A Slow Death (Max Drescher Book 1) (16 page)

30

Sitting with his boxers around his knees, Max yawned as he half-heartedly tried to jerk off to an old copy of
Adam
magazine. He had discovered the magazine lying under the sofa, alongside a couple of empty beer cans, when making a belated attempt at tidying the place up.
I really need to get a new cleaner,
he thought, resolving to place an ad in the window of the local mini-mart in the morning.

His domestic musings were doing nothing to get him in the mood, however, and he was on the brink of giving up the struggle when the phone started ringing. Tossing the magazine onto the sofa, he let his barely erect member fall from his hand before struggling to his feet and shuffling into the kitchen.

‘Hello?’

‘Max? It’s Rolf Terium. Sorry for ringing you so late.’

‘It’s fine, ‘Max grunted. ‘I was up.’ He glanced down at his rapidly shrivelling tool. ‘Almost.’

‘What?’ Terium asked. In the background was the sound of traffic and, it seemed, someone having an argument.

‘Nothing, nothing.’ Resigning himself to the inevitable, Max pulled up his underpants. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve found Volkan,’ Terium explained. ‘He’s dead. Someone shot him in the chest.’

‘At least that’s the end of his one-man crime wave. Where did it happen?’

‘In a fancy apartment in Zehlendorf.’ Terium gave him the address.

‘What the hell was he doing out in Zehlendorf?’

‘Dunno. I got a tip off from a mate in despatch who heard the call come in. I got down here about five minutes ago.’

Looking around the kitchen, Max managed to retrieve a till receipt and a badly chewed pencil stub. ‘Gimme that address again.’ Terium obliged and Max scribbled it down on the back of the scrap of paper. ‘Okay,’ he sighed, ‘I’m on my way. It shouldn’t take me too long to get there at this time of night.’ Returning the receiver to its cradle, he pulled up his trousers and went off in search of his shoes.

‘Shame about the sofa.’ Max pointed towards the dark, crusted stain that had spread out across the cream cushions. ‘I don’t think they’re going to get that out very easily.’

‘No,’ Terium grinned. ‘You’re looking at a complete re-upholstery job. Probably cheaper just to throw it away and buy a new one. The landlord’s gonna be really pissed off.’

‘I’m sure he’ll take the cost out of the deposit.’ Max looked around aimlessly. ‘Where’s the body?’

‘They took it away twenty minutes ago.’

‘And we’re sure it was Volkan. Did he have any ID?’

‘Definitely. I saw the body. It was him. And he was carrying a wallet with a driver’s licence and a university library card.  Next of kin are being identified.’

Max thought back to his meeting with the dying Kerem Cin and winced. ‘I can do that.’

Terium gave him a quizzical look. Informing family members about the death of a nearest and dearest was a horrible job; most people ran a mile from it.

‘The father is the only relative,’ Max explained. ‘He’s in a bad way himself – terminal cancer – and needs to be handled gently. I know him a little bit. I can do it.’

‘Okay.’

‘It’s got to be better than some kid in a uniform turning up at his door in the middle of the night.’ Max looked around the room at the usual crime scene congestion. ‘Who’s in charge here?’

‘That would be me.’ A tall, elegant brunette appeared in front of him, hand outstretched. ‘Kriminalinspektor Isolde Zinke.’ Fresh face and bright eyed, the policewoman looked ridiculously energised for the time of night.

Breathing in her scent, Max took her hand and felt his fingers almost crushed by the firmness of her grip. ‘Max Drescher. Thank you for letting us nose around here.’

‘Rolf explained your interest,’ Zinke smiled, ‘I’m happy to help.’ Releasing Max’s hand, she gave Terium a familiar pat on the shoulder. ‘I’ve known Rolf a long time; we go back a long way.’

Did Terium blush? Maybe just a little. Grinning, Max gave Zinke a little nod. ‘I was just saying to Rolf – I know the victim’s father. I thought that it might be best if I go and give him the news.’

‘That’s fine by me,’ Zinke responded. ‘I’ve got a car downstairs. My driver can take you over there.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Of course, we’ll still have to complete the formalities. I think they’ve taken the body to Potsdamer Chausee.’

Max gave the Kriminalinspektor a blank look.

‘The Theodor-Wenzel Hospital,’ Zinke explained. ‘I’ll get someone to collect the father –’

‘Kerem.’

‘Okay, I’ll send someone to pick Kerem up later on this morning, so that he can identify the body. If you could speak to him first, that would be a help. It will probably be a week or so before the body gets released for burial. Maybe longer. There’s a bit of a backlog at the moment.’

‘Muslims like a quick burial,’ Max pointed out. ‘And Kerem’s got enough on his plate as it is. So, if there’s anything you could do to speed the process up, that would be good.’

‘Of course,’ Zinke nodded. ‘I’ll do what I can.’

‘It’s agreed, then.’ Max turned to Terium. ‘You see if you can turn over anything useful here. Why don’t we compare notes back at Stresemannstraße in a couple of hours?’

‘Okay,’ Terium nodded. ‘Isar Services is imploding.’

‘Yeah,’ Max agreed, ‘looks like we’re heading into the endgame.’ Aping Zinke’s gesture, he gave Terium a pat on the shoulder. ‘And, with a bit of luck, maybe you’ll get your man, after all.’

Max looked at the bottle of Glen Els on the table and licked his lips.

‘I think we both need a stiff drink,’ Kerem Cin mumbled, ‘and I know that you don’t like raki.’ Breaking the seal on the whisky bottle, he unscrewed the cap before dumping a large measure into each of the two glasses in front of him. Picking up one of them, he handed it to the policeman. ‘Here you go.’

Max took the glass and sniffed cautiously. ‘Glen Els? Never heard of it.’

‘It comes from Lower Saxony. They only started making it a couple of years ago.’

‘German whisky, eh?’ He took a cautious sip, letting it trickle down the back of his throat. ‘Not bad.’

Raising his glass to the ceiling, the old man cleared his throat. ‘To Volkan. May he rest in peace.’ Tipping back his head, he downed his drink in a single gulp.

‘To Volkan,’ Max echoed, doing the same before slamming his glass down on the table rather harder than he’d intended. Despite the hour, he felt strangely energised and the warm alcoholic glow that spread through his stomach only added to his strangely good humour.

‘Another one?’ Kerem asked, reaching for the bottle.

‘Why not?’ Pushing his glass across the table, Max watched the old man refill it almost to the top.  ’Thanks.’

Nodding, Kerem recharged his own glass and lifted it to his lips. ‘You know,’ he said, talking as much to the booze as to his guest, ‘I suppose that I always knew that things would end like this. Volkan was always just that bit too wild. His high spirits went too far. It was like some kind of death wish.’

In the end, he was just a hooligan with a gun.
‘It’s bad luck.’

‘Bad parenting,’ Kerem responded. ‘I was never around. Always working. There was never time for the family.’

That’s not really my area.
Max wondered if he should maybe get the old man some psychiatric help.
First things first,
he told himself.
Let’s see if we can stop him getting smashed, at least until he’s visited the morgue.
Reaching across the table, he gently retrieved the bottle from Kerem’s grasp. ‘Let’s not get drunk and maudlin. What’s done is done. You know you did what you could. Volkan was an adult; you gave him a good start but he had to take responsibility for himself. There’s no point in blaming yourself.’

Staring at the table, the old man nodded.

‘I know nothing about being a parent,’ Max continued, ‘but I’m sure you did your best. You provided for your family. You couldn’t live his life for him.’

‘I suppose not,’ Kerem muttered. With his eyes beginning to tear up, he got to his feet and beat a retreat towards the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry. Excuse me a minute.’

‘Of course.’

Sipping at his whisky, Max sat in the gloom, listening to the sounds of sobbing coming from the kitchen. Embarrassed, he glanced over at the photograph of Kerem’s late wife. Even in the poor light, he could see that the silver frame had been bent and the glass was cracked.

‘Sorry about that.’ Shoving a paper tissue into his trouser pocket, Kerem returned to his seat.

‘What happened to the photo?’ Max asked, pointing at the sideboard. For a moment, it looked like the old man might start crying again, but he took a couple of deep breaths and got himself under control.

‘Volkan threw it at me. We had gotten into an argument, the usual kind of thing.’

‘Volkan was here?’ Max wrinkled his brow. ‘When was this?’

Kerem thought about it for a moment. ‘The day after your previous visit, I think.’

And you didn’t think to give me a call?
A spasm of anger flashed through Max’s brain. However, he quickly realised that the old man clearly had more important things to worry about than shopping his only kid to the cops. Conscious of his elevated heart rate, he took another soothing mouthful of whisky. ‘Did he come home for a reason?’

Kerem smiled sadly. ‘Other than to shout at his father, you mean? He dropped some stuff off in his bedroom; said he needed to store it there for a while.’ He watched Max jump from his chair and head for the door. ‘It was just clothes and stuff, I think.’

‘Can I take a look?’

Kerem gestured towards the door with his glass. ‘Be my guest. Up the stairs, second door on the left.’

31

Flicking on the light switch, Max squinted against the harshness of the naked bulb as he surveyed a small bedroom. Not much more than two metres by three, the place was clean and tidy, but the cheap furniture and fading wallpaper conspired to give it a seriously melancholy air. The room looked – and smelt – like it hadn’t been lived in for the last ten years at least. It was hard to imagine a young Volkan Cin hunkering down in here, in order to escape from his parents downstairs.

Resisting the temptation to open a small window that looked out over the back yard, Max shut the door behind him and stepped into the middle of the room. ‘Take your time,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘There’s no rush.’

Supressing a smile, he wondered when he had first started talking to himself. It was something he had become increasingly aware of in recent months. No one else seemed to have noticed or, at least, no one had said anything to him about it. But for Max himself, it was vexing; just another sign that he was slowly losing it. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on regulating his breathing, taking a succession of deep breaths as he sought to clear the effects of Kerem’s whisky from his brain.

‘Take your time.’

After several seconds, he opened his eyes and looked around the room for a second time. Much of the floor space was taken up by a single bed with a heavy wooden frame which had been pushed into the far corner of the room. Neatly made, it was covered in a multi-coloured knitted blanket that had faded badly over the years. Above the headboard, a single shelf, maybe twelve centimetres long, was empty, apart for a small pile of magazines. Max stepped over to the shelf and picked one up.

‘The Amazing Spiderman saves the world.’ He casually flicked through the comic.
Never much of an intellectual, young Volkan.
Finding nothing of interest amongst its pages, he dropped the comic onto the small work desk that stood under the window and quickly sifted through the rest of the pile: half a dozen comic books, two porn mags and a football magazine. Placing them back on the shelf, Max turned his attention to the wardrobes that had been built in along the length of one wall. Opening each door in turn, he peered inside. Apart from a denim jacket and a tattered pair of Converse All Stars, they we completely empty.

Max scratched his head. ‘Okay,’ he muttered, ‘Volkan was
storing
stuff, he wasn’t
hiding
it. So where could it be?’

Finally, an imaginary light bulb went off, next to the real one above his head.

Of course
.
Fucking hell, Max, wake up.
Sinking to his knees, he dropped his hands on to the carpet and brought his head forwards. Grunting, he cranked his neck and squinted into darkness under the bed.

‘Here we go.’

Crawling forward, Max grabbed the handle of a black Adidas sports bag and pulled it towards him. Sitting back on his ass, he yanked at the zip, watching in disgust as a selection of Volkan’s dirty laundry spilled out onto the carpet. ‘Urgh.’ Grabbing the bag, he turned it upside down and gave it a vigorous shake, watching with glee as its remaining contents landed in front of him.

‘Now that is more like it.’ Staring at the stacks of crumpled dollar bills in front of him, he gave the bag one last shake. Turning it upright, he placed it next to the money and peered inside. On one side was a small, zipped pocket. Opening it, he stuck his hand inside and pulled out a small scrap of paper. On it, written in blue biro in a shaky hand, was an address in
Moabit, near the Lehrter S-Bahn station. Underneath was scribbled a six digit code of some sort.

A bank account?

Max thought about it for a moment, but the code meant nothing to him. The address didn’t ring any bells either. Shoving the slip of paper into his pocket, he considered his next move.

‘As far as I know, all of the flats are currently occupied although, to be honest, I haven’t been paying as much attention to things recently.’

‘That’s perfectly understandable.’

‘Lübecker Straße is very little trouble. I send some guys over once a year to check the plumbing and the heating and deal with any little odd jobs. Otherwise, the rental company takes care of everything.’

Max nodded. ‘Sounds very efficient.’

‘It is.’ Kerem stared into space. ‘I didn’t even know that Volkan had ever been there. I don’t think I’ve been there myself for over a year, at least.’

‘Well, it looks like he has. Would he have access to the keys to the flats?’

‘Oh, yes. I keep a set here and there’s a set in the office.’ Once again, he gestured towards the sideboard. ‘They’re in the top drawer.’

‘Can I take a look?’

The old man nodded.

Pulling open the drawer, he peered inside. ‘Kerem,’ he sighed, ‘there must be at least a dozen bunches of keys in here.’

‘You’re looking for three keys,’ the old man explained, ‘on a yellow key ring. It should have the address on it.’

‘Three keys?’ Max frowned as he rooted around in the drawer.

‘A master key for each of the flats, a key for the storage room in the basement and a key for the front door – in case the entry system fails, or gets changed by mistake.’

‘Got ‘em.’ With a grin, Max recovered the yellow keyring and held it up for inspection.
              ‘That’s the one,’ Kerem nodded.

‘Do you mind if I borrow these?’ Max asked, closing the drawer with his backside before stepping back to the table. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t need them for long.’

Kerem waved his assent. ‘Be my guest, Kriminalinspektor. But what do you want them for?’

‘I just want to go and take a look. See if I can find out a little bit more about what exactly Volkan was up to before he died.’

‘Karl-Marx-Allee, Lenin-Allee.’

‘Ho-Chi-Minh-Strasse.’

‘Klement Gottwald Boulevard.’

‘Dimitroff Straße.’

‘Dimitroff? Who was he?’

‘Bulgaria's first communist leader, apparently. Anyway, they’ll all have to go now that the Soviet dream is over.’

‘Christ. I’m glad I’m not a taxi driver in this damn city. If you aren’t stuck in a traffic jam caused by rioting anarchists, you have to deal with them changing all the street names.’

Idly eavesdropping on the conversation of a couple of passing colleagues, Max didn’t immediately notice the letter. It was sitting on the corner of his desk, stuck under a file that he should have returned to Archives several months earlier. Only after the two cops drifted out of earshot did it catch his eye.

Recognising the cheap brown manila envelope favoured by the HR department, he started at if for a good ten seconds. Had Clara Ozil sorted things out so quickly? And, if so, why hadn’t she let him know?

With considerable reluctance, he put down his coffee and retrieved the envelope. There was a small window, through which he could see his name and title, as recorded on the actual letter inside. With a sigh, he ripped it open and, reading quietly to himself, he scanned the contents: blah, blah, blah,
This is to confirm that your employment with the Berlin Kriminalpolizei is to terminate four weeks from the date of this letter
… blah, blah, blah …
The terms of your departure will be confirmed in a separate communication
… blah, blah … It was signed by a woman called Dagmar Lowit, Personnel Administrator.

Stomping his foot in frustration, Max sat back in his chair. ‘Well, fuck you, Dagmar Lowit.’ Reaching for the phone, he started to dial Clara’s number, before giving up half way through and returning the receiver to its cradle. What was the point? Clara had got him his deal. She could have taken a bit more time about it, sure, but at least he had almost four more weeks. It looked like he would be able to close the Beerfeldt case before they kicked him out. And that, after all, was all he had asked for.

Fuck the lot of you.
He’d got what he wanted, so why did he feel so damn angry? Crumpling the letter in his fist, Max dropped it in the wastebasket by his desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Michael approaching, carefully holding a plastic cup in each hand.

‘I hear you had quite a night last night,’ Michael grinned, handing his boss one of the cups. ‘I thought you might be able to use one of these.’

‘Thanks.’ Holding the cup between his thumb and forefinger Max took a cautious sip and winced as the toxic liquid scalded the back of his throat.

‘The coffee is still as terrible as ever,’ Michael shrugged.

Yeah,
Max thought,
but I’ll miss it when I’m gone.

‘I hear you had quite a night,’ the sergeant repeated.

‘It was long,’ Max grinned, happy at least that his hangover had not developed beyond a vague ache at the base of his skull. Glancing at the clock, he wondered how Kerem Cin was faring right now. The old man should have seen his son already. Max wondered how that must feel. Far worse than any hangover.

Worse than death.

Slurping his coffee, Michael perched on the edge of his boss’s desk. Looking round, he checked that no one was paying them any attention before leaning forward. ‘How much was it?’ he asked in a low voice, tinged with more than a hint of schoolboy excitement.

‘I didn’t watch the boys in the evidence locker count it all. When I left, they’d got to two and a half. Million. Dollars.’

Michael’s eyes grew wide. ‘And you weren’t tempted?’

‘Tempted?’

‘Just to walk off with it.’

‘Nick it?’ Max frowned. The idea had not entered his head until now.

‘Why not?’ Michael’s voice dropped so low that Max had to really concentrate on listening. ‘Make it disappear.’