A Slow Death (Max Drescher Book 1) (7 page)

11

Having packed Michael Rahn off to Charlottenburg, Max made his way to
Adalbertstrasse. Slipping into the
Rote Rose bar, a nondescript haunt of low-level civil servants and other office workers, the Kriminalinspektor ordered a black coffee from the barman and took up residence at a table by the window. After a few moments of half-hearted people-watching, he retrieved his cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket. A waiter arrived with his coffee and small glass of water, placing the bill under Max’s nose just in case he missed it. 

Don’t be so pushy, pal, or you won’t get a tip.
Taking a sip of the water, he lit up an HB and glanced at his watch. ‘How late are you going to be this time?’ he wondered.

As if by magic, Clara Ozil appeared at his shoulder. She gave him a peck on the cheek and called to the hovering waiter to bring her a pot of green tea. The man nodded and skipped behind the bar, happy to have at least a couple of customers during the post-lunch lull.

‘You’re late,’ Max grumbled.

‘So were you,’ Clara grinned, pulling up a seat and sitting down. Illuminated by the mid-afternoon sunshine, she radiated vitality. Her modest attire, a white blouse underneath a cheap grey business suit, seemed only to enhance her beauty, all pale skin, firm lines and raven black hair.

She was a truly magnificent woman, there were no two ways about it.

Not for the first time, Max reflected on the fact that Clara was simply far too sexy to be a lawyer. Catching him staring, she gave him an amused grin. ‘What are you looking at? If I didn’t know better, I might think you are checking me out.’

‘You know better,’ Max laughed.

‘Yes, I do, fortunately for you.’ The waiter appeared with her pot of tea, along with a cup and saucer. Clara quickly handed over a 10DM note, waving away the offer of change.

‘Are you in a hurry?’ Max asked.

‘A bit. How much time do we need?’

‘I dunno. Not much, I suppose.’

‘Okay.’ Clara carefully poured some of the tea into her cup. ‘So what did you want to talk about?’

Clara Ozil was his union lawyer. They had first met several years earlier, when DPoIG, the Deutsche Polizeigewerkschaft, the police union, had sent her to represent the Kriminalinspektor at a disciplinary hearing. Max had been accused of throwing an uncooperative drug dealer down three flights of stairs during a raid on one of the kieze’s more troublesome squats. She had breezed in an hour before the hearing, wearing cowboy boots with heels that almost made her as tall as him, a knee length denim skirt and a sleeveless white shirt.
Sweet Jesus Christ,
he thought,
as he looked her up and down,
the old buggers on the panel will all have heart attacks when they see this babe.

‘Were you mentally undressing me?’ were the first words out of her mouth as she sat down next to him in the waiting room.

‘Me?’ Max burst out laughing. ‘No, not really.’

Clara frowned slightly and then shot him a heart-stopping look with her big, brown eyes. ‘There are only two basic things that you need to understand about me, Kriminalinspektor –’

‘Only two,’ Max quipped, knowing already that he was going to like this woman. ‘I should be able to manage that.’

‘We’ll see about that.’ Clara allowed herself almost half a smile as she pulled a thin blue file from her bag.

‘What are they, then?’

‘First, I’m your legal representative – you need to help me to help you. That means full disclosure.’ She gestured towards the door behind which the disciplinary panel were busy conferring. ‘When we go in there, I need to be able to argue your case without having to worry about that lot in there being able to blindside me.’

‘Understood,’ Max nodded. ‘You’ll get full disclosure at all times.’
Maybe.

‘Good.’ Opening the file, Clara scribbled some notes in pencil on Max’s charge sheet.

‘I’m a very open guy.’

‘Glad to hear it.’ Keeping her head bowed, the lawyer flicked through the papers in the file.

‘Okay.’ Max pulled at the collar of his shirt. ‘So you are a no-nonsense legal eagle?’

The twitch at the corner of her lips told him that she had registered the barb.

‘So, what’s the second thing I need to be aware of about you?’

Looking up, she gave him a sly smile. ‘The second thing is that I’m gay. I’m not into guys, so there’s no need to start hitting on me.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes,’ she said firmly.

Max leaned across the table and lowered his voice. ‘Me too.’

‘Ha. I’ve heard that one before, as well.’ Clara flipped the file closed. ‘And now is hardly the time to be trying it on, is it?’

‘I’m not trying it on, honest.’

‘Look, I’ve heard it all, okay? Guys will say anything to try and get into your pants. It’s extremely boring. Not to mention inappropriate.’

Sitting back on the sofa, Max held up his hands. ‘No, no, it’s true.’

Shaking her head, Clara re-opened the file and once again scanned the papers inside. Max could see that she had been making copious notes. Folding his arms, he adopted the temporary persona of a well-behaved schoolboy.

After a while, Clara looked up. If anything, the dismay on her face made her look even more beautiful. ‘It seems,’ she said finally, ‘that we have a fairly basic problem here.’

Max tried to look surprised, if not affronted. ‘Which is what?’

‘It’s just that,’ Clara broke into a wide grin, ‘on any objective reading of the evidence, even taking into consideration the possibility of exaggeration in the testimony of the victim –’

‘Gross exaggeration,’ Max interjected. ‘Everyone knows that the guy is a lying scumbag.’

Clara nodded. ‘Even taking into consideration the possibility – or even the likelihood – of
gross
exaggeration in the testimony of the victim,’ she conceded graciously, ‘it seems that you, Kriminalinspektor, are as guilty as sin.’

Max shrugged apologetically.

‘On the other hand,’ she said, glancing back at her notes, ‘you
are
an officer of the law. And, surprising as it may seem, you would appear to have an exemplary service record over many years.’

Sitting forward, Max gave a slight bow. ‘Thank you.’

‘The complainant, on the other is a complete scumbag with a criminal record longer than the Landwehrkanal.’ This time she gave him a full-on smile that was so dazzling that Max almost swooned. ‘So I’m sure that we can manage to sort something out.’

Little more than an hour later, they were standing on the steps of the Polizeipräsidium in the weak spring sunshine. The Kriminalinspektor had been cleared of all charges after his brilliant young lawyer had expertly discredited the evidence of both the drug dealer and also the nervous young Schutzpolizei officer who had originally claimed to have seen Max kick his victim several times in the head.

‘Ah.’ Max breathed in a lungful of cold air and smiled. ‘It is truly wonderful to be a free man with a clean reputation. Thank you.’

Clara Ozil stood on the step above him, looking down. ‘A word of advice Kriminalinspektor Drescher –’

‘Yes?’

‘Please don’t do anything like that again.’

‘Of course not,’ Max lied. ‘Now, let’s go and get a drink to celebrate.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I told you, you can’t hit on me.’

‘Come on,’ he said, grabbing her hand and pulling her down the steps. ‘I’m sure that you can manage to look after yourself.’

Max looked away while Clara dabbed at the corner of her eyes with a napkin. Over the years, he had never seen her react like that before and was touched by her show of emotion.

‘Oh, Max.’ Standing up, she reached across the table and hugged him tight.

‘Okay, okay.’ Half pulled out of his chair, Max felt himself start to blush. Once Clara’s grip finally began to loosen, he slowly sat back down.

A look of anguish had etched itself onto Clara’s face. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Fine,’ Max shrugged, draining his glass. ‘I feel absolutely fine.’ Playing with his cigarette packet, he resisted the temptation to pull out another smoke. But it was a habit that Clara detested and he resisted. ‘Really. Ever since I got the news, I’ve felt on top form, for some weird reason.’

She looked up at him with immense sadness in her eyes. ‘But, emotionally, I mean.’

Max let out a breath. ‘Shit happens. You know me. I’m not the kind of guy to wallow in self-pity. I’m not going to start going round wringing my hands and crying ‘why me?’ Why not?’

Forcing a facsimile of a smile on to her face she nodded. ‘How did you find out?’

‘I took a test.’

Clara grimaced. ‘It might have been better not to, from a professional point of view at least.’

‘I wanted to know,’ Max shrugged. ‘I have seen three close friends die in the last year.’ He turned his gaze away from Clara and out of the window. ‘One of them was the most boring guy you ever met in your life. I doubt if he even got laid more than twice a year. I thought:
if he can get it, I sure as hell can.
I wanted to know.’

‘I can understand that,’ Clara said sadly. ‘I think I would want to know too.’

‘How’s Peter taking it?’

‘Pff.’ Max made a face; there was no need to get into
that
. ‘The reason I wanted to meet up; I need you to help me as my union rep.’

‘Okay.’

‘I need to know the legal position. Do I have to tell the Kriminalpolizei? What are my rights?’

Clara thought about it for a moment or two, taking the lid off the pot, giving the leaves a gentle stir, before pouring some more tea into her cup. Placing the teaspoon back on the saucer, she lifted the cup to her lips and sipped tentatively. ‘On paper?’ she asked, placing the cup back on the saucer. ‘Or in reality?’

Max made a face. ‘Both, I suppose.’

‘Well, legally you are not supposed to be discriminated against either because of your sexuality or your health.’

‘But –’

‘But you are obliged to inform your employer of anything that might impede your ability to do your job.’

‘I can do the job just fine,’ Max snapped.

‘I’m sure that’s right,’ Clara replied, ‘but others might not see it like that.’

‘So what should I do?’ Max hissed. ‘Resign? Just because I might get sick one day? Everybody’s gonna get sick one day.’

Clara patted him gently on the shoulder. ‘No, no. I’m not saying that at all. Now is definitely not the time to do anything hasty. Let me make a few enquiries. It might be that they’d give you a big payoff just to leave quietly.’

Max shook his head violently. ‘What the hell would I do with a payoff? Anyway, without the job I’d be bored senseless.’

‘I know.’ Clara finished her tea and got to her feet. ‘This is just about finding out where we stand on this. I expect that it’s all a bit of a grey area at the moment. That should give us the opportunity to get what we want out of this.’

I just want to be left alone,
Max thought grumpily. But he knew that Clara was right. There was no point just sitting idly speculating about what might happen.

She looked at him carefully. ‘What
do
you want, Max?’

‘Me?’ he shrugged. ‘Nothing much, just a nice, slow death.’

A look of confusion passed across her elegant features. ‘A slow death?’

‘You know what they say,’ Max grinned, ‘living long is just dying slow.’

‘The philosopher cop. Let me make a few discreet enquiries and see what I can find out.’

‘Okay.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Clara smiled, reaching across the table and kissing him on the forehead, ‘We will sort this out. I’ll see what I can find out and call you at home tonight.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And Max,’ she said, already moving away from the table, ‘if you haven’t already, you should think about making a will.’

12

Head bowed, with his hands in his pockets, the Kriminalinspektor made his way across town, lost in a procession of random thoughts. Almost stepping on a dog pawing at a bag of rubbish that had split open in the gutter, he wrinkled his nose in disgust.
We could so with a short, sharp downpour,
he mused as he watched the mutt wander off in search of alternative sustenance
.
Even those streets that weren’t covered in rubbish were sticky with an array of substances – food waste, spilt alcohol and God knows what – and the place was beginning to smell.
Who was it who said ‘it’s funny how a little rain cleans the streets’? Was it Springsteen?
For several moments, he struggled to place the lyric fragment. Either way, the city could do with a clean. “Racing in the Street” started playing in his head and he started humming along, happy to let the Boss take the troubles of the city from his shoulders, if only for a few minutes.

After five minutes’ of tuneless singing, he finally spied his destination. On the border of Schöneberg and Kreuzberg, Kazan’s was a family bakery with a small café at the front. Erthan Kazan had arrived in Berlin with his family in 1972 and opened the shop two years later. Almost two decades later, the place was a local landmark. At most times of the day or night, you would find a small group of patrons enjoying the baklava, washed down with small cups of black coffee thick enough to tar the roads. Beyond the confines of SO36, discerning Berliners would come from as far away as Steglitz and Zehlendorf in order to purchase Erthan’s sweet pastries.

As he strolled down
Goebenstraße
, Max took his hands from his pockets and raised his gaze to the buildings on either side of the street. He was dismayed to see that the neo-Nazi graffitists had been out again. `
Deutschland den Deutschen – Auslander Aus'
had been sprayed in red paint over the closed grill of a shoe shop that had gone bust the year before. ‘Germany for the Germans – Foreigners Out,’ Max mumbled to himself, ‘how very original.’ He looked at the handwriting, spindly and childlike, and shook his head. ‘At least they’ve managed to spell it correctly this time, I suppose.’ Continuing down the street, he started counting the number of swastikas that had been sprayed on successive buildings, giving up when he reached double figures.

Along with its baklava, Kazan’s was known for being the HQ of the 36Boys. Getting closer, the Kriminalinspektor recognized a couple of vaguely familiar figures loitering on the sidewalk outside the bakery. Ignoring them, he stepped through the open door, taking a moment to let his eyes adjust to the gloom inside. Behind the counter, a girl, one of Erthan’s daughters, he supposed, or maybe a niece, studiously ignored him as she studied her fake nails. High on the wall, an ancient-looking TV set was showing a soap opera. By the window, a couple of old codgers, their heads stuck in copies of yesterday’s
Hurriyet
, caught up on news from home. The man that he wanted to see, however, was sitting alone at a table towards the back.

Volkan Cin looked up from his coffee and gave Max a crooked smile. ‘Kriminalinspektor,’ he called out, all fake bonhomie and supressed malice, ‘to what do we owe this pleasure?’  Dressed in jeans and a Ramones T-shirt, under a pristine black leather biker’s jacket, Cin looked like the very caricature of a pretty boy, street-level, gang leader. Max, however, knew that there was rather more to the boy than just cheekbones and attitude. An accountancy graduate of the Free University, Volkan was being groomed to take over his father’s rapidly growing construction business. Kerem Cin was one of the pillars of Berlin’s Turkish community. As well as being a successful businessman, however, the old man was an astute enough father to realise that he needed to allow his only son some time and space in which to grow up a little. As long as Volkan kept up with his studies, Kerem was happy to look the other way as far as the 36Boys were concerned. Cin Senior had taken the view – rightly in Max’s opinion – that the gang would prove to be a youthful distraction that the boy would outgrow, and sooner rather than later. By the time he was forty, Volkan would probably be a fat, cigar-smoking CDU supporter like his father, living in Wilmersdorf and sending his driver round to Kazan’s once a week to pick up his baklava for him.

Approaching the table, Max eyed the plate of pastries in front of Cin, filled with chopped pistachios and drenched in honey syrup, and felt his stomach begin to rumble.

Volkan followed his gaze and grinned. ‘The baklava here is
excellent
.’ Waving an arm in the air, he shouted at the girl behind the counter. ‘Neslihan. Bring the inspector here something to eat. And some coffee.’

With some reluctance, the girl looked up from her nails and reached for a plate from the pile on the counter.

Cin gestured for Max to take a seat. ‘Social visit?’

Max shook his head. ‘Hardly.’

‘Why not? You live round here, don’t you?’

It was supposed to be a threat –
we know where you live
– rather than a question but Max shrugged it off with a tired smile. ‘That’s not a crime, is it?’

‘No, I suppose not. Even cops have to live somewhere, I suppose.’ He made a point of holding Max’s gaze. ‘So, have you come to tell us that you’ve caught the fascist bastards who killed poor Hakan Yaman?’

‘No.’ Shaking his head, Max gave a rueful grin as he pulled up a chair and sat down. Hakan Yaman was a twenty-two-year-old engineering student who had been kicked to death by a bunch of skinheads a few blocks from where they were sitting, in the middle of a busy shopping street in broad daylight. Four weeks later, the police had made precisely zero arrests. ‘That’s not my case.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘What do you hear?’

Volkan shifted in his seat. ‘Why do you ask, if it’s not your case?’

Wearied by the boy’s inexhaustible supply of hostility, Max changed tack. ‘I’m here about Kaspar Wuffli.’

A look of genuine bemusement spread across Cin’s face. ‘Who?’

‘Kaspar Wuffli.  He was assaulted coming out of the Sugar Lounge the other night by a couple of your guys.’ Max gestured at the two clowns sitting at a nearby table, Cin’s omnipresent teenage lieutenants, Resul Keskin and Serhat Khedira. ‘Maybe it was those two.’ Taking his cue, the skinny Khedira simultaneously flipped Max the finger and let rip with a loud fart.

‘Serhat,’ Volkan scowled, ‘for fuck’s sake.’

Keskin, a fat kid with a teardrop tattoo under his left eye, giggled like an overgrown schoolgirl.

‘Kaspar Wuffli,’ Max repeated.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’ Volkan downed his coffee in one rapid jerk and carefully placed the cup back on its saucer. ‘Surely, Kriminalinspektor, you have more important things to worry about than this? The city is collapsing about your ears – fascists have the run of the streets, people are being murdered all over the place – and all you are worried about is some little fag who got a bloody nose.’

‘He ended up in hospital.’ The girl appeared at the table, placed the coffee and pastry in front of him and beat a quick retreat as Max mumbled ‘thank you.’

‘These things happen,’ Volkan continued airily, ‘it’s the fascists who’re into that kind of thing. I’m no history student, but didn’t your lot gas the queers during the war? And they say that the Nazis were all bad.’

‘Maybe,’ Max groaned, ‘if it had been a
Turkish
fag who had been beaten up the other night, you would be more co-operative.’

‘There are no Turkish fags,’ Volkan laughed, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, ‘apart from maybe those two.’ Ignoring the protests from the table behind him, he returned his gaze to Max. ‘And you know perfectly well that a
Turkish
fag could be found face down in the gutter with a bullet in his head and no one at Stresemannstraße would lift a finger to do anything about it.’

‘The point is,’ Max said patiently, ‘I want you to back off.’

‘I told you,’ Volkan hissed, ‘it was nothing to do with us.’

‘Okay, okay,’ Max held up a hand. ‘But I would have thought that you would have more important things to be getting on with as well, Volkan. I mean, surely you have better things to do than kick the crap out of the likes of poor Kaspar and rob him of a few marks.’

Putting on a look of mock surprise, the leader of the 36Boys, spread his arms wide. ‘Kriminalinspektor, you know that we run nothing more than a social club here.’

‘Please,’ Max looked around the dingy café, as if looking at it for this for the first time, ‘spare me the bullshit. You lot are responsible for at least half of all the anti-social behaviour around here.’

‘Hear that boys?’ Cin turned to his associates, his grin growing so wide that it looked like his entire face might disappear inside it. ‘We’re
anti-
social. Who’d have thought it?’

Keskin and Khedira grunted their amusement, while keeping their eyes firmly on the cop in their midst.

‘And here was I thinking we were just poor immigrants, trying to stand up for our rights.’

That was your parents,
Max thought glumly.
You lot are just a bunch of idiots.
In the face of Volkan’s childish play-acting, he felt his last reserves of patience and humour quickly evaporate. A dark thought clouded his brain:
maybe the boy wouldn’t manage to grow out of this nonsense after all.
He jabbed an angry finger across the table. ‘No more muggings, alright?’ Grabbing his cup, he downed his coffee in one.

Picking up his fork, Cin toyed with his pastry. ‘Or what?’

Keskin let out another giggle.

Or I’ll stab you in the heart with that fucking fork.
‘Or we’ll come down on you hard.’

‘Tell you what, I’ll call my boys off when you catch Hakan Yaman’s killers. How about that?’ Shovelling a piece of pastry into his mouth, Volkan eyed Max defiantly.

‘I didn’t come here to do a deal.’ Pushing back his chair, Max got to his feet.

‘Hey.’ Volkan waved at him with his fork. ‘You didn’t touch your baklava.’

‘It’s not my kind of thing,’ Max shrugged. He dropped a handful of coins in Neslihan’s tips jar, before heading for the door. ‘I don’t have a sweet tooth.’

‘Too bad,’ Cin shouted after him, ‘it’s really good.’