A Slow Death (Max Drescher Book 1) (22 page)

Folding his arms, Max stood his ground. ‘Sorry, I’d love to go for a test drive but I’ve got work to do. It’s a hell of a mess up in that apartment. Apart from anything else, I need to make a statement.’
And speak to my union rep.
Clara was bound to be delighted by his latest escapade.

‘You certainly have a lot of explaining to do.’ Eichel enunciated the words slowly and clearly, so that Max could fully appreciate the mix of vitriol and sarcasm in which each one had been coated. ‘Once again, you have demonstrated your unique abilities; the whole thing is another triumph of both execution and planning.’ He shook his head in amused dismay. ‘Really quite remarkable.’

Fuck you.
Max took half a step forward, towards his tormentor. Balling up his fists, he wondered whether Eichel would go down after the first punch or whether a second would be required.

‘And what an excellent result! I lost another good man and you almost got your face shot off.’ Sensing the Kriminalinspektor’s fury, Eichel carefully backed off. ‘Shame it wasn’t the other way round. Terium had a family, you know.’

Max felt his shoulders sag. ‘I didn’t know that,’ he mumbled.

‘Two kids,’ said Eichel, ramming home the point. ‘Both under five.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Jesus is going to be of no use to anyone here,’ Eichel hissed. ‘You’ve made a right fucking mess this time. And what do you do? You waltz off to get drunk and leave everyone else to clean up your mistakes.’

‘I didn’t –’

‘Where were you going off to now? Crawl home and sleep it off?’

Sounds good,
Max thought. His body ached with tiredness; it was as if his bones were being eaten away from the inside. Head bowed, he pawed the ground listlessly. ‘I need to get back there and talk to Marin.’

‘You need to talk to me first,’ Eichel said grimly, reaching down and opening the driver’s door, ‘so get in, before I have you breathalysed, arrested, thrown in the cells and then kicked off the fucking force without your ridiculously inflated pension.’

How do you know about that?
Max wondered. Keeping his own counsel, he walked around the front of the Porsche, only just managing to resist the temptation to put a boot into one of the car’s headlights.

40

Glancing in the wing mirror, Eichel turned the key in the ignition. ‘If you puke up on my seats,’ he advised over the rumble of the engine, ‘I will kill you.’

‘I’m not gonna puke.’

‘See that you don’t. And put your seatbelt on.’

Only after Max had obliged, did the Kriminalkommissar release the handbrake, pulling hard on the steering wheel. The Porsche jumped away from the kerb, cutting off a white Ford Escort as they zoomed off down the road. Heading south in light traffic, Eichel reached for the radio, flicking through a series of talk radio stations, before plumping for the Eighties pop of Radio Eins. ‘Perfect.’

Gritting his teeth, Max had to endure Eichel humming along to the Eurythmics’ “Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This” in such a tuneless fashion that it only served to increase the Kriminalinspektor’s existing levels of antipathy towards Annie Lennox and Dave Stewart. After what seemed like an eternity, relief came in the unlikely form of Metallica. Mercifully, Eichel showed no prior knowledge of the lyrics of “The Shortest Straw”.

‘Where are we going?’

‘You’ll see when we get there. It’s not far.’

Fuck it,
Max thought,
I’m not going to play twenty questions with you, if you want to play silly games that’s up to you
.  Sitting back, he settled in for the ride. If nothing else, Eichel’s little detour offered him a handy excuse when, inevitably, Marin started complaining about him going AWOL. By the time he finally got back to Lübecker Straße, the smell of booze on his breath might have dissipated enough for Marin not to realise that Max had been drinking.

Staring aimlessly at the oncoming traffic, Max wondered about the relationship between the two superior officers. Would Marin have told Eichel about the reasons for Max’s imminent retirement? That would be the obvious inference from the latter’s quip about Max’s pension. It was perfectly possible; Marin was not the kind of manager who gave a flying fuck about the HR handbook. On the other hand, however, it was hard to see how he would gain from sharing such a titbit.

The radio was playing Prince by the time they reached Turmstraße. Passing the criminal court, Max made a show of checking his watch. ‘How much longer is this going to take? Marin is gonna go crazy if I don’t turn up soon.’

‘We’re here.’ Conspicuously failing to give a signal, Eichel took a sharp left, ignoring the protesting horn of an oncoming furniture van as he turned into an empty parking lot in front of a small strip of shops and fast food outlets.

A McDonald’s stood on the end of the row. ‘Good idea,’ Max smiled, releasing his seatbelt, ‘I’m starving.’

‘That shit is bad for you.’ Letting the car glide through the lot, Eichel scattered a group of pigeons who had been pecking happily at the remains of a Big Mac that had been discarded on the tarmac.

‘I don’t think this is the way to the drive-thru.’

‘Shut up.’ Eichel steered them down a narrow service alley lined with oversized waste bins.

Shifting in his seat, Max felt the reassuring presence of the Beretta pressing into the small of his back. ‘Why are we here?’

Ignoring his passenger, Eichel steered the Porsche past a delivery van and came to a halt in front of a shuttered service bay. ‘Get out.’

‘If you insist,’ Max sighed. Releasing his seatbelt, he struggled out of the car, his nostrils flaring as they were assailed by a noxious combination of smells: fried food, used cooking oil, rotting food waste and stale piss. Taking a step forward, he almost lost his footing, stumbling into a puddle created by an unidentifiable liquid that had collected along the gutter running through the middle of the alley. ‘Shit.’ He had barely recovered his composure when, less than a metre in front of him, there was a rustling from one of the black rubbish sacks that had been stuffed into the top of an overflowing bin. Max almost jumped out of this skin as a feral-looking cat sprang out and landed at his feet.

Eichel, standing by the driver’s door, laughed at his discomfort. ‘Not able to handle being on the street anymore, eh, Drescher?’

Max watched the cat saunter away, tail in the air, equally unimpressed by the new arrival in his neighbourhood. ‘What are we doing here?’

His question was answered by the sound of a metal door slamming open somewhere behind him. It was followed by the dull clump of boots on tarmac. Looking round, Max saw three large guys coming towards the Porsche. One was carrying a baseball bat over his shoulder. As they came closer, Max recognised the slugger, a veteran sergeant from Gesundbrunnen by the name of Liebherr. The other two were unfamiliar; younger, they had identical shaven heads and dull, lifeless eyes. Their battered leather aviator jackets were open, the better to reveal the semi-automatic that each man casually carried on his hip. They could be cops; they could be criminals. Either way, Max knew that they were not here for a friendly chat. His hunger was replaced by a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He turned to Eichel, who had a sickly smile plastered across his face. ‘What is this?’

‘This,’ said the Kriminalkommissar flatly, ‘is payback for you getting Rolf Terium killed. A serious beating is the least you deserve, you useless bastard.’

‘I don’t think so,’
Max muttered, reaching for his gun.

‘I wouldn’t do that, if I were you, Drescher.’ Leaning across the roof of the Porsche, the Kriminalkommissar had drawn his own service weapon; it was pointing directly at Max’s head. ‘Tempting as it is just to shoot you, I have to show some restraint. Apart from anything else, your death would generate too much paperwork. And I have got
soo
much on at the moment already. Know what it’s like in this job. Sometimes it’s just off-the-scale crazy.’

Not unlike yourself,
Max mused. Slowly, he gestured towards Eichel’s gun with his chin. The hammer wasn’t cocked and the safety was on. ‘You haven’t got the balls to shoot me,’ he snorted.

Adjusting his feet, Eichel wrapped his index finger around the trigger. ‘And you’re willing to test that theory, are you?’

In the distance, an S-Bahn train rumbled past. Eichel’s associates came to a halt behind the Porsche. Lifting the baseball bat from his shoulder, Liebherr began slapping it against the palm of his free hand, like a hoodlum in a bad B movie. No one seemed in a hurry to make the first move. Max tightened his grip on the Beretta.

‘Well?’

Reluctantly, the Kriminalinspektor fought the urge to just to draw the Beretta and shoot Eichel in the face. Max knew that he could easily drop the desk jockey before he could get off a round. The other three however, were a different matter entirely. Slowly, he took the Beretta from the back of his jeans and raised both hands in the air. Stepping forward, he carefully placed gun on the roof of the car.

‘Good.’ Eichel gestured towards the middle of the alley. ‘Now step well away from the Porsche and let’s get this over with.’

41

‘What the hell happened to you?’ Martin Marin barely managed to suppress a smile as he surveyed the multi-coloured mess of his underling’s face. ‘Did the remnants of the 36Boys finally manage to catch up with you outside the Sugar Lounge last night?’

‘Hardly,’ Max muttered. ‘The Sugar Lounge isn’t my kind of place these days, boss. I’m too old to be hanging out in nightclubs.’

‘You can say that again.’ This time the Kriminalkommissar did allow himself a quiet chuckle. ‘So what happened?’

‘I tripped over some bricks and fell into a pothole.’ Max made no effort to make his story in any way convincing.

For his part, Marin showed no interest in interrogating the obvious lie. ‘Were you drunk?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure? I heard that you ran off to Draxler’s to drown your sorrows and mourn your ex-colleague.’ Noting Max’s surprised reaction, Marin’s grin grew wider. ‘You’re not the only one with eyes and ears on the street, you know.’ The Kriminalkommissar pointed towards the grime-encrusted window that looked out on to Stresemannstraße. The wooden frame had decayed to the point where only the accumulated filth still kept the glass in place. ‘I know what’s going on out there as well as you do.’

You didn’t know what was going on behind that fucking McDonalds,
Max thought morosely.

‘You look like you went ten rounds with Mike Tyson.’

With three Mike Tysons, more like.
Max gingerly touched the plaster above his right eye. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks. Nothing’s broken.’ That, at least, was true. Eichel’s goons were practised in the art of short-term pain without causing long-term damage. After receiving a comprehensive beating, he had still been able to walk out of the alley and hail a cab to take him to the Emergency Room at Charité. After flashing his police ID at everyone in a white coat, he had only had to wait two hours to get seen. A series of tests and X-rays had concluded that his injuries had been limited to concussion, a couple of cracked ribs, a dislocated thumb and a dead leg. Sent home with an industrial tub of Diclofenac, he washed down a handful of pills with a large glass of cognac and crashed out. Ten hours later, he awoke, feeling sore, but remarkably chipper under the circumstances. After more pills and some black coffee, he made his way into police HQ at Stresemannstraße.

Bored by the conversation, Marin looked around helplessly for a cigar. ‘Am I going to be reading about this in the Morgenpost?’

‘No.’

‘Thank God for that.’

‘It was just an accident.’ Max felt a stab of irritation at his boss’s complete lack of concern. On the other hand, Marin’s amusement at this predicament had at least saved him a bollocking over his disappearance from the Terium-Kooy crime scene.
He’s written me off already,
Max realised
. As far as Marin’s concerned, I’m no longer here. I’ve already retired.

‘So you got drunk, fell down a hole and went to hospital?’

‘That’s about it,’ Max agreed.

Marin pulled open a succession of desk drawers, rooting around in each in turn as he looked in vain for a smoke. ‘And where was this pothole?’

Faking a cough, Max bought himself a second. ‘Around the corner from Draxler’s,’ he spluttered.

Marin grunted. ‘Make sure you let the Highways Department know. I’m sure they’ll want to fill it in.’ Finally giving up on his search for a cigar, he angrily slammed the drawers shut. ‘I hope you’re not going to sue the city.’

‘Sorry?’

‘For leaving a pothole for you to fall into.’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Good. You’re taking us for more than enough money already.’ Deprived of his nicotine fix, Marin appeared to be going into some kind of mini-convulsion. Either that or he was suffering from a bad case of wind. ‘What about the doctors?’ he groaned. ‘They said you were basically okay, and patched you up?’

‘Basically, yeah.’

‘Did you tell them?’

‘About what?’

‘About your –’ unable to find the word, Marin waved a hand in the air, ‘about your
condition
.’

Max realised he’d forgotten all about that. ‘They had my records,’ he muttered.

‘How do you feel, by the way?’

‘I’m fine.’

Marin nodded.

‘Absolutely fine.’

‘Is that normal? I mean, given what you’ve got?’

‘How the fuck should I know?’

Marin’s expression grew even more pained. ‘It’s just that –’

‘No one knows what’s supposed to happen,’ Max snapped. ‘That’s the whole point.’ Irritated beyond belief by his boss’s cluelessness, he went on to the attack. ‘By the way, did you tell Eichel about me?’

‘No.’ Marin looked genuinely surprised by the question. ‘Why?’

‘He made a joke about my pension. It sounded like he knew I was on the way out.’

Marin’s eyes narrowed. ‘When were you talking to Eichel?’

‘He spoke to me about Terium. He’s not happy about losing another officer.’

‘No, well, you wouldn’t be, would you?’ Marin scratched his neck. ‘But Eichel shouldn’t be talking to
my
officers without
my
knowledge and
my
permission.’

‘You’re sure you didn’t tell him?’ Max persisted.

Marin waved a finger in the air. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘This is a very serious matter. I hope that you can understand why I need to have my rights protected.’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Marin gestured towards the world outside his door. ‘Look, I would never breathe a word about this, but there was a process that had to be adhered to. And you know what police stations are like. People gossip like fish wives.’

Fish wives?
Max stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Maybe I need to have another word with my lawyer.’

The Kriminalkommissar’s expression instantly turned into a full-on scowl. ‘That hard-nosed bitch? I never want to see her again, if I can help it.’

Max mustered grinned. He would give Clara a call later on; she would doubtless be delighted to know that she had made such an impression on his boss.

‘Do you know how much she’s taken the city for on your behalf?’ Marin stormed, warming to his theme.

‘I do.’ Max smiled.

‘I wish I could get a sweet deal like that,’ Marin muttered. ‘I’d retire to a little place in the country. Spend my days fishing and playing golf.’

‘It wasn’t like I wanted to leave,’ Max reminded him.

‘No, I suppose not. Anyway, for our part, the matter has been handled very professionally. You should know perfectly well that I can always be relied upon to handle department business with the utmost discretion.’

Max adopted a poker face. ‘Of course.’

‘I don’t deal in tittle-tattle. I’m not about to go gossiping about your medical history to the likes of Eichel. Or anyone else, for that matter.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

Suspicion slowly replaced irritation on Marin’s face. ‘When you spoke to Eichel; what did he want to know about?’

‘He was after some reassurance,’ Max said blandly, ‘that this case is going to reach a successful conclusion before anyone else gets killed.’

‘Poor old Eichel,’ Marin chuckled, ‘his career is going down the toilet on this one. It’s such a shame.’

Max said nothing.

‘So, what did you tell him?’

‘I said that there’s still a job to be done. No one has actually been arrested yet.’

‘A fact that hasn’t escaped my notice.’

‘But we can do something about that,’ Max continued. ‘And we will. We’re still chasing down the big fish.’

Marin looked unconvinced.

‘Arnold Kappel. Kooy’s boss. The Scaramanga-type figure we talked about before.’

‘Yes, yes,’ Marin said hastily. ‘The big fish.’

‘Kappel. He’s still in Berlin.’
I hope.
‘Trying to recover his three million dollars. At the moment, he will be wondering why Kooy hasn’t brought it back.’

‘Why would he hang around,’ Marin looked longingly at the fat cigar stub that the cleaners had left in the ashtray on his desk, ‘when he’s got the famous Max Drescher on his tail?’

Don’t light up now
. ‘He wants his money.’

Marin flexed his fingers, desperate to grab the stub but, at the same time, reluctant to be seen grubbing around in the ashtray while there was someone in his office. ‘Are you sure he is definitely still here, in the city?’

Max nodded.

‘And, despite all the evidence to the contrary, you think you can bring him in?’

‘Yes,’ Max said firmly.

‘No more shootouts?’

Max folded his arms. ‘Not a single shot.’ He could see that Marin wanted to be convinced; all he had to do was stand his ground and wait for the Kriminalkommissar to give him his formal blessing.

‘How long will it take? The clock is running down for you.’

‘Things have been moving on,’ Max offered cryptically, ‘so not long.’ 

‘Indeed they have,’ Marin agreed, becoming more animated as he reflected on the spate of killings that had gotten them to this point. ‘Indeed they have.’

‘We’re reaching the endgame.’

‘The endgame?’ Marin suddenly roared, his arms seemingly taking on a life of their own as they began windmilling in front of his face. ‘The fucking endgame? This isn’t a pleasant game of chess in the park on a Sunday afternoon, you know.’

Discomfited by Marin’s most unfortunate u-turn, Max tried to sound conciliatory. ‘I know, boss.’

‘This is total craziness,’ Marin spluttered. ‘You’re turning this city into the wild west.’

‘But –’

Waving away Max’s protests, the Kriminalkommissar leaned across his desk, jabbing an angry finger in the air. ‘Are you trying to double the murder rate all on your own? For God’s sake. Where will it all end?’

‘When we get Kappel,’ Max said quietly. Taking a deep breath, he exhaled slowly.
Don’t get drawn into an argument,
he told himself.
You should be used to Marin’s mercurial temperament by now. Stay calm.

Marin shook his head. ‘No. I’m crazy for even letting you sit there and spin me this fantastical tale.’

Fantastical
? Careful not to raise an eyebrow, Max continued to focus on his breathing.

‘All this talk is just more hot air. Easy enough to say and, of course,
you
won’t be around to pick up the pieces.’

‘We
will
get him. I promise you, boss, I will do this one last thing. And I will do it right.’

‘
Pfff.
And why shouldn’t I just kick you out, right now? Put you on sick leave for the last few days before you retire.’

Max thought about it for a moment. ‘Two reasons.’

‘Oh?’ Marin’s eyebrows shot up so fast, it looked like they were about to fly off his face.  ‘As many as that?’

‘Two is plenty.’

‘Go on then.’ Folding his arms, Marin settled back into his chair. ‘What are they?’

‘First, we’re too close to give up now.’

‘According to you,’ Marin groused. ‘What’s the second reason?’

Max lifted himself out of the chair and turned towards the door. ‘Second, I’m gonna do it anyway.’

‘
Pffff.
’ Reaching out of his chair, Marin grabbed the cigar stub out of the ashtray and threw it at the retreating form of the Kriminalinspektor. ‘That’s the problem with you, Drescher,’ he hissed, ‘you always think that for some mysterious reason the rules don’t apply to you. In your own mind, you’re somehow
special
.’

Fuck you too.
Max watched the remains of the cigar fly past his head, hit the door and bounce onto the floor, coming to rest in front of his left foot. He aimed a kick at it and missed. Stepping closer, he rolled the sole of his shoe over the stub, grinding into the carpet until he was sure that even Marin wouldn’t be able to smoke it.

‘Lucky for you,’ Marin continued, ignoring his officer’s wilful vandalism, ‘I’m happy to let you walk out of here miraculously unscathed by the insane fuck-up on Lübecker Straße. But it stops right here, right now.’

Grunting, Max wiped the last remaining pieces of tobacco from his shoe.

‘If you weren’t sick, you’d be looking at disciplinary hearings from here to the next century and quite possibly the century after that. Do you realise how many reports are outstanding on this? Internal affairs would happily lynch you if they could; they will still want an interview but they know that you’re basically untouchable – in more ways than one.’

‘I told you,’ Max turned to face his boss, his face flushed with anger, ‘I’m not sick.’

‘Under normal circumstances, you would be kicked out on your ear without a damn pfennig,’ Marin snarled. ‘And even your smartass dyke lawyer wouldn’t be able to save you.’ Grabbing a file from his in-tray, the Kriminalkommissar pulled out a sheaf of documents and began scanning them carefully, signalling that the meeting was over. ‘Do what you want over the next few days, but no more Scaramanga. Just leave that shit alone. You’ve caused far too much trouble already. And that goes for your sergeant as well. I want no more fuck ups from either of you, understood?’