A Slow Death (Max Drescher Book 1) (19 page)

‘I hope so,’ Max nodded. ‘Just make sure of one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

Max laughed. ‘Don’t let them end up like us, eh? You don’t want any more cops in the family if you can possibly help it.’

34

What was going on?
Peering through the bakery window, Erthan Kazan wished that he hadn’t forgotten his glasses. Normally, he would have found them nestling in his jacket pocket, but tonight he must have left them at home. Either that or he’d lost them; that would make it three pairs already this year.

Erthan squinted at his Timex. The place should have been open for another twenty minutes, yet the
Closed
sign had been flipped and the lights were off. The bakery owner pressed his nose against the window, looking for signs of movement inside. Everything in the middle distance was blurred, but he could see well enough that there was no one behind the counter.

‘That damn girl.’ He was going to have to find some new help. Neslihan was a lovely girl, but all she was interested in was painting her nails and listening to pop music. Her attitude was poor and she lacked stamina. Come to think of it, that was the problem with most young people today. The concept of hard work was simply alien to them. In that sense, Erthan was relieved that he didn’t have any kids of his own. A niece was bad enough. As his mother had always said:
small children, small problems; big children, big problems.
Neslihan was still family though and Erthan remained acutely aware of his responsibilities. There was no way he could sack her outright. Instead, he would have to find her something where she didn’t have to interact with the public.

He might have forgotten his glasses, but at least he had his keys. Retrieving the chain, Erthan slipped the chunky brass key into the lock and turned, grimacing when he realised that the door was still open.
What was the girl playing at?

  Pushing open the door, Erthan stepped inside. ‘Neslihan?’ From the kitchen came the sound of the radio, some discordant modern rubbish that set his teeth on edge. ‘Neslihan.’ Erthan could feel his irritation rising rapidly. He didn’t have many rules, but no music in the bakery was one of them. The customers didn’t like it and neither did he.

Taking a tentative step forward, he shouted her name again. ‘Turn that damn noise off.’ Still there was no response. Moving towards the counter, Erthan was suddenly conscious of his accelerated heart rate. To his right was a table that hadn’t been cleaned. Acting on autopilot, he stepped over to clear away the mess. As he reached for an empty coffee cup, Erthan caught a glimpse of something on the floor, partially hidden under a nearby table.

Abandoning the dirty dishes, he edged forward, squinting at the scene in front of him. In the soft focus of his myopia, the scene had an almost dreamlike quality to it. Erthan blinked hard then looked again.

‘What the hell –?’

Picking up an upturned chair, Erthan placed it carefully back on its legs before tentatively approaching the body. Careful not to stand in the pool of black liquid congealing on his floor, he squinted at the face.

‘Resul?’

Lying on his back, the boy had a serene look on his face as he looked to the heavens. There were two small holes in the front of his T-shirt where he had been shot in the chest. His hands were outstretched, like he was mimicking Christ on the cross. In his left hand, was a comic book. Slowly dropping to one knee, Erthan could just make out the title:
Spiderman
.

Feeling dizzy, Erthan pushed himself back up, holding on to the table for support. ‘Ne yaptin?’ he mumbled, his eyes misting with tears. ‘Aptal çocuk. Ne yaptin?’

Slowly, the music from the radio seeped back into his consciousness.
Neslihan.
A wave of nausea washed over him as he hurried behind the counter.

He found her sitting on the floor of the kitchen, with an annoyed expression on her face and a small red dot between her eyes. The scene would have been almost comical, had it not been for the mess of blood and hair splattered across the freezer behind her head. Reaching over to switch off the radio, Erthan felt the crunch of glass beneath his shoe. Looking down, he saw green nail polished smeared across the floor.

Stifling a sob, Erthan staggered back out front. Leaning against the counter, he fought for breath. As he did so, the bell above the door rang. Looking up, he saw a man enter. It look him a moment to realise that it was one of his regulars, an old-timer called Abdil. Abdil had arrived from Erzurum in 1958; worked for the Deutche Bahn for more than two decades.

Seeing the look on Erthan’s face, the old man hesitated in the doorway. ‘Are you closed?’

Erthan shot a glance at Resul, just to reconfirm that this was not just some terrible dream, before stepping out from behind the counter. ‘Abdil,’ he said, his voice noticeably trembling, ‘I need for you to go next door and call the police, please. Tell them to hurry.’

The sergeant in charge of the evidence locker, a fat timeserver, originally from Munich, hoisted Volkan Cin’s Adidas bag on to the counter and looked at Max. ‘Doesn’t look like much, does it?’

‘It’s still three million bucks,’ the Kriminalinspektor mused. ‘Or thereabouts.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said the sergeant, somewhat defensively, ‘it’s all there.’ He gestured over this shoulder with a black biro at the door to the strong room. ‘We’ve got six cameras in there, every angle is covered.’

‘Good to know,’ Max tried to sound vaguely impressed.

‘No one can do anything in there without it being filmed.’ He gave the bag a friendly pat. ‘So your money was perfectly safe.’

‘Not my money,’ Max shrugged, ‘sadly.’

‘No, but you know what I mean.’ The sergeant offered him a clipboard, along with the biro. ‘So, if you’ll just sign for it, sir.’

‘Of course.’ Max scrawled his name across the sheet of paper and handed it back to the sergeant. ‘Thanks.’ Grabbing the handles of the bag, he lifted it from the counter and felt its weight in his hand.
Three million dollars?
It was just a pile of paper. If the boys in the evidence room had swiped a few thousand for themselves, the Kriminalinspektor realised that he would be none the wiser.

An ancient, oversized phone sitting on the counter suddenly sprang into life. Grabbing the receiver, the sergeant barked into it: ‘Evidence room.’ Nodding as he listened to the voice on the other end, he looked at Max. ‘Yes, he is. Yes. I will tell him. Thank you.’ Replacing the handset, he turned to the Kriminalinspektor. ‘There’s someone to see you, upstairs.’

The woman was standing at the window, playing with the string of pearls around her scrawny neck as she surveyed the comings and goings on the street below. Max recognised her immediately. He hesitated in the doorway before reluctantly stepping inside, closing the door behind him. Turning away from the window, she gave him an appraising look. ‘Kriminalinspektor Max Drescher?’ It was less a question than an expression of disgust.

‘That’s right. You wanted to see me?’ Dropping the bag on the floor, Max took a seat at the round table taking up about three-quarters of the available floor space in the room.

‘That’s right.’ Angela Brinker-Behle showed no intention of joining him. ‘Presumably you know who
I
am?’

‘Yes,’ Max coughed, ‘I do.’ She was a tall woman, about the same height as Max himself, whose designer weeds could not hide the fact that she was thin to the point of being emaciated. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing for fear of snapping her in two. ‘So, what can I help you with?’

‘Peter never told me about you.’

Now that’s a big surprise,
Max thought, forcing himself to sit up straight. He looked at the dark rings under her eyes. The woman looked shattered.

‘But I got your name from a friend.’

Some friend.
He glanced at the bag. ‘I know that things must be very difficult for you at the moment,’ he said soothingly, ‘but I am on duty, dealing with a very difficult investigation, so I’m afraid that –’

The woman folded then unfolded her arms. ‘Don’t worry, inspector, I’m not here to play the role of the jealous wife, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ A malicious grin crept across her lips. ‘Peter had lots of lovers, you know. I was well aware of his various peccadillos – in the round, you understand. Forgive me if the details of some of the more minor players escaped me, but I had my own life to lead, you understand.’

Lowering his gaze, Max said nothing.
Just let her vent her anger and get it over with.

‘I’m not here to embarrass you.’

‘I’m not embarrassed.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘So what can I do for you?’

‘I want to report a robbery.’ From the pocket of her expensive-looking jacket, she pulled out a sheet of paper, unfolded it and placed it on the table before him. ‘This is a list of things that are missing from the apartment in Stauffenbergstraße.’

Max glanced down at the list, without letting his eyes focus on the details.

‘Some of the objects d’art are quite valuable.’

Max shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘When did they go missing?’

Folding her arms, Brinker-Behle returned her gaze to the grey sky outside. ‘Precisely? I don’t know. But as far as I am aware, they were all there at the time of Peter’s death.’

Max nodded. The implication was clear; the grieving widow was accusing the police – him – of stealing from the dead man’s home. Whatever the truth of the matter, this was nothing to do with him. He had never had the slightest interest in Peter’s expensive trinkets. Whatever hopes of revenge Angela Brinker-Behle harboured in her shrivelled bosom, she could do nothing to hurt him.

Slowly, he got to his feet. ‘You’ll have to make a report at the front desk.’

‘But –’

Grabbing the holdall from the floor, Max turned for the door. ‘You need to make a statement at the front desk where you came in and someone from the robbery division will open an investigation. Obviously, I will assist that enquiry in any way that I can, but it is not my area and, anyway, as you will appreciate more than most, I clearly have a conflict of interest.’ With his free hand, he pulled open the door. ‘Now you’ll have to forgive me, but I have to go.’ Holding her gaze, he took a deep breath. ‘I am – genuinely – very sorry for your loss.’ Not waiting for a reply, he bolted down the corridor and down the stairs.

35

‘Here you go.’ Max tossed the Adidas bag to Rolf Terium, who caught it at the second attempt. ‘Let’s get going.’

‘Hold on a minute.’ Michael appeared at his boss’s shoulder. Wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. ‘There’s been a development – they’ve found a couple of bodies at Kazan’s bakery.’

‘Oh great.’ Max thought back to the young girl stationed behind the counter, painting her nails. What was she called? He tried to remember, but the name escaped him.

‘Shot,’ Michael added.

‘It’ll be Kooy,’ Terium observed. ‘I’d bet my house on it.’

‘Do you have a house?’ Max enquired.

‘Well, no,’ Terium admitted, ‘but you know what I mean. Kooy is Kappel’s man. They’re obviously still on the hunt.’

‘As if they were ever going to go away.’ Max looked his colleague up and down. Since he’d last seen him, Terium had shaved and had a haircut. A good night’s sleep had gone some way to reducing the dark rings under his eyes. He looked relaxed and energised. In a pair of fresh jeans and a pristine white Gap pocket T-shirt under a battered leather jacket, the former undercover man looked about fifteen years younger than he had twenty-four hours earlier. A pair of shocking orange Puma trainers finished off the ensemble nicely.

‘The two victims,’ Terium asked Michael. ‘Do we know who they are?’

‘Not yet. But Marin’s talking about going over there himself.’ Michael gestured towards the bag. ‘He’s in a right old mood.’

‘No change there then,’ Max joked.

‘He mumbled something about this being all your fault,’ Michael added. ‘About you setting the cat among the pigeons by putting the word out on the street about the cash and Volkan’s flat.’

‘How very convenient for him,’ Max scoffed, ‘to be able to blame the guy who’s on his way out.’ Terium gave him a quizzical look, but he chose not to explain. ‘Anyway, we’d better go and take a look. See if we can stop the Kriminalkommissar getting the wrong end of the stick yet again.’

‘Okay.’ Terium dropped the holdall at his feet. ‘You head over there. I’ll take this to Lübecker Straße as originally planned.’

Max looked at him doubtfully.

Terium touched the bag with the toe of his right sneaker. ‘It’s not a problem. You can catch up with me there.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Apart from anything else,’ Terium argued, ‘it makes it harder for Marin to try and abort the plan if I’m already in place.’

Max couldn’t fault the logic. ‘Okay, let’s give it a go. Just don’t do anything rash. Our track record on this type of thing to date isn’t so good.’

‘Ha.’ Terium chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep my wits about me.’ He patted the bulge under his jacket. ‘I like to shoot first and ask questions later. You’ve got nothing to worry about on that score. Just ask your little friend, Theo Oster.’