Charly stubbed out her Juno on the balustrade. ‘Do you often come here to smoke?’ she asked.
‘If it isn’t raining. I need to get out. It feels like a prison in there, despite all the landscape murals.’
‘I know what you mean. If I have to spend another day chopping onions . . .’
‘You’ll be fine. People get used to anything.’ Husen stubbed out his cigarette too. A Turkish brand, she noted, not American. ‘Why don’t you come and see me in the Wild West Bar once you finish,’ he said. ‘I’ll stand you a whisky . . .’
‘Do you have Luisenbrand?’
‘It’s hardly the classic western drink, but it shouldn’t be a problem for Joe. The Wild West Bar has the best selection of liquor Haus Vaterland has to offer.’
‘Joe?’
‘Our barman. It’s Johannes, actually. But then my name’s not Husen either. It’s Hussein.’
‘We’ll see,’ Charly said. ‘If I haven’t turned into an onion myself by then.’
‘Ma’am . . .’
The way Mohamed Husen tipped his hat really did remind her of Tom Mix.
21
All was quiet as Rath stepped outside his office. Most colleagues had already left for lunch; only a uniform cop and two plain-clothes officers remained in the long Homicide corridor. He was about to close the door when he heard the clatter of a typewriter, loud as machine-gun fire in the midday silence. He guessed which office it was coming from. He looked inside. The outer office was empty; the clattering came from further back. In the main office he found Inspector Harald Dettmann sitting in front of a typewriter, removing a sheet from its drum. In the absence of his secretary he was obliged to operate the machine himself.
‘If it isn’t Inspector Rath,’ he said, with eyebrows raised.
‘Afternoon.’
Dettmann placed the sheet neatly on a pile of typewritten pages. Rath had forgotten that he wasn’t just an arsehole, but a pedant to boot.
‘What is it?’ Dettmann asked, placing the stack of papers under a puncher. Rath made out a few sentences and concluded it was nothing to do with the Phantom. It looked like the full report on the Tiergarten case. Gennat had requested the report at briefing on Monday. The old excuse about a poorly secretary wasn’t much cop now that Detective Inspector Dettmann had been assigned the most high-profile case Gennat had to offer. There was a crack as the puncher went about its business. There must have been twenty sheets in the pile.
Rath planted himself in front of the desk. ‘A real pain when your secretary’s off sick, isn’t it? You realise how much work they do.’
‘Takes longer to write than type up.’ Dettmann eyed him suspiciously. ‘What do you want from me, Rath? Pining for your old case? I’ve already assembled my team, and it doesn’t include you.’
‘Did you manage to get anything out of the two suspects?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘No reason. I’d just be surprised if either of them’s the Phantom.’
‘Interrogations are ongoing.’
‘So what are you doing here?’
‘If you looked at your watch, you’d know that we’re almost an hour into lunch break. Which I’m using to complete my Tiergarten report for Gennat and the public prosecutor.’
‘Very commendable, I’m sure. So, it’s true then?’
‘What the hell do you want, Rath?’
‘You know, sitting like that you do actually look like a typist. How many words a minute?’
Dettmann seemed to finally grasp what he was talking about. ‘Has someone been telling tales?’
‘That was what you asked, wasn’t it? Do I look like a bloody typist? And I’d say: yes, you do.’
‘So the dirty bitch actually squealed!’ Dettmann shook his head. ‘Don’t believe everything you hear. These women get the wrong end of the stick. So, police talk can be a little rough. You’ve got to be able to take it if you want to mix with the big boys. If I were you I’d never have invited a little minx like her onto my team in the first place, but you must . . .’
‘Shut your face,’ Rath yelled, and Dettmann was so surprised that he did as bidden. ‘You arsehole,’ Rath said, leaning both arms on the desk. ‘If you insult Cadet Ritter again; if you so much as even look at her sideways, there’ll be trouble, do you understand?’
‘It’s like that, is it?’ Dettmann looked Rath up and down. ‘What is this? You’re her guardian now, are you? What’s the poor thing been saying?’
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about. This isn’t about specifics. It’s about the principle. Not what bastards like you say about a female colleague, but that you don’t transgress a second time. In thought, word or deed.’
‘This is all getting a bit Catholic for me.’
‘Have I made myself clear?’
Dettmann shook his head in disbelief. ‘I can hardly believe what I’m witnessing here. Inspector Rath, the avenger of tramps and sluts!’ Dettmann made an O with his mouth. ‘Did she have to blow you for this? Or just look at you out of those doe-eyes?’
Rath was centimetres away from Dettmann’s face. ‘I’m warning you. Watch what you say!’
Almost imperceptibly Dettmann took a step back. ‘You’re warning me? Stop making a fool of yourself! What are you going to do? Should I be frightened?’ He was grinning again. ‘Ah yes, of course. How could I forget? Apparently you enjoy beating up colleagues.’
‘Only the arseholes . . .’ Rath paused. ‘Come to think of it, that might just put you in danger.’
‘Very funny. You really want to risk another round of disciplinary proceedings? Go ahead, I won’t put up a fight.’ Dettmann gestured towards the point of his chin. ‘Come on. What are you waiting for? But you’d better clear your desk straight after, because it’ll mean the end of your career.’
Rath stepped back. ‘You think I’m going to get my hands dirty on someone like you?’
‘Well, well, it seems there’s a first for everything.’ Dettmann looked Rath up and down. ‘I understand, you know. A girl like that might make me go weak too. Have you pulled her across the desk yet? I’m sure none of the boys round here would begrudge you it. Wouldn’t say no myself, either. But all I got from Buddha were Henning and Czerwinski.’
While Dettmann was still speaking, Rath felt for the inkwell on his desk, fixing the bastard in the eye as he gradually emptied the contents over the pristine, freshly typed Tiergarten report. Only when the ink dripped from the edge of the desk and created an ugly pattern on his summer trousers did Dettmann realise what was happening. He sprang to his feet and stepped back so frantically that his chair tipped over and he stumbled backwards.
He stared at the mess in disbelief.
‘Are you fucking mad?’ There was no sign of his grin now.
‘Oops,’ said Rath, replacing the empty inkwell on the desk. ‘How clumsy. I’m afraid those trousers are done for.’
Dettmann’s attention turned to the ink-soaked pages, which he had most likely spent hours typing up. ‘You piece of shit,’ he said, pulling the report from the desk, which worsened the mess. ‘It hasn’t even been copied yet!’
‘You’ll just have to write it again. Take comfort from the old journalist’s rule: you’re always quicker second time around. I’d think that’s true of police reports too.’
‘I’ll kill you, you bastard!’
Rath raised his hands. ‘Then go ahead. I won’t put up a fight.’
Dettmann stood, breathing heavily, holding the desecrated report and staring at Rath, who tipped the brim of his hat and made for the door. ‘I almost forgot,’ he said. ‘I’d like to offer a formal apology for the trouble I’ve caused. I’m truly, truly sorry. I can be a real klutz sometimes.’
The inkwell came flying, but he had already closed the door. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone on his break feeling this good.
22
He had done it: the book was in his possession. You just had to be patient and wait for
the right opportunity.
For two days he had marked time but, now, at last, he had been rewarded.
He had been observing the wanted posters near the glass door, fingers already searching for the false key in his trouser pocket, when he saw the inspector disappear inside the next office without locking his door.
Talk about good fortune. It meant he could do away with the picklock, and avoid the risk of being caught fumbling with a police door.
Yesterday there had been a twenty-minute window during the lunch hour when no one else was around, but he knew that might not always be the case. Indeed, he wasn’t alone now, but it was clear the two men standing close by had only agreed to meet here on their way to the canteen, and were soon gone.
So, calm as you like, he made for the door in question, taking one final look around before venturing inside. This time there was no barking dog; this time he could enter unopposed, and saw the cardboard boxes the two officers had seized from Lamkau’s premises spread across the chairs and floor.
He didn’t need long to find the book. A quick look inside told him he had the right one. With any luck, they wouldn’t have deciphered its meaning yet. Cops were ignorant when it came to figures, the ones that worked in Homicide anyway.
Still in the outer office, he stowed the book in his waistband and, after making sure the coast was clear, emerged back into the corridor.
Now he just needed to reach the stairwell. He almost jumped out of his skin when he heard steps behind him and, turning his head slightly, saw Inspector Rath trailing in his wake, gaining on him the whole time. By the time he reached the stairwell door the inspector had caught up. But there was no firm grip on his neck, no ‘What were you doing in my office?’
Instead, all he received was a friendly ‘Afternoon’, as the inspector overtook him on the half landing and continued cheerily down the stairs.
23
Rath was returning from his break when he heard Erika Voss say: ‘That’s him now.’ She pressed her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Dortmund.’
He nodded, ruffled Kirie’s fur, hung his hat on the hook and went through to his office. It was empty, meaning Lange and Gräf were still investigating the tubocurarine lead.
‘One moment, please, I’ll put you through,’ Erika Voss said, and the telephone on his desk began to ring. He closed the door, fetched both the Wawerka and Lamkau files, and placed his notes alongside them on the desk. Only then did he pick up.
Detective Chief Inspector Watzke from Dortmund was helpful enough, but he couldn’t say much that wasn’t already in the Wawerka file.
‘Was the man known for being violent?’ Rath asked. ‘As this business with the fight suggests.’
‘It’s the only incident we have on file. Truth be told it was no more than a harmless bar brawl which led Wawerka to my colleagues at Lütgendortmund. Otherwise the man’s clean. We had a good look into his past, even asked our friends in Treuburg, but there too Hans Wawerka was considered a law-abiding citizen.’
‘Why Treuburg?’
‘His home town. It’s where he lived and worked before moving to Westphalia to earn his keep.’
‘Treuburg, you say?’ Rath was confused. He leafed through the file. ‘But . . .in the file it says . . .wait a moment . . .’ At last he found the relevant information. ‘It says he was born in Marggrabowa.’
‘I assume you’ve no interest in East Prussia?’
‘You must be joking. I wouldn’t be seen dead there. I’m a Rhinelander.’
‘Well, Marggrabowa and Treuburg are one and the same city.’
‘A city with two names?’
‘Marggrabowa changed its name four years ago. Its inhabitants wanted to pay homage to the fact that, during the 1920 plebiscite in Masuria, only two citizens voted for Poland. The rest remained loyal to Prussia and the Reich.’
‘I must say, you know a hell of a lot about East Prussia.’
‘My father hails from Königsberg. He didn’t want to be seen dead there either, and eventually moved west.’
Watzke didn’t sound too upset, but Rath sensed he had put his foot in it. ‘No offence intended,’ he said. ‘I really don’t have anything against East Prussia, it’s just that I haven’t had much to do with it until now. Let me get this straight. Today: Treuburg; before that: Marggrabowa.’
‘You’ll find it in Brockhaus. It’s the capital of the Oletzko district.’
Watzke didn’t stop there, but Rath was no longer listening. A word his Dortmund colleague had said echoed in his mind. He had stumbled across it recently, he didn’t know where, but he knew it was something to grab at, a link, a piece of common ground, information that was contained in the files, information that he had already read. He thanked his colleague for the telephone call and hung up before rummaging through the two murder files on his desk, searching feverishly, leafing through each individual page, each individual document, scanning his memory bank.
At length he held Lamkau’s driving licence in his hand, and the feeling that he had a concrete lead became a certainty, even before his gaze or, rather, his mind alighted on precisely what it was that Watzke had said. It was three words printed on Lamkau’s passport photo.
Oletzko District Authority.
His instincts had been correct. He had found it, goddamn it. The connection he had been seeking for days.
24
Edith Lamkau was amazed to see the police again so soon. ‘I told your colleagues yesterday. I don’t recognise these men, and I don’t recognise these death notices.’
‘Your husband seems to have known them,’ Rath said. ‘Or one of them, at least. Hans Wawerka.’
She shrugged. ‘We weren’t at his funeral.’
‘Take another look at the photo.’ He showed her the police photograph from the Dortmund file. ‘Perhaps you saw Herr Wawerka somewhere. Perhaps he came to see your husband . . .’
The widow recoiled in disgust, as if the photo had halitosis. She gestured towards the numbered chalkboard Wawerka held in front of his chest. ‘Is he a criminal? Why would someone like that come to see my husband?’
‘Your husband’s from East Prussia, isn’t he?’
She nodded. ‘A Tilsiter. He always joked about that. Tilsiter cheese, you know?’ She smiled, but with the memory came the tears.
He waited until she had composed herself and finished dabbing her face with a lily-white handkerchief. ‘And Marggrabowa?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Does the name Marggrabowa mean anything to you?’
‘You mean Treuburg?’
‘It’s where your husband learned to drive.’
‘That’s right. He lived there for a few years before moving to Berlin. Worked for the Mathée Korn distillery. Somewhere out near Luisenhöhe.’
‘They’re the ones that make Luisenbrand, aren’t they? The label your company distributes.’
‘Bärenfang too. It’s an East Prussian specialty.’
‘So, your husband still had links to his former employer?’
‘We retained the sole distribution rights for Berlin and Brandenburg. It’s a pretty lucrative business.’
‘Might your husband’s death change all that?’
‘I hope not.’ She gave him a look of reproach. ‘Your colleagues seized all our company files from the last few years. I hope they’re returned soon, so we can continue as before.’
‘Who would take charge? You claim you don’t have any idea.’
‘I’ve advertised. I’m looking for a managing director. Besides which, Director Wengler has promised to help.’
‘Director Wengler?’
‘He owns the Luisenhöhe estate. As well as the distillery.’
Rath made a note of the name. ‘Back to Marggrabowa, Frau Lamkau . . .’
‘You mean, Treuburg . . .’
‘Whatever. I suspect your husband knew Herr Wawerka from his time there. Are you sure he never mentioned the name to you? When he spoke about the old days for instance?’
>
‘I’ve told you already. He never mentioned him.’
‘Was Wawerka an old colleague, perhaps? From the distillery?’
‘Inspector, I don’t know. Can’t the police find that sort of thing out for themselves?’
‘Funnily enough, that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.’
Edith Lamkau was taken aback by her own hostility, and adopted a more reasonable tone. ‘What is it about this Wawerka?’ she asked. ‘Why’s it so important if Herbert knew him or not?’
‘If I could tell you that, Frau Lamkau,’ Rath said, ‘it would be a major step forward.’
He left her blank-faced and goggle-eyed, and returned to the Castle. He had been hoping Edith Lamkau might remember something when confronted with the magic word ‘Marggrabowa’. Well, too bad.
Before setting out for Tempelhof he had telephoned the police in Treuburg, with equally disappointing results. Wawerka had kept a low profile in his former home town, low enough not to appear anywhere on file. The same went for Herbert Lamkau, who had learned to drive in the same Masurian district capital where Hans Wawerka had spent his formative years. That didn’t prove a thing, of course, but Rath would eat his hat if the two victims hadn’t known each other.
Erika Voss had a whole stack of messages for him when he returned to the office. ‘Superintendent Gennat wishes to speak with you urgently,’ she said, looking at her notes. ‘Then Detective Gräf telephoned about this drugs business, and Fräulein Ritter has also been in touch.’
‘Cadet Ritter,’ Rath corrected, as he hung up his hat.
Erika Voss made as if she hadn’t heard, blowing strands of blonde hair from her eyes. ‘Oh,’ she continued. ‘ED want you to call them back. I didn’t note that one down. They only telephoned just now.’
‘Well, you can’t say I’m not in demand. What did Fräulein Ritter want?’
‘Cadet Ritter would like to meet in order to submit her report. She can’t telephone too often, she said, otherwise people will start taking notice.’
The Fatherland Files Page 14