Babylon Berlin (36 page)

Zörgiebel moved towards the exit where he was ushered out of the room unharmed. Rath gazed after his boss until he disappeared.

Zörgiebel had miscalculated. The press conference had been a disaster, and yet everything had started so innocuously. He had told them about the dead man in the concrete and handed over to the investigating officer. Rath had presented the facts soberly and objectively, without drawing any conclusions. Instead he had outlined the investigation in such a way that the press couldn’t bypass the story of a gangland shoot-out. The pack had dutifully swallowed it, exactly as Zörgiebel intended. Everything had gone according to plan until Rath invited questions from the floor. They had come thick and fast, only not one of them was directed at the investigating officer or focused on the Wilczek case. Instead they were all directed at the commissioner, and focused exclusively on
Aquarius
. Finally, they had turned to the May disturbances. In seconds, the whole press conference had been tipped on its head and Zörgiebel confronted with precisely the topics he had been hoping to avoid. His evasive answers did nothing to appease the reporters, and, in the end, he had shut down the press conference.

That was when they had really decided to go for him.

Now they were looking at Rath expectantly. The room had fallen silent, and the pack had been at least partially tamed.

‘Please, ask away,’ Rath said.

A reporter raised his hand, but one of his less well-brought up colleagues beat him to it.

‘Over a week ago in this very room we were shown photos of a mutilated corpse that police had dredged from the Landwehr canal. We dutifully published these photos and now we have a right to be informed about the progress of the investigation.’

‘Exactly! There must have been some progress.’

‘Here, here! You can’t just…’

Rath raised a conciliatory hand.

‘I must disappoint you. I know nothing about this particular homicide investigation. Nevertheless, I am happy, as far as possible, to answer any questions you might have regarding the Wilczek case.’

The noise level rose again as Rath smiled pleasantly but firmly into the room. He could be as slippery as an eel when he wanted, and this gang of crazed telltales didn’t deserve anything better.

‘You can’t fob us off like that!’

‘I’m afraid that I can only reasonably answer questions on the case that I am working on. I apologise for any inconvenience, but let’s not get carried away.’

He heard a few isolated murmurs of protest, which merged increasingly with a more general chuntering. The reporters pushed off towards the door, and the room emptied quicker than a bathtub whose plug had been pulled.

In no time, they all disappeared and the calm in the conference room seemed almost eerie. He climbed down from the podium. Only Berthold Weinert had remained by the door, and the journalist grinned as he greeted his neighbour.

‘Congratulations, Gereon,’ he said. ‘I haven’t been fobbed off so artfully in a long time. First you smuggle the commissioner out of the room and then you play the fool.’

Rath didn’t take the bait. ‘Aren’t you a political journalist? Since when are you interested in criminal investigations?’

‘Crime, politics, what’s the difference? All jokes aside, at the moment I’m also working as a police correspondent. You have to be flexible in this job.’

‘I was surprised there were so many here.’

‘True, we weren’t informed until less than two hours ago. Bit of a liberty when you’ve been working on the case all through yesterday. Since information about the dead man from the Landwehr canal has been blocked, I suppose a lot of journalists wanted to grab the chance to take another pop at Zörgiebel.’

‘They managed it too.’

Weinert shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yeah, well, at the end of the day everyone’s gone home empty-handed.’

‘At least you’ve got a really good story from the criminal underworld. I thought your lot loved stuff like that.’

‘That stunt won’t have made you many friends among my colleagues.’

‘So? I’ve still got one journalist friend. Right?’ He held out his hand to Weinert.

‘Let’s call it a business associate,’ the latter said, before shaking.

They said their goodbyes outside the conference room, after Rath had turned down Weinert’s invitation to lunch. First he needed to think things through in his little office.

The chief of the Berlin police had a problem, and it might just provide the perfect spring board for the promising young Detective Inspector, Gereon Rath. After such a disastrous press conference, he knew he had to keep working on the case, even if he wasn’t part of Böhm’s team. He was, at least, part of Homicide. It was a good thing that Roeder’s office was so quiet; a good thing, too, that Wilczek had links to
Berolina
. It meant that he could perhaps construct a link between the two cases that presented a halfway decent explanation for his having gathered so much information on
Aquarius
: namely, that in the course of his investigations into the Wilczek case, he had stumbled upon a mysterious hoard of gold and a fugitive Russian named Alexej Kardakov, and could thus present the team working on investigation Möckern Bridge with the decisive breakthrough that DCI Wilhelm Böhm had thus far failed to achieve.

The telephone rang, either a publisher or the commissioner. He let it ring. It was almost twelve, time for lunch. Just this once he would spend it in the canteen rather than at Aschinger’s. He glanced at the time. It would take him half an hour to reach Schöneberg by train. Weren’t musicians in the habit of taking breakfast at midday? Perhaps he’d be able to cadge a cup of coffee.

‘Inspector! What a surprise!’

Ilja Tretschkov still seemed pretty drowsy when he opened the door. Nevertheless, the musician recognised Rath straightaway. The trumpeter’s hair was tangled and sticking up on his head, and he was wearing an embroidered dressing gown which would have done the Byzantine emperor proud. He was yawning, but his alert eyes were darting to and fro.

‘Can I come in?’

‘Of course.’

The flat was tidier than Rath had expected, and bigger. Tretschkov seemed to have more money than his former singer. He led him into a small drawing room, gentle rays of sun slanting through the pale curtains. On the table were a few sheets of music and a pencil which he cleared away.

‘I’ve just started working,’ he said, before leaving the room with the paper. ‘Would you like something to drink?’

‘Well, if you’re making coffee…’

‘Tea.’

Of course, the man was Russian. ‘Fine,’ Rath said. When he was alone he looked around. A nice room, everything in its rightful place. Tretschkov seemed to be a disciplined man, not a Bohemian even if he slept late. A bust of Tchaikovsky sat on the bookshelf. Most of the spines were adorned with Cyrillic letters, but there were a few German names too. Nothing political, as far as he could make out, and no sign of the phrase
Krasnaja Krepost
either, whether in Cyrillic or Latin. There was the rattle of crockery from the door, and Tretschkov returned bearing a tray containing two steaming cups of tea.

‘Ready so soon?’ Rath asked in surprise.

‘Doesn’t take long with a samovar,’ said Tretschkov. ‘Most Russians in Berlin aren’t here of their own free will, and everyone tries to keep a little something of their homeland.’

He placed the cups on the table and they sat down.

‘Excuse my appearance,’ Tretschkov said, ‘but I wasn’t expecting visitors. My friends know that I get up late. If the band has an engagement, I usually don’t make it home until four.’

The tea was very strong.

‘What can I do for you, Inspector?’ The musician presented the same cooperative impression as in
Café Europa
but Rath couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew more than he was letting on.

‘Countess Sorokina, you remember?’

‘Of course.’

‘Has she turned up since we last spoke? Have you heard anything from her?’

‘Unfortunately not.’

‘You’ve been looking after her flat?’

‘I’m still looking after it. I have a key. Didn’t I tell you all this?’

‘I think so.’ Rath paused. What was the man hiding, and why? ‘You watered her plants, is that right?’

Tretschkov nodded.

‘Did you take anything out of her room?’

‘Do you mind? I’m not a thief.’

Rath decided to change tack. There was no reason he couldn’t give the musician a bit of a grilling. Unlike during their first conversation, he was now officially a member of Homicide.

‘Herr Tretschkov. This is the second time I’ve spoken to you about Frau Sorokina and you still haven’t asked why I’m looking for her.’

‘I assumed that someone reported her missing.’

Rath shook his head. ‘Aside from you, there doesn’t seem to be anyone missing her, and
you
haven’t been to the police. So, there is no missing person’s case.’

‘Then why are you looking for her?’ Tretschkov’s calm manner couldn’t fool Rath. He was becoming increasingly nervous, his eyes betraying him. It was time to go on the attack. Rath sent two words his way. Tiny, venomous arrows that served only one purpose: to provoke a reaction, with a bit of luck perhaps even a careless one.

‘The gold,’ he said.

Tretschkov sat up straight, his eyes dancing a Charleston. Rath registered the change with satisfaction and fired his next arrow. ‘You know what I’m talking about,’ he continued. ‘One man had to die because of the gold, another has disappeared – and the Countess with him.’

Tretschkov’s unflinching calm took on an air of stiffness. Only his eyes were moving. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.

Was it time to intimidate or should he play the sympathetic cop? No, he had to keep going; he’d have him any minute now. He decided to lose his patience. Abruptly, he stood up and leaned forward, supporting himself on the table.

‘Listen to me, pal!’ Rath sounded as if he was only barely holding it together. Tretschkov shrank back involuntarily. ‘It’s time you stopped playing hide-and-seek! You’re digging a pretty big hole for yourself and things are going to get nasty.’

The musician sat as if turned to stone. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘You know something that could aid a murder inquiry, but you remain silent. I can’t see what you hope to gain. If you think the Countess is in danger, you should cooperate. We can protect her.’ Rath looked Tretschkov in the eye. ‘If you are concealing a murderer… Are you aware of what the consequences might be?’

‘Svetlana, a murderer?’ Tretschkov exploded. He was on his feet now. ‘Absurd!’

‘If you’re so sure about it, I can’t understand your attitude.’

‘Perhaps you should consider your
own
attitude, Inspector Rath!’ The musician was talking himself into a rage. ‘The police are getting nowhere in a murder investigation, and decide to blame a foreigner. A foreigner who, for good reason, is residing
incognito
in your country. Do you seriously believe I could trust you? You’ve already condemned Svetlana.’

‘I don’t condemn anyone. It’s the judge who does that, but someone has tortured and killed one of your fellow countrymen. I’d like to know who it was, and you can help.’

‘A countryman?’ Tretschkov seemed genuinely astonished. ‘What are you talking about?’

Rath showed him the photograph of the wet, dead Boris. ‘Do you know this man?’

Tretschkov shook his head vigorously. ‘The one they fished out of the canal a week or two ago? He’s Russian?’

‘An acquaintance of Alexej Kardakov.’

‘Kardakov you say!’ Tretschkov sank back into his chair. ‘I might have known!’

‘Known what?’

‘That this man would bring Svetlana misfortune.’

‘They were a couple, weren’t they?’

Tretschkov nodded. ‘She met him about six months after she joined the band and suddenly she became a different person.’

Because she no longer wanted to share a bed with her band leader, Rath suspected. ‘How do you mean?’

‘She became so serious. She used to laugh a lot. I fear he might have infected her with his arcane political ideas.’

‘Which you don’t have any time for…’

‘I’ve had it with these starry-eyed idealists! You can see where it’s led Russia!’

‘Kardakov was a communist?’

‘No idea what he called himself. He couldn’t stand the Bolsheviks at any rate, that was something all three of us could agree on for a change. I never talked to him about politics, he was unbearable on the subject. In fact, I never talked to him much at all.’

‘Have you seen him since the Countess disappeared?’

‘No.’

‘Did her disappearance come as a surprise?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Were you surprised when you suddenly no longer had a singer, or had you been expecting it?’

Rath sensed that he had touched another sore point. ‘She told me about it,’ Tretschkov said finally.

‘And she asked you to get something from her flat…’

The musician looked at him wide-eyed. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I looked in her wardrobe. You removed something from the coat lining and took it with you.’

‘She asked me to. It was about four weeks ago. She had been late for rehearsal. I wanted to scold her, but then I saw her eyes with such fear in them…’

‘What was she afraid of?’

‘She didn’t say. She just gave me her key and asked me to unstitch the lining of her winter coat, take what I found and make sure it was well hidden.’

‘So, that’s what you did?’

‘She disappeared as soon as she’d given me the key. She just said ‘farewell’ and told me to look for another singer. Out of the question, I said. We’ll wait for you! We can manage without a singer for a while.’ He hesitated, overcome by the memory. ‘It was just so… strange. She sounded so odd. As if she was leaving forever. It broke my heart to see her go.’

‘But you looked after her room.’

‘She asked me to. Told me to check everything was OK, water the plants. To make as if she’d only left town for a while.’

‘You didn’t believe that.’

‘I honestly didn’t know what to believe.’