Their story was typical of Berlin, the city of adolescent dreams. Those who wanted to make a career for themselves in the German capital, the nation’s poorhouse, had little chance of a job in high finance, industrial management or one of the big law firms. Well-paid jobs were as rare as streets devoid of dog-shit. Just occasionally, in the sea of lights on Potsdamer Platz or out here in the Grunewald, you got an inkling of what the city might look like if one person in four wasn’t on the dole and 40 per cent of children didn’t fall below the poverty line – children who could only dream, if at all, of a career in which you got rich without a graduation certificate, drove fast cars and picked up lots of skirt. A career on the football pitch or, as in Benny’s case, in the music business.
He shut his eyes and thought back to the point in time that had determined his present situation. Marc hadn’t wanted him in the band at first. On principle more than anything else, because Benny’s inability to sing or play an instrument was no disqualification. It applied just as much to rest of the band, not that this deterred them from massacring hits by The Cure, Depeche Mode and the other groups they modelled themselves on. They styled themselves N.R., the New Romantics, wore make-up like Robert Smith and spent three nights a week rehearsing in the basement of a local undertaker’s. The business belonged to Karl Valka, Eddy’s father, who had placed a room beside his mortuary at their disposal. In return, they had to tolerate his overweight, irascible son as their drummer. Eddy would much rather have sung, but the place at the microphone had already been assigned to Marc, whose voice, though far from perfect, was more melodious than his. They played so badly the first year Eddy’s father jocularly declared that they would wake the dead and put him out of business. Then came their first gigs at school, private parties and company shindigs. They didn’t get any better, just better known, and that was when the trouble started. Berlin still didn’t have any American-style gangs in those days. No one carried firearms and street fights were waged with fists, not knives, but N.R.’s rivalry with the other school bands intensified with every gig they played. Competition with the Psychs, whose sound was more reminiscent of a construction site than rockabilly, was particularly fierce. As Marc’s popularity grew, so Benny became more and more of an outsider. He looked the perfect victim anyway, with his long lashes, curly hair and girlish features – someone who would have seemed more at home on a suburban tennis court than playing table football in an inner-city youth club. Marc did his best to protect him initially, accompanying him to school on the Underground even on days when their timetables didn’t coincide. But he couldn’t always be there for him, least of all when the band was rehearsing or away on a gig. So the inevitable happened. One night Benny was beaten up by two members of the Psychs. It was a week before he could walk and a fortnight before his dislocated jaw stopped hurting.
Marc was furious. The bastards had picked on the weakest link in the chain. He and Eddy Valka worked out two fateful plans that were bound to end in tragedy. For one thing, they made Benny a member of the band. He couldn’t play an instrument – if he had any talent at all it was for drawing – but that was immaterial. It was Valka, of all people, who realized that Benny’s sensitivity and intelligence could be better employed in organizing their gigs, looking after their finances and settling up with concert promoters. So Marc’s sensitive young brother became the band’s manager. He also wrote wistful lyrics for their original compositions – not, of course, that anyone listened to them. Marc and Valka also employed the toughest youngsters from their school as bouncers to maintain security during their concerts, both out front and backstage. That was the start of Eddy Valka’s career in the bouncer business, where Benny would later become his bookkeeper.
Benny opened his eyes and gave a start: he had spotted movement inside the house.
Okay, this is it.
A tubby little man had got up from behind his desk in the conservatory, which was used as a study.
Benny took a newspaper from the passenger seat and turned it over.
The headline on the back page proclaimed,
‘DEATH’S DOORMAN’
He could scarcely make out a word of the article, the car’s interior was so dimly illuminated by the old-fashioned street lights, but he didn’t have to. He knew it by heart and could well understand why Valka was so enraged. Although his name was never mentioned, it was quite clear who the investigative journalist had in his sights. Ken Sukowsky did his homework thoroughly. At this moment he was probably interrupting it only to give his nearest and dearest a quick goodnight kiss before settling down to write another exposé.
Benny laid the newspaper aside and waited another half-hour. Then, when all the lights except the one in Sukowsky’s study had been extinguished, he got out.
He hesitated when he saw Sukowsky re-enter the conservatory with a glass of Scotch in his hand and return to his desk. Then he remembered what Valka had said and pulled himself together.
‘Ninety thousand euros, Benny. You called me a month ago and I did you a favour – smuggled half of it to you in that loony bin and transferred the rest to that lousy doctor’s Czech bank account. Just the way you wanted.’
He opened the garden gate and made his way past the little mound of dead leaves.
‘I warned you it wasn’t kosher but you wouldn’t listen. Now you’ve lost the lot.’
He paused outside the front door.
‘You were taken for a ride at my expense. But I like you, Benny. You looked after my books for a long time, and you never ripped me off. That’s why I’m giving you a chance to work off your debt.’
He knocked gently. Once. Then, after a brief interval, a second time.
‘Make sure Sukowsky can’t write any more shit about me.’
He heard the chair in the conservatory being pushed back and took the secateurs from his breast pocket.
‘Do a job on him.’
He counted slowly backwards from ten. The door opened at four.
‘Ken Sukowsky?’
The man stared at him in surprise but didn’t look unfriendly. ‘Yes?’
‘And prove it by bringing me all the shitty fingers he uses to write his shitty articles about me.’
‘Have you broken down or something? Can I help you?’
‘No.’
Benny shook his head and clicked the secateurs shut. Still adhering to one of the blades was the blood of Valka’s most recent victim – the one in the back room of his florist’s shop.
‘Look on it as a form of HSP therapy, my friend. Just let rip and it’ll be all right.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Benny. ‘I’m beyond help.’
And he shouldered his way inside.
19
Another taxi and another driver – a woman this time. Still the same nightmare, though. Marc lowered the window a little to let some fresh air in but promptly closed it again because he couldn’t hear the woman on the other end of the line, whose number he’d got from directory enquiries.
‘I’m sorry, I’m not authorized to do that.’
‘But I’m his son-in-law.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t ascertain that on the phone.’
Marc groaned in annoyance, staring absently at the car that had pulled up beside them at the lights. The two children in the back stuck out their tongues and laughed when he turned away.
‘Then please page him,’ he said.
‘No point, I’m afraid. Professor Senner is operating at present – and I’ve already told you more than I’m supposed to.’
This can’t be happening.
He knew the hospital receptionist – he’d made her acquaintance when going to have his dressing changed. He knew she had a dog, painted each of the fingernails on her right hand a different colour, and doodled on her memo pad while she was on the phone. She had to know who he was, but she was treating him like a stranger, politely but distantly. And the more insistent he became, the more her voice lost its cheerful veneer.