‘What did Adamek tell you to say?’
‘That you’d requested backup, more men to arrest the Kaubuk. I thought Adamek would stay with you. He did go back into the forest. How was I to know Grigat had put him up to it?’
‘Well, anyway, I survived.’
‘And now you’re back in Berlin.’
‘Indeed I am, and I have news.’ He told Kowalski the whole story and, though disappointed the Kaubuk wasn’t their man, Kowalski was flattered that Rath had kept him in the loop. Indeed, that he had telephoned at all. ‘Wengler, a killer? Are you sure?’
‘More or less. Only, I don’t have proof.’
‘There must be something out there.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it after twelve years. Besides, if you listen to my superiors, Wengler’s a victim who needs protection. For now we have to concentrate on Polakowski. After that, we’ll see.’
Kowalski hesitated. ‘I wanted to tell you, Sir, how much I enjoyed working with you.’ Rath didn’t know how to respond. No one had ever told him that before. He mumbled a hasty goodbye and hung up.
Just as he was contemplating taking Kirie for a stroll, Kronberg appeared in Homicide. Rath joined the others in Böhm’s office so that he could listen to the forensics man. Charly was nowhere to be seen; what on earth could she and Gennat still be discussing?
‘The newspaper scraps from Janke’s,’ Kronberg said, ‘are identical to two death notices found in the Wengler flat. The Lamkau notice, and the Simoneit notice. The Lamkau notice from the Kreuz-Zeitung is a 100 per cent match. Regarding Simoneit, we can, at the very least, confirm that the paper is the same as that used to print the Volkszeitung für die Ost- und Westprignitz. There are more details here.’ He laid the file on the table.
‘Many thanks for your efficiency, Herr Kronberg,’ Böhm said. The forensics man nodded modestly.
Typical, Rath thought: has his people work through the night, then takes all the glory himself. Böhm was already hunched over the report when Kronberg produced a second file from his leather bag.
‘I have something else,’ he said. ‘It looks as though we’ve been able to trace the source of the tubocurarine.’ That, too, was typical of Kronberg. He always saved the most important news for last.
Strangely enough, they had got there by way of the red handkerchiefs. These didn’t, as previously suspected, hail from Berlin, but rather, Königsberg, from a large quantity of fabric and off-the-peg clothing that had been stolen two years before from the Junkerstrasse-based Moser firm. The guilty party was a notorious burglary ring that had somehow managed to evade justice, despite its methods being well known to Königsberg Police.
Which was how colleagues there also knew that the same ring had broken into the University Clinic two nights later and, besides various drugs and narcotic agents, made off with large quantities of an anaesthetic that was the focus of current institute research. A muscle relaxant based on the curare poison of the South American Indians, obtained from the pareira root. Its name: tubocurarine.
Polakowski, it seemed, had obtained the handkerchiefs and narcotics from one and the same source.
Rath took Kirie by the lead and went out. At Alexanderplatz he found a telephone booth and put in another call to Königsberg.
Not even the dog was there. Without Kirie and Gereon, Charly felt that much lonelier at her desk. She was still in the outer office with Erika Voss, but got along decidedly better with her than during her first days in Homicide. No doubt due to the absence of a certain Gereon Rath.
‘The inspector’s taken the dog for a walk,’ the secretary said, and for a moment, Charly was tempted to head to Alexanderplatz in search of them, but just then Böhm bustled through the door to ask that she have copies of Polakowski’s photo made and distributed to all major police stations in Prussia. ‘Plus a dozen to Warrants here at Alex.’
She went upstairs to Photographics, which was housed on the same floor as ED. The lab workers were not known for their efficiency, which was why it was best to wait in person and make a nuisance of yourself, otherwise it could take an age to get your prints.
This, then, would be her final act in A Division: having copies made and sent to all and sundry. Nice. Still, it would be a damn sight more interesting than sharing an office with Karin van Almsick again on Monday.
Then there was this business with Dettmann, the scent of his aftershave, and the thought it had triggered. Perhaps she was going mad, but the idea, or, rather, the images, that had flashed through her mind were so realistic it was as if she had lived through them herself. A police officer breaking a prisoner’s neck.
She had seen these images often enough in the last few days; it was how her mind worked when speculating on the particulars of a crime. Poor Dietrich Assmann had been murdered over and over again in her imagination, always with the same jerking motion, but now, for the first time, the killer had a face.
91
By the time Rath returned, most colleagues had already finished for the weekend, but Charly sat alone at her desk bagging photos. He recognised Jakub Polakowski’s mugshot. ‘Can you send one to police headquarters in Königsberg?’
‘Done!’ She showed him an envelope, addressed to the commissioner.
‘Then send another, care of Assistant Detective Kowalski.’
‘No problem. We have more than enough prints.’ She passed him a photo and an envelope. ‘You can take the address from the previous.’
He added a few lines of thanks on lettered paper to go with the photograph. By the time he was finished Charly had bagged at least another five prints and cover notes, but she seemed strangely brusque.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to treat you like my secretary . . .’ He showed her the letter to Kowalski. ‘See. I’m not so useless after all.’
‘It’s fine,’ she said, but her face told a different story.
‘Has Dettmann been bothering you again?’
‘No, no. Don’t worry. He’s been avoiding me actually.’
‘It’s better that way.’ He felt a certain pride. Perhaps his performance in Dettmann’s office had achieved something after all.
Charly forced a smile. ‘Soon there’ll be no chance of Dettmann running into me, apart from in the canteen, perhaps.’ She hesitated a moment. ‘I . . . On Monday, I’ll be returning to G Division.’
‘Your guest appearance is over?’ he said, trying to sound sympathetic.
In truth he was relieved. He had been unhappy working so closely with her. It felt restrictive somehow, as if his every move were being monitored, when in fact they’d only spent three days together on the Vaterland team. The rest of the time he’d been gadding about in East Prussia. Thinking of her curiosity, and his fondness for secrecy . . .well, perhaps it was no bad thing she was being reassigned. But seeing her face, he knew he had to comfort her. He took her in his arms, and in the same instant she began sobbing.
This was the second time in a matter of weeks when, normally, she’d have fought back tears at all costs. For a moment he wondered if she might be pregnant . . .
He held her, and she had a good cry on his shoulder. ‘Sorry, Gereon,’ she said after a while, smiling again amidst the tears. ‘I’m just a silly goose.’
He dabbed at her damp cheeks with his handkerchief. ‘No,’ he said. ‘You’re not a goose.’
It took a moment for the penny to drop, then she started banging her fists against his chest. ‘You cad,’ she said, but she was still smiling. ‘I did know it was only temporary, but somehow it got me when Gennat said I’d be back with Superintendent Wieking from Monday.’ She shrugged. ‘He’s right, though. The investigation’s as good as closed. Finding Jakub Polakowski is a job for Warrants now.’
‘I’m not so sure. We still don’t have anything on Gustav Wengler.’
‘You’ve really got it in for him, haven’t you? Don’t forget, he’s the one in danger.’
‘I won’t, but it doesn’t change the fact that he killed
a young girl – and ordered the death of an innocent librarian to cover it up. Then there’s his old mucker, Assmann.’
All of a sudden Charly’s smile evaporated.
She wanted to tell him, but couldn’t. What could she say? Describe the images playing over and over again in her mind, of Harald Dettmann wringing Dietrich Assmann’s neck? How she heard the crack of bones breaking, saw Assmann’s cigarette fall to floor and Dettmann stamp it out?
No, it would only lead to more strife.
She leaned on his shoulder as he steered the Buick west via Tiergartenstrasse. He threw her a quick sideways glance and put his arm around her. She was surprised at herself, at her need for affection, her reluctance to make trouble. For once, all she wanted was a peaceful weekend.
She gazed at the windscreen wipers struggling against the rain, which had set in just as they were leaving the Castle, and savoured his presence beside her. In the drizzle she could just make out the spire of the Gedächtniskirche. She decided she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She had to say something, if only to see how he reacted. ‘This business with Assmann. Do you really think it was a colleague?’
‘More likely the badge was a fake.’
‘Still, I wouldn’t put it past . . .Dettmann, say.’
‘The man’s an arsehole, but that doesn’t make him a killer. Don’t take things so personally.’
‘I just mean I wouldn’t put it past him.’
‘Anyone’s capable of murder. That’s one of the first things Gennat teaches you.’
‘Anyone? Does that include you?’
He hesitated before continuing. ‘That isn’t funny.’
‘Sorry.’ She sat up and looked at him. ‘I know. That signature business was a dirty trick, but someone like Dettmann is just waiting for a chance like that.’
She could see he was thinking. Even so, she knew what he was about to say. ‘It was Gustav Wengler trying to make trouble for me, just like in East Prussia. I’m starting to become a nuisance and I’m telling you, it feels good. It means I’m on the right track.’
‘You seem to want to pin something on Wengler at all costs.’
‘Pin something?’ Gereon looked at her, outraged. ‘The bastard killed his fiancée! Then cashed in on her death.’
‘You can’t prove it.’
‘Oh, I’ll prove it, don’t you worry. If not that he killed his fiancée, then Maria Cofalka, or Dietrich Assmann.’
‘But he didn’t kill them, you said so yourself.’
‘No.’ Gereon gave a bitter laugh. ‘Gustav Wengler no longer kills for himself. He has people kill for him. What’s the point in being director otherwise?’
‘Gereon, I think you’re getting too wound up. Talk about taking things personally.’
‘Oh, I am, am I? The way I see it, I’m the only one who’s actually interested in this. Everyone else just wants Polakowski.’
‘I hardly think Gennat’s taking a murder in police custody lightly.’
‘No, but he hasn’t questioned Wengler either, has he?’
‘Because it wouldn’t help matters.’
‘Wengler’s behind Assmann’s murder, it’s obvious, so that there’s no one left to testify against him.’
‘You realise if he’d given him an alibi, we’d have had to let both of them go.’
‘Perhaps he wanted rid of him. Perhaps Assmann had become a nuisance.’
‘Perhaps,’ Charly said. ‘Just like the others. I didn’t get the impression he mourned any of them, not even his brother. You could be right: he wanted rid of Assmann.’
They reached Carmerstrasse, parking outside the gate. ‘There’s no way he hired Harald Dettmann to do it. The pair don’t even know each other.’
‘No,’ Charly said. Gereon was right. Dettmann was so busy with his Phantom, he’d barely checked in with the Vaterland team these past weeks. Yet she couldn’t shake the image of him breaking Dietrich Assmann’s neck; dousing a red handkerchief with water from a Pitralon bottle, tying the hanky to the bedpost as he poured the remaining water over Assmann’s face – before covering the dead man’s corpse to make it look as if he were asleep.
92
It is quiet now, everyone is asleep. You, too, could use some rest, but you know you will find no peace until you step off the train at Königsberg. The rattling of steel wheels; once upon a time it soothed you, rocking you gently to sleep, but not now, and never again.
Königsberg. It is two years since you were last here, but still you remember where you must go.
The dive bar in Vogelgasse is so narrow you can scarcely believe it has a back room. A back room where, in exchange for money, anything can be yours: information and weapons, narcotics of all kinds, and a new life.
You remember your first visit.
‘I need a passport.’
‘No problem, but it’ll cost you.’
‘I have money.’
Sobotka’s stash was still hidden in the forest by Allenstein, near a village called Altschönberg, his birthplace. Fifteen thousand marks. Money for Sobotka to start over once he was out; money for you to start over now, yourself.
‘There’s more.’
‘We can get hold of anything.’
‘Even tubocurarine?’
‘What’s that?’
‘An anaesthetic adjuvant. They’re using it for research purposes at the University Clinic, Department of Anaesthetics. Lange Reihe.’
‘We don’t need the address.’ You recall the suspicion in his eyes as he looked you up and down. ‘It won’t come cheap.’
‘I told you: I have money.’ He looked down wide-eyed as you laid a thousand-mark note on the desk. ‘Four more, if you can get hold of everything, and grant me a small favour.’
‘We don’t kill people.’
‘No.’ You showed him the iron shackle under the right trouser leg of your elegant new suit. ‘I need to get rid of this. Today.’ You knew then that you had won his respect. ‘I need some addresses. Four East Prussians, who moved west from Marggrabowa.’
‘It’s called Treuburg now.’
You nodded. You were aware that the world had changed. You passed a note across the desk containing the names, along with your additional requests.
You are rid of the shackles the same day, and, two weeks later, you have everything you need. A new identity, four addresses, and enough tubocurarine to kill an elephant.
The rattle of the train keeps you awake, eating away at your thoughts and rekindling unhappy memories.
The vibration of the tracks.
The railway line in the pine forest near Wartenburg.
Sobotka on the crossties, hands on the back of his neck, the ankle chain that binds you straddling the shiny metal.
You pull your legs outwards so that the chain sits tight as possible on the tracks.
By now the vibrations come paired with other noises. You choose not to protect your neck, covering your ears as the train rushes towards you, growing ever louder. You cover your ears and pull the chain tight, awaiting the inevitable.
Even covering your ears, the train is so loud that you start to shake; beads of sweat run down your skin, making you grow cold, as the wind rages all around.
You close your eyes and wait for it to be over – but it takes an age.
A cacophony sweeps over you, a violent screech, thunder and rumble, and you are shaken by a painful blow to your leg.
You wait for the ear-splitting roar to die, not daring to move. You hear more screeching, further and further away until, at last, it subsides.
You open your eyes. Pain in your right leg. Instinctively you reach for it, but feel no wound. The chain has loosened, it must have struck against your shin, a bruise, nothing more.
You’ll limp, perhaps, but you’ll carry on. Both of you must now make yourselves scarce. The driver has halted the train and will soon sound the alarm. It will take time for them to get out here and pick up your trail, but it won’t take forever.
You s
it up. Your triumphant grin fades when you gaze towards the track bed.
Sobotka’s powerful frame looks almost unscathed, but he is now lying on his back. A hand is missing, so too his face.
Something struck his head, or perhaps his head met with the onrushing train. All you know is that his grin, which could banish all dread from this world, has been replaced by a bloody pulp.
You feel sick, but the fear makes you act, the fear of being locked up again.
Someone is thinking in your place as you remove your prison garb and switch it with Sobotka’s. Swap your number 466/20 with his 573/26.
Then you strike out into the forest, moving as fast as you can. Before the driver arrives, before the search party arrives, before the dogs arrive. Before they find the dead man with the prison number 466/20.
You run through the forest and scream; despite everything that has happened, you are overcome by a hitherto unknown sense of exhilaration. It is freedom you feel: a freedom that only death can provide.
93
Rath had no choice but to lie. It was true that he couldn’t meet her for lunch in the police canteen, he just hadn’t been entirely honest as to why.
‘I’m out in the field,’ he had said, and he had indeed canvassed several of the witnesses who claimed to have seen Jakub Polakowski in Berlin over the weekend. Still, he was finished with that long before the lunch break. As predicted, all three visits were in vain. An old lady suspected her neighbour, whose radio was constantly blaring; an unemployed bookkeeper’s report had clearly been driven by boredom; which left only the third witness, a kiosk owner, who claimed to have seen Polakowski at Schlesischer Bahnhof on Friday. When Rath showed him the photo, which was considerably sharper than the copy in the newspapers, he nodded. ‘That’s him, I’d wager. Saw him Friday morning carrying a small case.’
The man couldn’t say where Polakowski was headed, couldn’t even remember the exact time. Rath made a few notes, but held little hope of picking up his trail. You could go almost anywhere from Schlesischer Bahnhof, which had its own S-Bahn platform.
The Fatherland Files Page 43