A Slow Death (Max Drescher Book 1) (11 page)

19

By the time they reached a bar called Spizz, a block from the U-Bahn station, Michael had forgotten about his hunger and was happy to settle for a large glass of Gaffel Kolsch.

‘Here you go.’ Max handed Michael his Pilsner, lifted his own glass to his lips and drank deeply. ‘Aah. I needed that. Tough day.’

‘Yeah.’ Michael took a mouthful of beer and sat back in his chair. ‘So, how do you know Lena?’

Max looked around the largely empty bar. ‘We were part of the same crowd back in the early ‘70s. I never really knew her that well but she had a really cute boyfriend for a while. He was a French guy called Joachim Legrand.’

‘And you can still recall his name,’ Michael teased. ‘It must have been love.’

‘Lust,’ Max corrected him. ‘Pure lust. It’s strange the things you remember. I don’t know what happened to him but he had a great ass.’ He grinned sheepishly. ‘Anyway, for some reason, Lena and I stayed in touch. She’s a nice lady and a useful contact. Before landing up in Schöneberg, she worked all over the city. Helped me get the apartment on Segitzdamm.’ He took another drink from his glass. ‘That must have been, I dunno, more than ten years ago now. Easily.’

Folding his arms, Michael got to his real question. ‘And you came over the wall from East Berlin?’

‘Not over the wall exactly. I was on an Interflug flight to Magdeburg to pick up this guy called Joey Ludolf. He’d killed his mother and sister with an axe and then legged it out of Berlin.’ Grinning, he shook his head. ‘I often wonder what became of good old Joey. Anyway, I’m on this crappy Ilyushin plane – you know, one of the old style turboprop things that crashed all the time – and one of the engines caught fire. We had to make an emergency landing at Tegel. After we scrambled off the plane everyone was offered political asylum. So I signed on the dotted line and never went back.’

‘Wow. Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’ Max drained the last of his beer. ‘One minute we were sitting in a smoke filled cabin saying our prayers, the next we’d won the bloody lottery. It was the weirdest day of my life.’

‘Wasn’t it a difficult decision?’

‘Hardly. After all, it wasn’t like it was such a big stretch. I had lived in Treptow all my life, my parents were dead and I was on my own. My prospects weren’t great either; as you can imagine, the gay scene in the GDR wasn’t exactly … lively.’

‘No,’ Michael mumbled, ‘I suppose not. But you were already a cop?’

‘Yes, I had already been in the Volkspolizie for a couple of years. I was doing okay too, but I knew I wasn’t going to cut it as one of Walter Ulbricht’s secret policemen. All in all, it took me less than ten seconds to decide not to go back. After a few months, I got a job in the Schupo and the rest, as they say, is history. It didn’t take that long for me to work my way up to Kriminalinspektor, winning the love and respect of my colleagues wherever I went.’

‘You kept all that very quiet.’

‘My business is my business.’ Max handed his glass to Michael. ‘After raking up all that history, I need another drink. It’s your round.’

‘Sure.’ Michael got to his feet.

‘Just remember, my little story is not to go any further. Not many people know about how I came over from the east and I want to keep it that way. I have enough problems as it is, without Marin thinking I’m a Stasi spy.’

‘I understand,’ Michael grinned, ‘but surely even the Kriminalkommissar would realise that you’ve gone native by now?’

‘Marin would just assume I’m deep undercover.’

20

‘The doctors said I've got six months, maximum,’ Kerem Cin lifted his glass of Altınbaş in a mock toast, ‘but, as far as I can see it's all just guesswork. So I'm just going to keep going; business as usual.’

From the outside, the old man looked in fine fettle. Tall and trim, his shock of white hair was cut short and his eyes shone brightly under bushy eyebrows. Looking at him, it was impossible to tell that he was terminally ill. ‘I'm almost seventy-four, Kriminalinspektor, I've had a good run. I arrived in Berlin more than thirty-five years ago and I have worked every single day I have been living in this city. Even the day that Volkan was born.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘It was a miracle. I was already past fifty – we thought it would never happen. And then there he was. He arrived at five thirty-two in the morning – I’ll never forget that – and by seven thirty I was on the building site.’

‘Incredible.’

‘Pah. There’s nothing incredible about hard work,’ the old man protested. ‘It’s the best medicine there is. You are only sick if you think you are sick. I don’t intend to waste my time in hospitals. They are so depressing.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Max, with feeling.

‘Makes you want to kill yourself,’ Kerem chuckled.

‘Yes.’ Sitting on the opposite side of a dining table that could easily sit a dozen people, Max shifted uneasily in his chair.

‘Here's to a slow death.’ Knocking back the raki, Kerem reached for the bottle sitting on the table. ‘Or, rather, a bit more life.’

‘What about the pain?’

‘I've got all kinds of drugs,’ Kerem said cheerily. ‘The doctors, they'll throw anything and everything at you when you're in this state. So far, the pain hasn't been too bad.’

‘And when it gets closer? To the end, I mean.’

Kerem pointed to the ceiling. ‘Then I go upstairs and put a bullet in my head.’

Max frowned.

‘No slow death then, my friend,’ Kerem explained. ‘I’m in no rush to go but when the time comes.’ He lifted two fingers to his temple and mimed pulling the trigger of a gun. ‘Bang!’

‘You have the means?’

Kerem nodded solemnly. ‘An old Soviet Makarov pistol. I bought it off a guy in Friedenau a couple of years ago.’

‘Hardly legal, then.’

The old man shrugged. ‘Look at it this way. I'll be doing everyone a favour. All you'll have to do is put me in the coffin. And that's upstairs as well. I'm a very well organised man, inspector. Always thinking ahead.’

‘I can see that,’ Max grinned. He realised that he had taken an immediate liking to the old man and regretted arriving at his door only to cause him grief in his last days.

‘Come to think of it,’ Kerem’s eyes gleamed with mischief, ‘I might even put myself in the coffin before I blow my brains out.’

‘That would certainly raise a few eyebrows.’

Kerem waved the bottle in the air. ‘We've all become so damn self-important in life, we find death hard to face, don't you think? When you look at it, it's just another chore to get done.’

‘I suppose that's right.’

Unscrewing the cap, Kerem tipped up the bottle and refilled his glass. ‘Are you sure I can't tempt you?’

Max lifted up a hand. ‘No, thank you. It's not really my kind of thing.’

Refilling his glass, Kerem nodded. ‘I understand. Aniseed is an acquired taste; not for everyone.’ He gestured over his shoulder, towards the kitchen. ‘Can I offer you a beer, instead? Or perhaps you'd like a coffee?’

‘No.’ Max shook his head. ‘I am fine. Thank you.’

Kerem placed the cap back on the bottle and settled back in his chair. ‘So, now that we have got the pleasantries out of the way, what brings you all the way over to Grunewald to talk to a dying man with a drinking problem?’

Max placed his hands on the table and looked his host in the eye. ‘I’m here about Volkan.’

‘That boy …’ A look of discomfort, bordering on anguish, flitted across the old man's face. He waited patiently for it to pass before speaking again. ‘Is he in trouble again?’

‘He could be.’

‘The 36Boys?’

‘It's more than that. If it was just some gang nonsense, I wouldn't have bothered you with it, sir,’ said Max, suddenly adopting formal tone in the face of his dignified host. ‘However, I am worried that Volkan may have gotten himself into something that is quite serious.’

Kerem glanced wistfully at a photograph on the sideboard by the wall. The black and white image in a silver frame showed a young woman with long dark hair. Even from a distance, Max could see that she was strikingly beautiful. ‘I'm just glad that his mother isn’t around to see this. What has he done this time?’

Max spread his hands wide. ‘To be honest, I'm still putting the pieces together. It would be wrong for me to give you an incomplete picture at this time. I really need to speak to Volkan himself before I come to any conclusions. Do you know where he is?’

‘To be honest, Kriminalinspektor, since he left university, I haven’t really been sure where Volkan's been staying. He still has a room upstairs, of course, but I don't think he has spent a night here in the last year, at least. Probably longer.’ He stared into his raki. ‘I suppose that all points to me being a rather poor father, don't you think?’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Max, changing tack. The last thing he needed was the old fella getting drunk and maudlin on him. The next think he knew, Kerem would be reaching for the Makarov. ‘He graduated though, didn't he?’

‘Oh, yes, yes.’ Looking up from his drink, Kerem's face brightened somewhat. ‘He got a good degree, which is just as well. He's going to have to take over the business very soon.’

‘Does it all go to him?’

‘Yes. One hundred per cent. There is no one else, he is my only child.’

‘And how is the company doing?’ Max asked. For once, he had done some homework before making his visit. KVC GmbH had reported a modest profit for each of the last three years for which it had filed accounts. Nothing spectacular but perfectly respectable.

‘Fine, fine,’ old man sighed. ‘It is a good time to be a builder in Berlin and I have some good people working for me. Honest. Diligent. Loyal. But, obviously, I won't be managing things for much longer.’

‘And Volkan's not interested in running things on a day-to-day basis?’

‘No, no,’ Kerem corrected him. ‘Quite the opposite. If anything the boy is a bit too keen. He needs to spend less time with his hooligan pals and take more time to learn the ropes properly, but he wants to run before he can walk. He has big plans.’

‘Oh?’ Max raised an eyebrow. ‘What big plans?’

‘Volkan has had his eyes on a site in Karlshorst for several months now. Like they’re doing with a lot of places, he wants to turn some industrial space into warehouse apartments for rich yuppies. There's nothing wrong with the idea – the place is ripe for development – but it's out of our league. We don’t have the money to buy it; no bank will give us a loan and even if they did, it would be a far bigger project than the type of thing we’re used to.’ He took a sip of his raki and shook his head. ‘I've said it's far too risky but Volkan won't be told; he reckons that he can get hold of the money.’

‘Who from?’ Max asked.

‘He won't say,’ Kerem smiled, tapping his temple with his index finger, ‘because they don't exist; it's all a figment of his imagination.’

I don't know about that,
Max thought. ‘Have you ever heard of a company called Isar Services?’ he asked.

Taking another sip of his drink, the old man lifted his gaze to the ceiling. ‘Isar – no, I don’t think so. Are they the people he says he is trying to get the money from?’

‘What about a woman called Carolina Barbolini?’ Max asked, ignoring the old man's question. ‘She seems to be Volkan's girlfriend.’

‘Kriminalinspektor,’ the old man smiled, ‘I stopped trying to keep track of Volkan's girlfriends before he was fourteen. None of them have ever stayed around for long.’

‘So you've never heard him mention her?’

The old man thought about it for a moment longer before vigorously shaking his head. ‘No. Never.’

‘I see. When was the last time you saw him?’

‘It was a week ago. I had to go into hospital for tests. They love their tests over there. If they had their way, I would spend the rest of my life hooked up to dozens of machines so they could watch me die and record every detail. Anyway, I was in there for a couple of hours. Afterwards, we had a coffee in the canteen. I wanted to go somewhere nicer, but he was in a hurry. He was still going on about Karlshorst. Said he was going off to speak to his 'investor'. I haven't spoken to him since.’

‘Didn’t you try and stop him?’

Kerem Cin fixed him with a defiant stare. ‘Kriminalinspektor,’ he said wearily, ‘my time is running out. I am no longer in a position to stop anything.’

21

‘Idiots.’ On the TV, the news was playing some video of the latest riots, barely two kilometres from his current location, the decidedly upmarket Kantstraße. ‘Just what do they think they are going to achieve?’ Lying naked on the bed, Volkan Cin glanced around the Schneider Suite of the Joxe Hotel and laughed out loud. ‘Looks like there’s been a riot in here, too,’ he giggled, looking at the mess of clothes and room service strewn across the floor. Grabbing the remote control, he muted the sound and flicked through the stations until he found the only Adult Channel that the hotel didn’t block at this time of the day.

‘That’s more like it.’ Dropping the remote, he picked up a thin brick of $100 dollar notes and idly flicked it at his growing erection.

‘Stop that.’ Carolina Barbolini emerged from the steam of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel round her head and an irritated expression.

You need to top up your tan,
Volkan mused as he looked her up and down.
In fact, we could both do with a holiday.

She sighed theatrically. ‘Put it away.’

He waved at his penis with the wad of cash. ‘Which one?’

‘Both.’ Grabbing a towel from the floor, she wrapped it around her waist and stalked over to the window. After their extended celebrations following the recovery of their cash, Carolina was feeling more than a little jaded. Having finally recovered the money, she wanted nothing more than to get rid of it again; the responsibility was just too much to bear.

Volkan tossed the cash onto the carpet, pushed a pillow behind his head and began scratching his balls. ‘You can’t beat fucking on a million bucks,’ he drawled.

‘I can’t believe you stuffed
three
million dollars under the bed.’

‘Why? Where else was I supposed to put it?’

‘I don’t know,’ she snapped. ‘Somewhere
safe
maybe?’

‘Such as?’ Volkan gestured towards the wardrobe on the far side of the room. ‘There was far too much to go into the actual safe,’ he reasoned. ‘And anyway, under the bed is good enough. We haven’t been more than twenty centimetres from it all night. And the
Do not disturb
sign is on; no one else has been in here since we arrived.’

‘Maybe you should go and have a shower.’ Signifying that this particular discussion was over, Carolina grabbed the remote from the bed and switched off the TV. ‘I need to try and call Cesare again.’

‘Your damn father,’ Volkan muttered. ‘If he was that worried about the money, why does he never answer his phone?’

Good question
, Carolina thought. ‘He must be busy.’ Less than convinced, she felt a knot in her stomach as she watched Volkan slip off the bed and follow his hard-on into the bathroom. ‘Close the door behind you.’

Once he had done as instructed, Carolina reached for the phone, dialling the number with exaggerated care, biting her lower lip as she listened the number ringing three, four, five times. The towel slipped from her waist as she hopped from foot to foot but she made no effort to retrieve it from the floor, pawing the carpet impatiently with her foot as she waited for a response.

As before, the answerphone kicked in on the eighth ring:
There is no one here. Leave a message.

‘Papa, it’s me. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’ Carolina took a deep breath and tried to exude calm. ‘The problem we were discussing – it has been dealt with. Everything is now okay. Please give me a call on the office number to let me know that you have received this message.’ She paused, momentarily distracted by the noise of the shower starting up next door. ‘Speak soon. Love you. Bye.’

Looking out at the lights twinkling over the inky black of Lake Como, Cesare Barbolini listened to the Panasonic answering machine kick in, smiling to himself as he heard his daughter’s voice come on the line.

‘The problem has been dealt with.’

Feeling the tension in his stomach easing, Cesare looked up at the uninvited guest standing in front of him. ‘See, I told you. We’ve got the money. There was no need for any panic.’

Studiously unimpressed, Floris Kooy kept his Glock pointed at the old man in the chair, barely a metre in front of him. ‘Who’s panicking?’

If I was twenty years younger,
Cesare thought
, or even fifteen, I would make you eat that fucking gun.
He took a moment to swallow his anger. ‘Arnold always was a bit of a worrier. I can understand why he sent you. I’m sorry it has been wasted trip but these things happen.’

‘
Mr
Kappel is only making sure his assets are properly protected. I don’t think it has been a wasted trip.’

What are you?
Cesare wondered.
Muscle or PR?
‘Maybe not, but it was definitely a false alarm. Panic over.’ He lifted his backside out of the seat. ‘Now, I don’t know about you, but I could do with a drink.’

‘Sit.’

Doing as he was told, Cesare felt his stomach restart its somersaults. After clearing his throat, he spread his arms wide. ‘Look, my friend, we just need to give Arn – I mean Mr Kappel, a quick call and let him know everything has been sorted out.’

Kooy shook his head. ‘He is not contactable at the moment.’
On account of him taking his mistress sailing round the Mediterranean for a week.
Kooy’s thoughts turned to his boss’s latest squeeze, a twenty-one-year-old American archaeology student – all big hair and perfect teeth – and he licked his lips. Kappel was easily old enough to be her grandfather; the dirty old dog. ‘He does not want to be disturbed under any circumstances.’

‘But there is no problem,’ Cesare protested, more than a hint of desperation creeping into his voice, ‘not anymore. He will want to know that. He
needs
to know that.’

‘Mr Kappel doesn’t like people losing his money,’ Kooy said stubbornly.

‘But it’s not lost.’ Cesare gestured over his shoulder in the direction of the answering machine. ‘You heard the message. We got the money back. His assets have been properly looked after.’

‘How can that be the case if you let someone steal that money from you?’

It was, Cesare, had to admit, a good question. He was sure, however, that Arnold himself would be more reasonable. After all, the pair of them had been friends and business partners for more than forty years. ‘I have to speak to Kappel,’ he insisted.

Kooy looked thoroughly bored by their conversation. ‘I have my instructions,’ he said flatly.

‘But –’

Any further pleading was ended by a single shot to the chest. Cesare pitched forward, open-mouthed, and landed, face down on the floor. Feeling mildly disgusted, Kooy looked down at the corpse at his feet. ‘But
nothing
.’

Sidestepping the blood seeping into the carpet, Kooy peered at the blinking red light on the answering machine.
What a stupid invention.
He shook his head.
Why would anybody want one?
As far as he could see, all kinds of new technology were taking over the world.  God knows what they would think of next. It would soon be impossible to escape. Peace and quiet would become unattainable. It was completely intolerable. Lifting the Glock, he took aim at the offensive machine and fired twice, sending of a satisfying mess of metal and plastic flying through the air. With the echo of the shots still ringing through the empty house, Kooy slipped the gun into the waistband of his jeans and zipped up his jacket. ‘Job done,’ he mumbled to himself, before letting his mind turn to thoughts of pretty girls on boats.

Forcing her eyes open. Sarah Rahn cursed in the darkness. The radio alarm clock by the bed told her that it was 2.10 a.m. She gave her snoring husband a sharp dig in the ribs. ‘The phone. It’s bound to be for you.’

Snoring happily, Michael nuzzled up to her and made a grab for her ass. ‘Michael.’ she hissed, fearful of waking the boys. ‘It’s the goddamn phone.’ She gave him another dig in the ribs, to no obvious effect. The phone kept on ringing. Angrily, she reached over and grabbed the handset. ‘Do you realise what time this is?’

‘I know. I’m very sorry for calling so late but I need to speak to Sergeant Michael Rahn urgently.’

It was a young woman’s voice, which did nothing to improve Sarah’s mood. ‘My husband’s asleep,’ she snapped.

‘It’s urgent. A police matter.’

‘It had better be,’ Sarah growled.

‘Who is it?’ Michael said sleepily.

‘Some tart for you,’ Sarah said testily, thrusting the handset into his hand and slipping out of bed, heading for the bathroom. 

‘Michael?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Ulrike. Ulrike Baachaz.’

‘Huh?’

‘Sorry, Ulrike
Hell
. Baachaz is my married name.’

‘Yes, sorry, of course.’ Michael struggled into a seating position. Are you okay?’

‘I know. I’m sorry. I’m fine. But I need to be careful. I’m calling from a phone box. Everyone up here in Gesundbrunnen is crazy paranoid since Penzler got shot. You can never tell anyone that I called you.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep your name out of it.’

‘You asked me about this company called Isar Services. Apparently the guy who owned the house where Penzler was shot at worked there.’

‘Yeah,’ Michael yawned. ‘I’d heard that.’

‘Anyway, when I started asking round about Isar Services, I was hauled in front of my boss, Bruno Eichel. Do you know him?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Lucky you. Kriminalkommissar Eichel is a total prick.’

Doesn’t exactly make him usual in the Berlin police. ‘
What did he say?’

‘He asked me what the hell I thought I was doing, basically, and told me to lay off.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I gave him some crap about the name being mentioned by an informant. I don’t believe he bought it for a second.’ There was a buzzing on the line and he waited while Ulrike dropped some more coins into the phone box.

‘Why is it such a sensitive issue?’

‘Well,’ Ulrike dropped her voice a notch and he had to struggle to catch every word, ‘what I’ve heard is that we have had a guy inside Isar for a while already.’

‘Undercover?’ Michael thought about that for a moment as he listed to the toilet flush next door. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Dunno. But the gossip is that he has fallen off the radar; hasn’t been seen or heard of for more than a month now. No one knows if he’s even still alive.’

Michael watched Sarah reappear from the bathroom and crawl back under the covers, still grumbling about his call. ‘So,’ he said slowly, ‘if we’ve got another way into Isar Services, that might help you crack the case and find Penzler’s killer.’

‘The Kriminalkommissar isn’t thinking straight,’ Ulrike said. ‘I’m not sure that he wants someone else to take these guys down, it’s got to be him or no one. Listen, I’ve got to go. Think about what I’ve said, but don’t let anyone know that we’ve spoken.’

‘No,’ Michael nodded in the darkness. ‘Thanks for the call,’ he added, but Ulrike had already hung up. Reaching across the bed, he replaced the handset on its cradle, giving his wife a hopeful kiss on the temple as he did so. ‘Go back to sleep,’ Sarah mumbled grumpily, rolling away from him, ‘the kids will be up in a couple of hours.’