Rath had imagined his evening panning out rather differently. It was a week since he had last sat here with Gräf, putting the world to rights, and he couldn’t think of anything he’d rather be doing after his latest blazing row with Charly.
Why did they always quarrel at the start of the weekend? They would be better off squabbling on Monday or Tuesday, so that they could make up again by Friday, Saturday at the latest. That would be altogether more productive, especially since any reconciliation usually ended with the two of them in bed, which wasn’t the worst way to draw a line under the working week.
This time the cause was Sebastian Tornow. He couldn’t believe what she had told him. Above all he didn’t want to believe it: Tornow was no killer. ‘You saw this cop for maybe three seconds, and his face is branded on your memory?’
‘His smile. It’s his smile that’s branded on my memory. It was the same man.’
‘He’s not the only man ever to have smiled.’
‘Don’t joke, you know it upsets me!’
That was when he knew it wouldn’t just blow over. The more arguments he presented the more stubborn she became in her – flimsy – defence.
‘Tornow hasn’t been in uniform for almost two weeks. It can’t have been him in the Hansaviertel.’
He made a triumphant face, but Charly remained unimpressed.
‘Even so.’ She folded her arms like a defiant child. ‘It was him. Just believe me!’
‘How can you be so pig-headed?’
‘I’m not the one being pig-headed around here!’
Five minutes later he was sitting in the car with Kirie on his way to Luisenufer. The dog understood their quarrels least of all. She had been settling in for a cosy evening in Spenerstrasse when suddenly they left without her mistress. Even as she trotted dutifully after him, it was plain that she didn’t understand what was going on. People were inexplicable. With dogs it was different. They sized one another up and, as soon as they smelled each other, got down to business. People are far more complicated, thought Rath as he looked at Kirie, curled up at the bar.
He clinked glasses with Gräf who was immersed in his own thoughts. Rath hadn’t mentioned the quarrel. Even though Gräf was a friend, he never talked about Charly, just went drinking with him whenever they fought.
‘What do you think about the new man?’ he asked, offering Gräf a cigarette from his case.
‘Seems OK. Why?’
‘Just asking.’ Rath also took a cigarette and lit it. ‘I thought he might be one for our team when he’s finished training. It could be worth mentioning to Gennat, don’t you think?’
‘He’s a good fit,’ Gräf said. ‘Impressive powers of observation and deduction…’
‘But?’
‘But nothing.’ Gräf sipped at his beer.
Rath already regretted the question. Gräf would see Tornow as competition and, besides, no one liked being used as a spy. That hadn’t been his intention, but now he was curious. ‘You don’t sound like you’re convinced.’
‘Some of his opinions are a little out there. I think if it was up to him, he’d put all criminals away without trial.’
‘That’s exactly what you said the other day in the canteen.’ Rath realised he was defending Tornow, but there was no way Gräf could know the baggage the man carried around.
‘Maybe. It’s frustrating when someone gets away with something. Or when you can’t get them even though you know they’re guilty. Last week, we had Goldstein on a plate, and now that we can actually prove he did something, he’s disappeared.’
‘It’s something you have to get used to in our line of work. Where would we be without the rule of law?’
‘Then I fear young Tornow has a lot to learn,’ Gräf said.
‘Are you about to do the dirty on a colleague, or what is this?’
‘You did ask.’
Rath gazed ruefully into his beer. ‘I’m just surprised. I thought the two of you were getting on well.’
‘We were until he started asking these strange questions.’
‘What kind of questions?’
‘Well, what I think of the fact that there are so many criminals at large, for one.’
‘Questions like that always bother young officers. More experienced ones too. It’s good that he asks questions. It means he wants to learn.’
‘It felt more like he was sounding me out. As if he wanted to see if I shared his opinions.’ Rath looked at him quizzically. ‘He asked me if I thought a good police officer should be able to kill.’
102
Watching the churchgoers streaming out of mass, Rath felt something akin to guilt that he hadn’t fulfilled his Sunday duty. Now that cynicism was his only creed, he rarely gave it a second thought, but these people had a different perspective. Believing in something other than the Great Big Nothing, they aroused his envy and scorn in equal measure. He scorned them for their naivety; he envied them their faith.
Having faith made you strong, which was precisely how he didn’t feel this morning. Worse, he was unsteady on his feet. He had left the Buick at his new permanent parking spot, outside the undertaker’s and diagonally opposite the church front. He couldn’t request an Opel from the motor pool today without arousing suspicion. He was off duty so, whatever he did here, he was doing it for himself and, since his business didn’t concern anyone in the Castle, it felt wise not to have his signature beneath today’s date in motor pool records. He checked his watch. Sunday Mass had ended promptly. He surveyed each member of the congregation as they emerged. Joseph Flegenheimer wasn’t among them, but of course not, he hadn’t visited the church because he harboured Catholic sympathies.
Rath’s head was still fuzzy from last night. In truth his quarrel with Charly suited him just fine. He had better things to do than idle the day away with his girlfriend and his dog. He had left Kirie with the Lennartz family, knowing that he couldn’t expect her to sit in the car all day. He didn’t fancy it much himself, either, but sometimes you just had to bite the bullet. The word ‘bite’ reminded him of his rations, and he took his first apple from the picnic basket. He still hadn’t been at his observation post for five minutes.
An hour later his food supplies were dwindling and there was still no sign of Joseph Flegenheimer. One hour! It felt more like three. He looked down on a solitary sandwich and a hard-boiled egg. Boredom made for hungry work.
He opened the car door to take a stroll down to the main drag. It was pleasantly warm, a gentle breeze was blowing, a beautiful Sunday, and here he was dividing his time between the inside of a car and a telephone booth.
He sighed. He had no choice but to do Marlow’s bidding if he didn’t want to find himself in serious trouble later tonight. True, he had made progress since his conversation with Gregor Lanke’s informant, but he had no desire to throw Christine Möller under a bus. Better to give Marlow a concrete lead on whoever was actually responsible for Red Hugo’s death. If he had one by then, that is. If need be, he could always serve up Lanke, but even there Rath had his scruples. The man might be an arsehole, but he didn’t deserve to end up in Dr Mabuse’s claws. Rath didn’t want to be responsible for another two people getting killed; didn’t want any more demons haunting him at night.
He needed a concrete lead, but the only thing he had was the telephone number from Christine. How many times had he tried it now? And all because this mysterious number wasn’t to be found in any telephone book. The proof of the pudding is in the eating, his mother always used to say. He just had to keep trying.