Babylon Berlin (33 page)

A pitiless anxiety slowly but inexorably took hold of him. He was almost trembling, but there were men gazing at him, mesmerised, and awaiting instructions. Detective Inspector Gereon Rath was here to issue orders. Very well, he didn’t want to disappoint them. He would keep them so busy they didn’t have time to think.

‘Henning, bring the camera down here,’ he cried. ‘Before we start uncovering everything, we need photographs of the
status quo
.’

The assistant detective had strapped the camera round his shoulders and was labouring down the embankment, almost slipping in the damp topsoil.

Rath turned to the foreman. ‘Is there somewhere we could talk in private?’

Shortly afterwards they stood in the neighbouring rear courtyard in front of a trailer that had been secured with a new padlock. Two kids were playing hopscotch on the pavement.

‘Had to park it here,’ the foreman explained. ‘No space on the site itself. And what happens? ‘Course: it gets broken into.’ The construction worker fiddled awkwardly with the key in the lock. ‘Wouldn’t surprise me if it was one of the low-lives around here. Anti-socials, all of them.’

He nodded disgustedly in the direction of the two children. Rath didn’t have to ask him to continue. ‘A bike was nicked, and about ten marks are missing from our drinks kitty. Your colleagues were already here on
Sonnabend
, but they didn’t find anything.’

Rath felt uneasy at the small, rickety table. The foreman sat opposite, with the stenographer between them. Christel Temme was approaching fifty and had nothing in common with Charly. Nevertheless, she took her job seriously, which consisted of taking everything they said down in shorthand. Beyond that she wasn’t concerned about anything; she left the thinking to the horses, or in this case, the CID.

First, Rath took down the man’s details – Edgar Lauffer, 57 years of age, resident in Danziger Strasse – then the real questioning could begin.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Let’s start again at the beginning. How and when did you discover that something wasn’t right with the construction site?’

The foreman scratched his head. ‘Well, this morning, of course. I hope you’re not after an exact time?’

‘If possible, yes.’

‘We start at six. First I go through what needs to be done that day with the team and then I divide them up. So that everyone knows what they should be doing. Don’t want anyone to be standing around looking stupid in the corner, do we?’

Rath fiddled with his pen and looked up at the trailer roof, while the stenographer tirelessly noted every syllable.

‘Should I carry on?’ Lauffer seemed a little confused.

‘Please do.’ Rath could sound about as merciful as a Grand Inquisitor. Lauffer began to stutter.

‘Well… I think it must have been around quarter to seven when I went down to the excavation and saw the whole mess.’

‘What did you see?’

‘It was the concrete… it was all… how can I put it… it looked more like the High Alps than a foundation.’

‘And when did you actually pour the foundation?’

‘Friday. I know that for a fact. It was after the public holiday.’

‘And on Saturday… I mean
Sonnabend
, the concrete was still fine?’

Lauffer began kneading his hat. His face told of his guilty conscience. It wasn’t just that he had used the break-in to pocket the contents of the drinks kitty; Rath suspected that the construction workers had spent most of their Saturday drinking beer and playing skat. At any rate, they hadn’t made great strides with the building. It was the only way he could explain the foreman’s embarrassment.

‘So?’ Rath probed. ‘Was the concrete OK on
Sonnabend
?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘But you were working here.’

‘Yes. But there was the break-in, the whole kerfuffle.’

‘You didn’t take a look at the foundation?’

‘I looked to see if the concrete had set. It had rained the previous night, remember?’

‘But the whole mess, as you just called it, you hadn’t noticed it by then?’

‘No, I suppose not, but…’

‘So the corpse could have been deposited in the concrete on Sa…
Sonnabend
, or even Sunday.’

Lauffer shrugged his shoulders. ‘Don’t know. Only if someone opened that corner back there up again, chucked the corpse in and re-poured. It was already beginning to set on
Sonnabend
.’

‘But it’s possible. You just said you didn’t notice anything about the concrete on
Sonnabend
.’

‘No, that’s right. Didn’t see the whole mess until this morning.’ The relief on Lauffer’s face was palpable. ‘It wasn’t one of my lads. It was a murderer who ripped up all our good work. They stop at nothing these days, these criminals!’

Rath felt pleased with himself as he left the trailer to take a look at the progress of the salvage operation. The conversation with the foreman couldn’t have gone any better. In the excavation they were still retrieving the corpse from its concrete grave. Rath had assigned the task to Jänicke, and he was directing the cops, who were making a mess of their uniforms as they went. They had to make sure they didn’t damage the corpse, and were going about their business carefully with hammer and chisel. From time to time there was a suppressed curse. The concrete was hard but still damp, and it was leaving ugly stains on their blue uniforms. The construction workers looked on, grinning furtively. The body of the deceased had already been uncovered; next would come the head. Slowly but surely, they whittled away the scraps and lumps of concrete.

Rath joined the others and once again had the uncomfortable feeling that all eyes were focused on him.
That’s completely normal
, he told himself,
after all, you’re the one who’s leading
the investigation.
For a brief moment, all eyes were averted as a man in a grey coat, holding a leather bag in his right hand and a hat in his left, made his way across the site, teetering through the mud like a stork. Dr Schwartz was recognisable from a long way off. The pathologist hadn’t thought to bring gumboots either.

‘Good morning, Doctor,’ he greeted the pathologist, the latter gazing round searchingly, no doubt on the lookout for a familiar face from Homicide. Rath proffered a hand and came towards him. ‘Detective Inspector Gereon Rath. I’m in charge of the investigation.’

Schwartz examined him closely. ‘Haven’t we met?’

‘Only briefly. Hannoversche Strasse. I brought you two victims of the May disturbances.’

The penny dropped. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, not showing the emotion this memory aroused. ‘Then you enjoyed seeing those corpses so much that you just had to find some more?’

‘It’s good to enjoy your work.’

‘You said it, my friend, you said it.’

Schwartz climbed into the excavation whistling a funeral march. A strange customer, Rath thought, and followed suit.

Despite the traces of concrete, the face of the deceased was now visible, even if the concrete had played havoc with its physiognomy, and the missing left eye made it seem like a grotesque mask.

Nevertheless, one of the uniformed officers who had helped dig him up seemed to recognise the dead man despite his disfigurements. Stürickow, the first sergeant from the 87th precinct, was flabbergasted.

‘Well, I’ll be damned,’ he cried and took a step back. ‘If it isn’t Saint Josef! No wonder, he was always going to come to a sticky end!’ He shook his head in disbelief. When he noticed the curiosity and surprise on the faces of those around him, he shrugged and added by way of explanation: ‘I’ve known him since primary school.’

Saint Josef. That was the name Josef Wilczek had been given, since he wasn’t just known as a highly versatile crook, but also as a devout Catholic. He didn’t have any family, but Sergeant Stürickow and Wilczek’s landlady could both identify him beyond any doubt at the morgue. By the time Jänicke provided the news from Hannoversche Strasse, Rath had long since got hold of Wilczek’s file from the records office, and spread its contents across Erwin Roeder’s abandoned desk. Ironically, it was exactly the same office that Charly had pulled him into a few days before. It wasn’t especially big, but it had a distinct advantage over Rath’s old office in E Division. Namely, he had it to himself. Even the outer office was abandoned, as Roeder’s secretary had gone on holiday, most likely to type up the ex-policeman’s new manuscript.

ED had photographed Wilczek from all sides. At the time, this peculiar saint had sported a moustache. The photographer had clearly forgotten to say
smile, please
, and Wilczek was gazing into the lens like someone who was about to gobble up small children as soon as the photo call ended.

Rath stared at the file as if it had landed on his desk from a bad dream. He had suspected it ever since he’d set foot on the site that morning. A single glance had been enough to dispel all doubt: it was the same construction site. On that fateful night, he had simply approached from the other side. From the south, and the rear courtyard where the trailer stood.

The realisation had hit him square in the face and he hoped that no-one noticed how nervous he was. Or at least that they had put it down to the fact that Detective Inspector Gereon Rath had been plunged in at the deep end when Buddha charged him with leading the investigation. Rath still couldn’t quite believe it. Was that fate he could hear laughing behind the nearest door? His first official homicide case in this city, the case he had been waiting for – and a corpse that Detective Inspector Gereon Rath himself had buried. Well, congratulations!

Even in the seclusion of Roeder’s tiny office, the thought persisted that the whole thing could be a trap. Why had Gennat sent him, of all people, out to the dead man? Was it really just because of a shortage of people in A Division? Or had everyone known about it for a long time and were simply waiting for him to make a mistake? Whenever he considered it more closely, however, he always came to the same conclusion: no-one could know anything. He just had to calm down and bring his paranoia under control.

His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Either it was Gennat, or one of his colleagues reporting from the field. No-one else could have access to the new number. Sullenly, he reached for the receiver.

‘Yes?’

‘Good afternoon, Inspector! Herr Heinrich was kind enough to give me your number. It’s Michael Lingen from
Tageblatt
here. I have a few questions if you don’t mind…’

Which fucking idiot had given the press his number?

There was no reason to be friendly. ‘And what if I do mind?’ Rath said. ‘It just so happens that I’m rather busy.’

‘Please pardon the interruption, Inspector. Naturally you still have work to do during your final days at the station. But I thought – well, ultimately it’s in your best interests.’

Your final days at the station?
What the hell was that supposed to mean? Was the guy trying to blackmail him?

‘What do you mean by that?’ Inside, Rath had put up his fists.

‘I mean exactly what I said.’ The journalist didn’t sound like he was trying to take him for a ride. Actually he sounded rather offended. ‘Ultimately,’ the man continued, ‘you must want
Tageblatt
to bestow a favourable review on your new book, Herr Roeder!’

Rath didn’t have to think long before alighting on a suitable response.

‘Do you think a Prussian official can be bought?’ he intoned. The
faux
outrage came easily to him. ‘Do you think I’m going to say a damn thing to a hack like you?’

Rath slammed the receiver into the cradle. The new book by his ex-colleague Roeder was unlikely to come off too well in
Tageblatt
now.

The picture on his desk hauled him back to reality. Josef Wilczek was gazing at him furiously, as if reproaching him for his violent death. The face on the photograph seemed familiar somehow. It was easier to make out than the disfigured profile of his corpse; easier, too, than the face Rath had seen that night under the shadow of the brim of his hat.

Perhaps it was the moustache that made the difference. At any rate, Rath had the feeling that he had encountered the man before the fatal incident, but no matter which way he examined Wilczek’s features he couldn’t for the life of him say when and where their paths might have crossed. On Marlow’s patch, perhaps? Or even before that? Rath pushed the thought aside. It wouldn’t get him anywhere right now. He had probably just dreamed of the dead man once too often.

There were more urgent things to worry about. One way or another he would have to be damn careful. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake, which, paradoxically in this case, meant making as many mistakes as possible. Mistakes that made solving the case impossible without putting him in a negative light. If Rath wasn’t going to solve this case, then he needed to do so in an intelligent way, that is, in a plausible way so that no-one thought he was a rank amateur, or worse still, became suspicious and began to surmise the truth.

He gave a start as the telephone rang.

‘Inspector Rath, CID,’ he said.

‘
Nibelungen publishing house
,’ he heard a woman say in a voice that seemed to brook no argument. ‘Doctor Hildebrandt, outer office, I’m connecting you now…’

Before Rath could say anything, he was put through. The male voice on the other end of the line was one he hadn’t heard before.

‘Well, my dear fellow! Still hard at it these last few days? I’m sitting here with the final proof. The part where you mention the Jewification of the police force…’

Rath broke him off. ‘Doctor Hildebrandt I presume?’

Silence at the other end of the line. The publisher needed a moment or two to compose himself.

‘Who am I speaking to?’ he asked after clearing his throat.

‘CID, Berlin. If you want to report a crime, then you’ve telephoned the right place. If not, I recommend you use another line…’

Dr Hildebrandt hung up.

Rath let the receiver click back into place. The face on his predecessor’s desk was staring at him as if to say: Hey! Forget Roeder! Concentrate on me! This is
my
file we’re talking about!