Berlin Burning (9 page)

Trautmann couldn't work out how or where she'd hidden herself so the police hadn't found her, and Fleischer wouldn't say. In the twenty minutes they'd been there they'd spotted just one two-man Schupo patrol, so maybe Fleischer's assumption stacked up.

No sign of any plainclothesmen so far. But Trautmann dearly hoped they were there too.

His plan depended on it.

He took in their appearance. Torn clothing, burned skin and dried blood between the two of them. It would be a miracle if they made it inside without attracting attention – and the station was packed with travellers.

Of course, there was always the legendary Berliner insouciance to contend with. These folks had seen enough of life – and of Berlin's infamous nightlife – to consider very little out of the ordinary. A couple of mad tramps promenading through a busy station at nine in the morning could well attract no notice whatsoever. And Trautmann didn't want that.

Fleischer finished his smoke and tossed it away. ‘Ready?' he said.

Trautmann took a couple more puffs, then scrunched his out underfoot. ‘We're not going to get very far looking like this, are we?'

‘Just walk like you've got somewhere to go to. Purpose. We'll be all right, you'll see.'

They entered the building at street level, passing two men in business suits with briefcases who stopped to gawp. But sure enough, the men didn't stop for long and just carried right on out of the building as Trautmann caught up with Fleischer.

‘What did I tell you?' Fleischer said. ‘Purpose.'

He quick-stepped around a middle-aged woman leading a gaggle of children. Trautmann brushed her arm, nodding at her and keeping on, worried now that maybe the girl wasn't there at all. Maybe Fleischer was just trying to lose him in the crowd.

A sudden stream of people came up from the U-Bahn platforms on the lower floor as the two men came abreast of a cigarette kiosk.

‘Shit,' Fleischer hissed. ‘Quick – down here.'

And the big man pulled Trautmann down the steps to the U-Bahn, the kommissar getting a flash of blue Schupo uniforms at the edge of his vision to tell him why.

They reached the platform just as another U-Bahn train pulled in. More people got off. Trautmann flexed his fingers, ready to grab Fleischer if he made a dash for the train.

But he didn't. Instead he led them to the far end of the platform just as the crowd began to thin out. The train doors rattled shut. The two men mounted the stairs, Fleischer acting cautious now – not wanting to be surprised by more Schupo at this end when they emerged.

Fleischer's actions said the girl really was there – but where the hell were the men from Kripo?

At the top of the stairs, Fleischer doubled back, looking around for cops. Trautmann did the same.

They arrived at one of the ticket offices, and Fleischer knocked on the door to the side of the small queue of people by the window. A couple of those waiting cast their eyes over the two men, their glances turning to full blown stares.

The door didn't open, so Fleischer barged in front of the window and rapped on the glass. The waiting travellers murmured at this breach of etiquette.

‘We're here for an inspection,' Trautmann said, flashing them his ID – just long enough for it to sink in.

The murmurs died away. Honestly, show an official stamp in this town and you could get away with anything.

The plump ticket seller at the window moved leisurely beneath his peaked cap and grey walrus moustache. Until he saw who had done the knocking. Then his eyes widened and he broke off from issuing the next customer's ticket. He shouted towards the back of the office.

The door opened with a rattle of keys and Fleischer pulled Trautmann inside with him.

The man who had opened the door was dressed in a conductor's uniform. He looked at his feet as he led them through another small door into a cramped room with the dimensions of a sleeping compartment on a train. It was fiercely hot in there thanks to the pot-bellied stove by the door, lit so the men inside could make coffee. The rest of the room was taken up with two wooden box benches set against the walls, between which was a small table littered with coffee cups, ashtrays and morning papers.

Two other men – another conductor and another ticket seller – were sitting on the benches. The conductor smoked a cigarette while looking dumbly up at Fleischer. The ticket seller shot to his feet.

‘Clothes. And a gun,' Fleischer said, to the one who'd stood up.

The other man he wrenched off the bench with his one good arm. The man fell against the stove and knocked off the coffee pot that had been bubbling away.

Trautmann kneeled over the conductor, looking to see that he wasn't coffee-scalded. He freed the whistle from around the man's neck and sat him upright. He also kicked the coffee pot over to the door, propping it open a crack.

Fleischer pulled the top off the right hand bench. Inside, curled up around blankets, face drenched in sweat, was Maria. Fleischer gave her his hand and helped her out.

Trautmann got out his handkerchief and wiped his face. Then he wrapped the cotton around his hand, hoping it would be thick enough to withstand the heat of the coffee pot handle.

On the opposite side, the ticket seller had taken off the top of the other bench. He pulled out a couple of uniforms and a small pistol, which he handed to Fleischer.

Now there was a gun in the mix, Trautmann had to act fast. He reached down for the coffee pot, kicked open the door and shouted a warning, heaving the pot at the ticket window.

Then he put the conductor's whistle to his lips and blew it as long and hard as he could before Fleischer could react.

Fleischer's mouth twisted into a snarl and he raised his gun.

‘You son of a –' he began, but his words were drowned out with more whistles coming from the station. Police whistles.

‘Police!' called a voice from the outer door. ‘Open up!'

‘Your move, Fleischer,' Trautmann said, looking pointedly at Maria and then at the gun barrel still aimed at his chest.

Fleischer flicked off the safety catch. No one moved.

‘Look, Fleischer –' Trautmann said.

‘Say one more thing, you fucking traitor. Go on, I dare you.'

A bead of warm sweat fell from Trautmann's hairline down the back of his neck. Would they hurry up and break down that goddamned door?

Chapter 19

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‘W
here in Hades' sweaty armpit were you?' Trautmann thundered, coffee cup shaking in his hand.

The two plainclothesmen – Haas and Franke – looked at their feet.

‘It was shift changeover, Mule,' Hass said, adjusting his hat and meeting Trautmann's eye for the briefest of moments before looking away. Embarrassment or the shock of Trautmann's burns, the kommissar couldn't tell.

‘I needed you there.'

Trautmann went to his desk and found two notes waiting for him.

You wife wants to know when you're coming home

– said the first, a phone message with the date and time hastily scribbled on a scrap of paper. Dagmar had phoned twenty-some minutes ago.

He flipped that over and read the second, on headed department notepaper – from Weiss, his boss and the deputy police president in charge of Kripo. This one was several shades more urgent:

Where are we with the Meist case? I'm getting calls from the Minister. Could do with your report for the Murder Commission, post haste. See me soon as you get this.

And suddenly all Trautmann could think of was Roth. How was he going to explain what had happened to Roth?

He sighed. He couldn't blame Haas and Franke for not knowing the seriousness of the situation. After all, he had no report to show anyone yet. And God alone knew when he'd get the time to put it all down.

It had been Schupo who'd broken through the door and saved Trautmann's arse. Not that he wasn't grateful for not having to swallow a couple of bullets, but it meant Kessler would hear what had happened all the sooner. And Trautmann didn't want to guess the consequences of that. Not before he could solve this damn case.

Fleisher and Maria he had cooling off in a couple of separate interview rooms, and there was no time to lose.

‘Here,' he said to Franke, the senior of the two detectives. Franke was in his mid-thirties, a thin man with rounded shoulders and a drooping moustache. Trautmann handed him the photograph from the wallet of the mystery man they'd found in Meist's apartment.

‘What's this?' Franke said.

‘You can make it up to me by visiting this photographer and finding out who this photo belongs to.'

Franke angled the photo to catch the light and showed it to his partner.

‘
Now
gentlemen, please.'

‘Who's the guy?'

‘Suspect in the Meist murder.'

Franke brightened at the news and turned to go.

‘Just a moment,' Trautmann said.

The two men paused.

‘I want you to come straight back to me with this. No one else. Understood?'

Franke nodded.

‘Say it.'

‘Understood, Trautmann, Christ! What's bitten you today? You had a hard night?'

‘The hardest.'

He dismissed them and they left, Haas mumbling as they went.

Trautmann took another sip of his coffee, trying to clear his mind. The image of Roth falling under the stampede in the slaughterhouse just wouldn't go away – but now wasn't the time.

He was close. He could feel it. As long as he didn't slip up. He took a couple of deep breaths and went to interview his star witness.

Chapter 20

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H
e'd left her a towel to wipe off the sweat. But she hadn't touched it. It lay crumpled on the table in front of her where he'd put it.

Her eyes registered him briefly when he entered, then slid away to the middle distance.

Trautmann passed her a cup of coffee. She ignored that too. He took the chair opposite and looked her over. Dark smudges under red-rimmed eyes. From crying – or lack of sleep. Hair stringy and still damp from lying in her makeshift hiding place for God knew how many hours.

Can't have been easy going on the run. Or thinking you'd killed the man you loved. However much of a monster he might have been – or however much he might have deserved it.

He pushed away the thought – too much like Roth. Too many assumptions.

The thunder of hooves filled his ears, followed by the faint echo of tinnitus. He sipped his coffee and waited for it to go. The coffee had gone cold.

It wasn't working – he'd have to just jump right in and force his brain to come along with him.

‘I know what you're thinking, Maria.'

She looked at him. He had split seconds to keep her attention.

‘He came home and found you with another man. They fought and someone hit him with the candlestick.'

Tears speckled her brown eyes.

‘But you didn't kill him.'

‘How can you know?' she said, so quietly he only just heard her. She cleared her throat. ‘You weren't there.'

He spread his arms wide to show he was on the level.

‘I know things, Maria. Jan didn't die from the blow to the head. He died of two gunshot wounds to the chest.' She shuffled a little in her chair and now Trautmann took a risk with his guesses. ‘It happened after you went to see Frau Schneider. After you left to go and see your uncle, I think.'

‘Gunshots? You're sure?'

He risked a smile. ‘The evidence doesn't lie.'

‘So I didn't kill him?'

‘Not unless you shot him.' He drained the remnants of his cold coffee. ‘You didn't shoot him, did you?'

She choked then, though no tears flowed. Her sobs were quiet, dignified, as the terrible false knowledge of murder she'd harboured shuddered its way out of her.

‘I'll take that as a no,' he said. He waited for the worst of the sobbing to subside. ‘Did your suitor have a gun with him?'

She shook her head. ‘He ran. Jan and me had the fight and he ran off. After Jan had punched him.'

‘You know this man's name?'

‘No names,' she said. ‘Never any names.'

‘You fought often, you and Jan?'

She nodded, using a corner of the towel to wipe her nose.

‘I spoke to Frau Schneider. She thought Jan was forcing you to go on the game, but she was wrong, wasn't she. He didn't like you sleeping with other men, did he?'

‘He hated it,' she said. ‘But I wouldn't listen to him. His stupid plan wasn't working, so what else were we going to do?'

‘His plan? What do you mean, Maria – what plan?'

And then she told him why Meist had been killed.

Chapter 21

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‘N
ow listen to me,' Trautmann said, putting one of Fleischer's cigarettes in the gangster's mouth and lighting it for him before taking another for himself and doing the same. ‘You don't like me very much right now, and I get that. But you help me and she can go free in a matter of hours.'

Fleischer's hands were still cuffed and Trautmann wanted to keep it that way. He didn't want to risk the big man lashing out at him.

‘Bull,' Fleischer said, making his cigarette dance between his lips. ‘You lied to me, you fucking traitor. Why should I trust you now?'

Trautmann went over to the window and looked through the bars to the inner courtyard below. ‘Because this is justice, Fleischer. This is truth. This is how it works.'

‘You know what you sound like? Like that puppy Roth rubbed off on you.'

Trautmann ignored that and hit back with: ‘Meist didn't force Maria to go on the streets. It was her idea.'

‘Bullshit!' Fleischer bellowed.

Trautmann turned to look at Fleischer's broad back.

‘I'm telling you, Fleischer. It was her idea. To make money. Meist hated it, and that's why they fought.'