at her watch. Only ten minutes left, and she still didn’t know where to start. So far she hadn’t observed a thing. Save for the fact that Unger had a permanent overview, and spent more time making calls and looking out of his poky little office than he did in the kitchen.

  A door opened and a man stepped onto the balcony. His skin was as dark as the night; he wore a checked flannel shirt and red necktie, trousers with loose threads and a gun belt. On his head was a Stetson at least as big as Tom Mix’s. A cigarette dangled from his mouth.

  A black man dressed as a cowboy. Charly thought she had seen him in the Haus Vaterland programme on a previous occasion
and wondered if there really were black cowboys in America. She hadn’t seen any in the films.

  Only after lighting his cigarette did he look up. He seemed surprised to see her, to see anyone here outside, and greeted her with a casual tip of his hat. Just like a real cowboy.

  ‘Any objection to my joining you?’ His German was slightly accented, but Charly couldn’t place it. She raised her hand in a welcoming gesture and he joined her by the balustrade. ‘I’ve never seen you here before,’ he said.

  ‘It’s my first day.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  She gave a lopsided grin. ‘To tell the truth, I thought I was here as a stenographer, but so far all I’ve done is chop onions. Are you American?’

  ‘No, German.’ The cowboy grinned, showing his white teeth. ‘From Dar es Salaam, German East Africa. I even fought for Kaiser and Fatherland.’

  ‘You’re an askari?’

  ‘Husen’s the name.’ He proffered a hand. ‘Bayume Mohamed Husen.’

  ‘Charlotte Ritter.’ Husen had a pleasantly firm handshake. ‘How is it that an askari winds up playing a cowboy in Berlin?’

  ‘You’d need longer than a cigarette break. Here’s the abridged version: I’m in Berlin because I’m owed money.’

  ‘By Haus Vaterland?’

  Husen laughed. ‘No, the other Vaterland.’ He described a curve with his arms, as if taking the whole world in his embrace. ‘Germany still owes me my pay.’

  ‘That doesn’t explain how you became a cowboy.’

  ‘A man has to live. I wait tables in the Turkish Café or the Wild West Bar. The main thing is to be exotic. Aren’t too many Negroes in Berlin.’