A Slow Death (Max Drescher Book 1) (29 page)

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Authors: James Craig

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Clara Ozil tore off a strip of naan bread between her thumb and forefinger, rolled it up, popped it in her mouth and began chewing happily. ‘Willy Brandt’s dined here, you know.’

‘He has?’ Looking round the largely empty Indian restaurant, Max struggled to imagine the politician at one of the tables.

‘It’s quite famous.’

‘Hm.’ Max shovelled another mouthful of chicken curry into mouth. Famous or not, he had to admit that the food was good.

‘Nothing but the best for your retirement party.’ Clara lifted her glass and offered him a toast. ‘Good luck, Max.’

‘Thanks.’ Taking a sip of his own beer, he stifled a groan. After his run in with Carolina Barbolini, he still felt like he’d been run over by a truck. ‘And thank you again for all your help.’

Clara tore another strip from the bread. ‘I was just doing my job, Kriminalinspektor.’

‘I was wondering if I could ask you to do one more thing for me.’

‘Sure,’ Clara shrugged, still holding the bread in mid-air. ‘If I can.’

‘Bruno Eichel’s red Porsche. The Department will sell it off at auction. Can you get it for me?’

‘I didn’t know you could drive.’

‘I can’t,’ Max smiled. ‘But I was thinking that I might learn.’

Feeling more than a little full, it was a relief to leave the restaurant and head for the S-Bahn. After a delay of almost twenty minutes, caused by an inconsiderate traveller who’d gone under a train at the far end of the line, the Kriminalinspektor finally made it to Heidelberger Platz. Coming out of the station, he consulted the street plan by the exit before heading cautiously on his way. Although he was retracing his steps of a few days earlier, the Wilmersdorf neighbourhood was foreign territory and he had to endure a couple of wrong turns before arriving at Kerem Cin's door.

It took the old man several minutes to answer. Max was pressing the bell for the third time when the door finally creaked open. Kerem looked him up and down, saying nothing as he turned and retreated down the hallway. Stepping across the threshold, Max closed the door and followed him inside.

By the time he reached the dining room, Kerem had adopted his usual position, sitting at the table. In front of him, was a stack of papers a good five centimetres thick. Even in the half-light, Max could see the physical deterioration that had taken place in a few short days. The old man looked gaunt, exhausted. The dark rings round his dull eyes looked as if they had been smeared on with an eyeliner pencil; his cheekbones seemed more visible than Max recalled. His hair had lost much of its luster; even his eyebrows seemed to have wilted.

‘I brought you some whisky.’ Max pulled a bottle of Glen Els from a yellow plastic bag bearing the legend
Oskar's Beer & Wine
and placed it on the table in front of his host. ‘I thought I would replace some of what I drank the other night.’ Stepping over to the sideboard, he gave a nod to the photograph of Kerem's late wife as he picked up a couple of glasses.

Kerem watched impassively as his guest broke the seal on the bottle and filled each glass in turn.

‘You stole my gun.’

‘I needed it.’ Max placed one of the glasses in front of Kerem before lifting the other to his lips. ‘It helped me deal with the man who killed Volkan.’

Making no effort to touch his drink, the old man nodded. ‘I need it back.’

‘I'm sorry, it's gone.’ Max took a sip of his whisky, carefully returning the glass to the table.

‘But I need it,’ Kerem wheezed. ‘You know I need it.’

Max nodded.

‘You had no right to take it. You exploited my hospitality, in order to steal from me.’

‘I came to apologise,’ reaching into the plastic bag for a second time, Max pulled out a small package, wrapped in a cotton rag, and placed it on top of the pile of papers, ‘and to give you this.’

The old man looked at the package and then at Max. ‘What is it?’

‘A replacement for what I took.’

Kerem tugged at the cotton. Seeing the gun, a weary smile flickered across his lips.

‘It has been cleaned and is ready to use,’ Max explained. ‘And there’s a full clip. Six bullets.’

Raising his glass, Kerem offered a mock toast. ‘Thank you, kriminalinspketor.’ He let out a grim chuckle. ‘But, rest assured, I'll only need the one round, even if I am blind drunk when it comes to pulling the trigger.’

‘Let's hope so. On both counts.’ Reaching for his own drink, Max gave a silent toast to Arnold Kappel. He had been on the point of tossing the gangster’s gun when it came to him that it could be put to better use.

Tipping back his head, Kerem downed his drink in one and reached for the bottle. ‘Where did you get it from?’ he asked, refilling his glass.

‘It doesn't matter,’ Max said evenly. ‘It's untraceable. The previous owner had the serial number filed off.’

A sudden spasm of pain shot through his abdomen, causing Kerem to wince. ‘It won't be long now,’ he said grimly. ‘Weeks. Maybe not even that. The doctors know. You can see it in their eyes.’

Max gestured at the gun sitting on the table between them. ‘When the time does come, is there anything –’

‘No, no.’ The old man waved away his offer of help with his free hand. ‘That's all taken care of. No need to worry.’

‘Good.’

The old man smiled as he topped up Max's glass. ‘The one final kindness that you can do is to help me drink this very nice whisky.’

On his desk was a note. A simple message –
Please call Angela Brinker-Behle
– along with a phone number. ‘I don't think so,’ Max mumbled to himself, his head still thick from his drinking into the small hours with Kerem Cin. Scrunching the note up into a ball, he threw it towards a nearby waste bin, missing by some margin.

‘Making a mess on your final day, huh?’

Max looked up to see one of the department’s younger detectives, Kevin Stanza, pulling on a bullet proof vest. ‘Off to make an arrest?’

‘Hope so,’ the youngster grinned. ‘Word is that we're finally taking down the guys who kicked that Turkish student to death.’

‘Hakan Yaman?’ Max was surprised he remembered the named. ‘About time.’

‘Yeah. It's a big deal because of the politics. Apparently Marin's taking charge of the operation personally.’

Max glanced over at the Kriminalkommissar's empty office. ‘Jesus. I assumed he was out getting some smokes.’

Stanza laughed politely.

‘This'll be first time that Marin’s been out on the street in years. Make sure he doesn’t shoot himself.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Or anyone else for that matter.’ Max wondered if Michael would be there to see it. Sarah had invited him round for dinner with the family later and he would enjoy getting the lowdown on Marin's performance. ‘Is Sergeant Rahn going to be out on this one too?’

‘No idea,’ Stanza shrugged. ‘Have you seen his new partner, though?’ His face suddenly adopted the look of a kid in an overstocked sweet shop. ‘What a babe.’

‘So I've heard.’

‘She really is going to stir things up around here.’ Stanza pulled on a leather jacket over his vest. ‘Well. I gotta get downstairs. Good luck. See you around.’

‘You too. I hope you get those bastards.’

‘Thanks.’

Feeling sick in his stomach, Max watched Stanza jog over to the stairs and disappear.

That was me, what, twenty years ago? Twenty-five?

Telling himself to stop being so maudlin, Max began cleaning out his desk. A couple of minutes later, he peered into a small cardboard box containing a tatty contacts book, a few marks in change and a Storz Nougat Praline bar, along with the Silver Surfer comic he had acquired in the course of his final investigation.

Taking his bronze warrant disc from his pocket, Max placed it on the desk, next to the Beretta. Getting to his feet, he looked around the empty room, silently praying for some kind of last-minute reprieve. When none was forthcoming, his gaze returned to the disc.

That could actually come in quite handy, now and again.

Retrieving the disc, Max dropped it on top of the comic and closed the box.

‘Time to go.’

Picking up his belongings, he headed for the door, head bowed.

For Catherine and Cate

Acknowledgements

Many people have helped to bring my man Max, blinking furiously, into the light.

In particular, I would like to thank: Andrea von Schilling, Celso F. Lopez, Peter Lavery and Michael Doggart.

Above all, I would like to thank Chris McVeigh for just getting the damn thing done.

The author

James Craig is a writer and consultant living in London.

This is his first Max Drescher novel. He also writes an ongoing series about London detective John Carlyle