Directly above the time clock at the entrance hung several job advertisements. Dishwasher, kitchen-hands wanted; office worker wanted (knowledge of shorthand and experience of commercial kitchens desirable). Rath flagged down a boy pushing a crockery trolley. ‘Where can I find Herr Unger?’ he asked. ‘Apparently he’s the head chef.’
The boy nodded towards a large window before wheeling his trolley on. The window was more like a glass wall, and belonged to a small office. Inside, a man with a chef’s hat sat behind a desk, making entries in a thick notebook. Before him were shelves of files. Here, too, vacancy notices hung by the window. Rath gave a brief knock and entered.
For a chef Manfred Unger was surprisingly thin. He seemed less than pleased at the interruption. ‘What are you doing here? The entire kitchen is closed to unauthorised personnel.’
The room reminded him of a shift supervisor’s office at Ford. The large viewing window made it possible to keep a close eye on the kitchen. ‘Manfred Unger?’
‘Who’s asking?’ Rath reached for his badge, and the chef stood up. ‘So that’s what this is about! Don’t you see I can’t come to the station now?’ He gestured towards the milling mass that was the kitchen. ‘We’re in the middle of a rush.’
‘Who said anything about now?’ Rath looked at his wristwatch. ‘You ought to have been there four and a half hours ago.’
‘When it was even busier. If no one comes to relieve me, there’s nothing I can do.’
‘I’m not sure you understand the gravity of being issued with a summons.’
‘What summons? On Saturday your colleague requested that I come to the station this morning. I’m afraid it wasn’t possible.’
‘I’m not here to argue, Herr Unger, but I’d advise you to make a little time for me now, otherwise things could get nasty.’ Unger sat down. ‘You do realise you’re an important witness in a murder inquiry…’
‘A murder inquiry?’
‘…and refusing to co-operate can very quickly turn a witness into a suspect.’
‘Inspector, as I’ve just explained…’ Unger gestured beyond the viewing window, a hint of desperation in his eyes.
‘I just wanted to make those things clear. Now, am I right in thinking you do have a little time for me?’
‘Of course.’
Rath lit a cigarette before taking his notebook from his pocket. Examining the point of his pencil, he asked his first question. ‘It was you who found Herr Lamkau?’
‘I’ve already explained everything to your colleague.’
‘But not to me.’
‘It scared me half to death, seeing him there like that. I almost fell on top of him.’
‘What were you doing by the lifts?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Why did you push the button?’
‘Why do you think? I needed to get something from downstairs.’
‘What did you need to get?’
‘How should I know? I imagine it was something to eat.’ Unger laughed, but fell silent when he saw Rath’s expression.
‘Aren’t the cold store and stockrooms up here?’
‘Most of them, but not all.’
‘Surely you don’t often go down to fetch goods? It would mean serious disruption.’
Unger looked rattled. ‘What are you getting at? What does this have to do with a murder inquiry?’
‘Leave me to worry about that. You wanted to fetch something, but have forgotten what?’
‘I never had the chance, did I, not when your people showed up. Talk about serious disruption. They were here for hours.’
Rath made a lengthy note. Not because there was much to write, but as an unsettling tactic. Unger had spent the whole time fidgeting on his chair. His legs hadn’t stopped moving for an instant. Time and time again he craned his neck to look out of the viewing window into the kitchen. What he saw only seemed to make him more nervous. Rath was about to ask his next question when he sprang to his feet, opened the door and issued a volley of instructions.
‘Friedhelm! Get the pot roast out of the oven, for God’s sake! Carsten, if you’re not finished with that chicken ragout soon, I’ll come out there personally and light a fire under your arse. And where the fuck is the mash? The first orders will be here in less than an hour! Now get a move on!’
‘Im Haus Vaterland ist man gründlich, hier gewittert’s stündlich,’ Rath murmured.
‘Did you say something?’ Unger closed the door and returned to his desk.
‘Herr Lamkau…’ Rath cleared his throat. ‘Did you know him personally?’
‘The spirits man? Why should I? I’m a chef.’
‘I was only asking, Herr Unger.’
‘Of course.’
Again the thin man squinted through the window. Rath wasn’t sure if it was their conversation or the lack of kitchen supervision that was making him so uneasy.
‘Is there anyone here who did know Herr Lamkau?’
‘No.’ The chef shook his head.
‘Herr Riedel perhaps?’
‘Who’s that?’
‘A colleague of yours. Spirits buyer at Kempinski.’
‘Yes, I know the one.’
Rath made another note, before continuing with his questions. ‘Apparently he had some trouble with a batch of spirits…’
‘There’s always issues with suppliers. We don’t have much cause for spirits in the kitchen. For seasoning perhaps, or if something needs to be flambéd.’
‘So you didn’t hear anything about the tainted schnapps? Luisenbrand. A whole consignment apparently.’
‘Come to think of it, that does sound familiar. Though we absolutely never use Korn.’
Unger was still gazing out of the window. His mind seemed elsewhere. Suddenly he sprang to his feet and ran to the door. ‘What the hell is that?’ he screamed at an unfortunate who had just carried an enormous plate of roast beef past the window, and now froze mid-motion. ‘Who the fuck’s going to eat that? It’s overcooked! Pink! It has to be pink! Only place that’s good for is the pig pail!’ Unger struck out, and there was a clatter as the plate landed on the tiled floor. ‘Now clean it up!’ he said, face the colour of beetroot. ‘I want to see you in my office!’ He slammed the door and returned, still breathing heavily as he took his seat.
‘I hope we’ll be finished here soon,’ he said. ‘You see what happens when you take your eye off the ball.’
Rath stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. ‘That’s it for now,’ he said, looking through the window to where three kitchen-hands in white aprons were scooping roast beef up from the floor. ‘Sorry to have caused so much trouble. Next time just come to Alex when we ask, and this sort of thing won’t happen.’
Rath drove to Hannoversche Strasse from Potsdamer Platz, arriving at the morgue half an hour early. Dr Karthaus wasn’t in the autopsy room, so the porter sent him up to the first floor. He heard a typewriter clattering behind the office door, and knocked. The clattering ceased as he entered and gazed into the eyes of Karthaus and his secretary. The doctor squinted over the rim of his reading glasses and glanced at his watch.
‘What are you doing here? Did I give your secretary the wrong time?’
‘Punctuality is the politeness of princes,’ Rath said.
‘In my estimation, arriving too early is far worse than arriving too late. Or is this a way of compensating for your legendary tardiness?’
‘Don’t make such a fuss, Doctor. You were more or less on my way – so, here I am.’
‘Then you must simply be dying to hear my assessment.’ Karthaus turned to his secretary. ‘Wouldn’t want to disappoint such scientific curiosity, would we, Martha? Pack your things. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.’