‘I’m not so sure. We still don’t have anything on Gustav Wengler.’
‘You’ve really got it in for him, haven’t you? Don’t forget, he’s the one in danger.’
‘I won’t, but it doesn’t change the fact that he killed a young girl – and ordered the death of an innocent librarian to cover it up. Then there’s his old mucker, Assmann.’
All of a sudden Charly’s smile evaporated.
She wanted to tell him, but couldn’t. What could she say? Describe the images playing over and over again in her mind, of Harald Dettmann wringing Dietrich Assmann’s neck? How she heard the crack of bones breaking, saw Assmann’s cigarette fall to floor and Dettmann stamp it out?
No, it would only lead to more strife.
She leaned on his shoulder as he steered the Buick west via Tiergartenstrasse. He threw her a quick sideways glance and put his arm around her. She was surprised at herself, at her need for affection, her reluctance to make trouble. For once, all she wanted was a peaceful weekend.
She gazed at the windscreen wipers struggling against the rain, which had set in just as they were leaving the Castle, and savoured his presence beside her. In the drizzle she could just make out the spire of the Gedächtniskirche. She decided she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She had to say something, if only to see how he reacted. ‘This business with Assmann. Do you really think it was a colleague?’
‘More likely the badge was a fake.’
‘Still, I wouldn’t put it past… Dettmann, say.’
‘The man’s an arsehole, but that doesn’t make him a killer. Don’t take things so personally.’
‘I just mean I wouldn’t put it past him.’
‘Anyone’s capable of murder. That’s one of the first things Gennat teaches you.’
‘Anyone? Does that include you?’
He hesitated before continuing. ‘That isn’t funny.’
‘Sorry.’ She sat up and looked at him. ‘I know. That signature business was a dirty trick, but someone like Dettmann is just waiting for a chance like that.’
She could see he was thinking. Even so, she knew what he was about to say. ‘It was Gustav Wengler trying to make trouble for me, just like in East Prussia. I’m starting to become a nuisance and I’m telling you, it feels good. It means I’m on the right track.’
‘You seem to want to pin something on Wengler at all costs.’
‘Pin something?’ Gereon looked at her, outraged. ‘The bastard killed his fiancée! Then cashed in on her death.’
‘You can’t prove it.’
‘Oh, I’ll prove it, don’t you worry. If not that he killed his fiancée, then Maria Cofalka, or Dietrich Assmann.’
‘But he didn’t kill them, you said so yourself.’
‘No.’ Gereon gave a bitter laugh. ‘Gustav Wengler no longer kills for himself. He has people kill for him. What’s the point in being director otherwise?’
‘Gereon, I think you’re getting too wound up. Talk about taking things personally.’
‘Oh, I am, am I? The way I see it, I’m the only one who’s actually interested in this. Everyone else just wants Polakowski.’
‘I hardly think Gennat’s taking a murder in police custody lightly.’
‘No, but he hasn’t questioned Wengler either, has he?’
‘Because it wouldn’t help matters.’
‘Wengler’s behind Assmann’s murder, it’s obvious, so that there’s no one left to testify against him.’
‘You realise if he’d given him an alibi, we’d have had to let both of them go.’
‘Perhaps he wanted rid of him. Perhaps Assmann had become a nuisance.’
‘Perhaps,’ Charly said. ‘Just like the others. I didn’t get the impression he mourned any of them, not even his brother. You could be right: he wanted rid of Assmann.’
They reached Carmerstrasse, parking outside the gate. ‘There’s no way he hired Harald Dettmann to do it. The pair don’t even know each other.’
‘No,’ Charly said. Gereon was right. Dettmann was so busy with his Phantom, he’d barely checked in with the Vaterland team these past weeks. Yet she couldn’t shake the image of him breaking Dietrich Assmann’s neck; dousing a red handkerchief with water from a Pitralon bottle, tying the hanky to the bedpost as he poured the remaining water over Assmann’s face – before covering the dead man’s corpse to make it look as if he were asleep.
92
It is quiet now, everyone is asleep. You, too, could use some rest, but you know you will find no peace until you step off the train at Königsberg. The rattling of steel wheels; once upon a time it soothed you, rocking you gently to sleep, but not now, and never again.
Königsberg. It is two years since you were last here, but still you remember where you must go.
The dive bar in Vogelgasse is so narrow you can scarcely believe it has a back room. A back room where, in exchange for money, anything can be yours: information and weapons, narcotics of all kinds, and a new life.
You remember your first visit.
‘I need a passport.’
‘No problem, but it’ll cost you.’
‘I have money.’
Sobotka’s stash was still hidden in the forest by Allenstein, near a village called Altschönberg, his birthplace. Fifteen thousand marks. Money for Sobotka to start over once he was out; money for you to start over now, yourself.
‘There’s more.’
‘We can get hold of anything.’
‘Even tubocurarine?’
‘What’s that?’
‘An anaesthetic adjuvant. They’re using it for research purposes at the University Clinic, Department of Anaesthetics. Lange Reihe.’
‘We don’t need the address.’ You recall the suspicion in his eyes as he looked you up and down. ‘It won’t come cheap.’
‘I told you: I have money.’ He looked down wide-eyed as you laid a thousand-mark note on the desk. ‘Four more, if you can get hold of everything, and grant me a small favour.’
‘We don’t kill people.’
‘No.’ You showed him the iron shackle under the right trouser leg of your elegant new suit. ‘I need to get rid of this. Today.’ You knew then that you had won his respect. ‘I need some addresses. Four East Prussians, who moved west from Marggrabowa.’
‘It’s called Treuburg now.’
You nodded. You were aware that the world had changed. You passed a note across the desk containing the names, along with your additional requests.
You are rid of the shackles the same day, and, two weeks later, you have everything you need. A new identity, four addresses, and enough tubocurarine to kill an elephant.
The rattle of the train keeps you awake, eating away at your thoughts and rekindling unhappy memories.
The vibration of the tracks.
The railway line in the pine forest near Wartenburg.
Sobotka on the crossties, hands on the back of his neck, the ankle chain that binds you straddling the shiny metal.
You pull your legs outwards so that the chain sits tight as possible on the tracks.
By now the vibrations come paired with other noises. You choose not to protect your neck, covering your ears as the train rushes towards you, growing ever louder. You cover your ears and pull the chain tight, awaiting the inevitable.
Even covering your ears, the train is so loud that you start to shake; beads of sweat run down your skin, making you grow cold, as the wind rages all around.