‘I don’t think that’s any of your concern.’
‘You don’t?’
‘That’s right. I don’t know what you want. Now get lost and leave me in peace.’
‘The hell I will. Someone here’s got to teach you some manners. Seeing as your father clearly hasn’t.’
‘Don’t you dare touch me!’
The man takes a step towards her and her eyes glare at him but, still, he is undeterred.
‘Just one kiss,’ he says, and it sounds anything but affectionate. ‘If you’re going to kiss the Polack, then I have every right to kiss you too!’
He seizes her thin arms with both hands. She tries to repel him, but, crouching in his hiding place, Tokala sees the man tighten his grip and press his mouth on her face. She tries to swerve, but he is too strong.
‘Let me go,’ she cries, finally wrenching her mouth free.
‘What’s the matter? I thought a whore like you couldn’t get enough.’
The man forces her to the ground, into the shallow water, as, still, she defends herself. He is wicked. Tokala knew it all along. ‘Leave me alone!’ she screams, but the wicked man ignores her and her screaming subsides to a gurgle. Her head must be underwater.
Tokala averts his gaze, and sees another woman and another man, not in the lake this time but in a hut, in the glow of a paraffin lamp. The woman is bleeding from the eye, the face of the man inflamed; he is drunk and furious, and he strikes her and tears open her nightgown…
Tokala pushes the image to one side and looks back towards the shore. A voice inside urges him to intervene, but a second holds him back. It is not for him to meddle in their world! How many city dwellers visit harm upon their wives? That is their world, and Tokala knows it is rotten. That is why he left it behind. The city folk don’t interfere with his business, and he doesn’t interfere with theirs. That’s the way his life has been for years, and it is the only life he can imagine for himself.
He can’t bear it any longer, he must return to his forest, he can’t stay another second. Crawling slowly backwards, the way he has read in books, he catches sight of the wicked man pulling at her summer dress, hears the fabric rip, sees him position himself on top of the defenceless woman and unzip his fly, while his other arm presses her to the ground, knees splaying her thighs. Tokala hears her scream, and once more it chokes to a gurgle as her head is briefly submerged. Again he sees the woman with her torn nightgown, her lifeless eyes.
Still picturing that final image, he bursts forth into the forest, runs as fast as his legs can carry him, as far away as possible from the violence of their world. The evil he once fled has returned and, even here, he is no longer safe. Racing on, the lake now far behind, he reaches the middle of the forest where he stops and lets out a cry so loud that the birds around him take flight. He stands there impotent and helpless, and screams.
It is hopeless! You cannot partake of their world without experiencing its pain, without summoning its evil, not even as a spectator. That is the lesson you have learned. Now you realise, beyond any doubt, why you must keep away from their world; why living far away in the woods is the only right course of action.
PART I
Berlin
2nd to 6th July 1932
The sun beating down on dead bodies doesn’t know about the future, doesn’t see the big picture, it just knows where to send the flies.
1
Reinhold Gräf had never seen Potsdamer Platz so dark and deserted. It was a quarter past five in the morning, the neon signs had long been extinguished, and the buildings that lined the square loomed like dirty cliffs against the sky. The black Maybach, out of whose side window the detective gazed, was the only vehicle on the otherwise busy junction. Even the traffic tower was unmanned, its lights glowing dimly behind the glass. Gräf pressed his forehead against the car window and watched the raindrops form little pools on the windscreen, buffeted by the airstream.
‘That’s Haus Vaterland there, isn’t it?’ Lange piped up from the rear seat. ‘The one with the dome.’
Gräf signalled for the driver to stop and folded down the window.
The cop standing in the rain on Stresemannstrasse had already seen the murder wagon. ‘Goods entrance, Inspector!’ The man gestured towards Köthener Strasse and saluted.
‘Inspector’s on his way,’ Gräf said. He folded the window back up and instructed the driver to take a right.
He wasn’t in the best of moods. The sole accompanying officer was Assistant Detective Lange, who, like Gräf, had been on night shift in Homicide. They had roused the stenographer, Christel Temme, from her bed, before collecting her in Schöneberg, otherwise there was only the driver. Gräf hadn’t been able to reach anyone else in the twilight hour between midnight and morning, not even an inspector. Despite being on standby, Gereon Rath wasn’t answering his phone. After four failed attempts Gräf had lost heart and climbed into the Maybach with Lange, picking up the stenographer en route and heading for the crime scene. The journey had passed in silence, broken only by Lange’s superfluous remark.
Of course it was Haus Vaterland. Köthener Strasse took them along the dim rear side of the building, past an endless row of high round arches, meagrely lit by the gas of the street lamps. Once upon a time Ufa, the film production company, had resided here, but since then the Kempinski group had spared no expense in redeveloping the enormous complex from scratch, converting it into Berlin’s largest pleasure palace. As a result Haus Vaterland now provided your average provincial tourist with everything they could hope for from a night out in the metropolis, from food, dance and booze, to scantily clad revue girls – and all under the same, one roof.
Threads of rain glistened in the dazzling electric light that filtered through an open gate at the back of the building. The goods entrance was situated as far away as possible from the busy Stresemannstrasse. A light-coloured delivery van was parked on the street corner with its rear doors open, alongside a dark-red Horch. The Maybach nestled in behind, and the driver moved to open the door for Gräf.
‘That’ll do, Schröder. I’m hardly the police commissioner.’
‘Very good, Sir.’
The slogan Mathée Luisenbrand, der schmeckt was visible on the side of the van, and underneath, in smaller letters: Herbert Lamkau, Spirits Merchant. Gräf pulled his hat down over his face as the rain grew heavier.
‘Don’t forget the camera,’ he barked at Lange, who was already making a move to find shelter. He hadn’t meant to sound so ill-tempered, but he wanted there to be no doubt about who was in charge while the duty inspector was conspicuous by his absence. Lange shouldn’t go getting any ideas: so long as he was still completing his inspector training, he retained his old rank of assistant detective. Only time would tell whether he would pass the final examination.
The assistant detective moved stolidly towards the boot of the murder wagon, gave it a jolt, then another, more forceful this time. Still, nothing happened. Gräf knew that the flap sometimes became wedged in the rain. There was a knack to it. Surely, in all the months he had been at Alex, Lange had thought to ask?
Gräf rounded the puddles and approached the goods entrance and the uniform cop standing guard. The rain that had pooled in the brim of his hat splashed on the concrete floor as he lowered his head to fumble for his identification. The cop stepped to one side to avoid getting water on his boots.