Hans Wawerka had just turned thirty-three, and lived alone in a small attic apartment in Dortmund-Bövinghausen. He was a miner at the Zollern Colliery, and a reclusive bachelor. Herbert Lamkau, on the other hand, was in his mid-forties, a successful businessman and father.
The photos gave even less away. Wawerka had the powerful physique of a worker, tall and muscular, whereas Lamkau was what some might call a ‘weakling’. Only the determination in his eyes, staring out from his driving licence, testified to his strength. In contrast, Hans Wawerka gazed almost naively into the camera lens.
They were as different as chalk and cheese, and yet they had suffered the same fate, one in Dortmund, the other in Berlin. Were it not for the striking similarities between the pathological reports, Rath would never have suspected the two deaths were linked. The article in the Monatshefte concentrated primarily on the mysterious aspects of the case though, like their Berlin counterparts, the Dortmund officers had neither a lead nor a convincing explanation. Something else the cases shared.
By the time Rath had finished his last Overstolz, Charly still hadn’t appeared, but he couldn’t put it off any longer. Kirie desperately needed walking and, besides, he had to buy more cigarettes.
‘Come on,’ he said, reaching for hat and lead.
After a lap of Alexanderplatz, where the new tram tracks were being laid, he purchased a Bockwurst from a street hawker outside the train station. While Kirie ate or, rather, devoured the sausage, he turned his thoughts to Charly.
Disappearing for lunch wasn’t a good look at the Castle, no one knew that better than Charly, who had always warned him against it. All the more strange, therefore, that she hadn’t reappeared. Should he be worried? But, then, what could have happened? She’d probably just run in to Wilhelm Böhm, and the DCI had taken his one-time favourite stenographer out to lunch.
To his great surprise, everyone was back in the office when he returned half an hour later. Erika Voss was on the telephone, and Charly sat at her table studying a file as if nothing had happened. She seemed strangely pensive, almost absent, when she greeted him. If her coolness were merely an act, she was making a damn good fist of it. It was in marked contrast with Kirie, who, no sooner than she was untied, licked Charly’s hands and curled up under her table.
When he rounded them up in his office, she still seemed a little remote. ‘We missed you, Fräulein Ritter,’ he said, sternly. ‘Were you successful, at least?’
Charly looked as if she were about to start bawling. Surely she must know all this was just a front; a role that he, like her, was obliged to play.
‘I was in Narcotics,’ she said.
‘Then Dettmann couldn’t help?’
She made a gesture that might as well have been a shiver as a shake of the head, and stared right through him. Her list of known drug traffickers wasn’t especially long, and two were in jail.
‘Detective Gräf will look into it,’ he said, passing the list on. ‘A pretty dubious bunch. No kind of work for a woman.’ He was afraid she might think he was being condescending, but she barely reacted. ‘I have a different assignment for you,’ he said. ‘Superintendent Gennat would like us to carry out an undercover operation in Haus Vaterland.’ He cleared his throat, thinking how much he’d like to wipe the smirk off Reinhold Gräf’s face. ‘In short: I’d like you to present yourself for work in the central kitchen tomorrow. There are a few vacancies. We might even be able to smuggle you in without the help of management – the fewer people who know about the operation, the better…’
Against expectation, Charly’s face brightened. Finally she seemed to be with them. ‘Good idea,’ she said. ‘They’ll never take me for a police officer.’
Rath leafed through the Monatshefte until he found Hans Wawerka’s face. He showed it to the room and briefly recapped Gennat’s theory for Charly’s benefit.
‘Isn’t there usually a sexual dimension to serial killers’ crimes?’ she said. ‘I don’t see one here.’
She was on the ball again. He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Correct, Fräulein Ritter, but that doesn’t mean we should rule out the possibility. There have been a number of serial killings that haven’t been sexually motivated. I need only remind you of the cinema killer. Perhaps there’s a link between Wawerka and Lamkau we’re not seeing. We should continue to pursue all avenues. Given the mysterious circumstances, we should concentrate on the motive. That’s still the quickest route to the perpetrator. Once we get them, they can explain the “how”.’
Lange and Charly nodded, but Gräf looked as if he had been struck by lightning. When he finally moved, it was only for his mouth to form a question. ‘What did you say the dead man was called?’
‘Wawerka.’ Rath checked the journal. ‘Hans Wawerka.’
Gräf turned white as a sheet.
‘What’s the matter?’
Gräf didn’t respond, but proceeded to his desk where he rummaged in one of the boxes he had seized from the Lamkau office. He returned to Rath’s table with two envelopes. ‘Here,’ he said, fumbling for a yellowed death notice that someone must have cut from the newspaper. ‘From Lamkau’s private desk. It was among the other letters. Sorry it took me so long to twig.’
Rath looked at the thin paper and couldn’t believe his eyes. A simple death notice, probably the cheapest available. No bible quotation, just a few words:
17
The new Aschinger was brighter than its predecessor in the former Königstadt Theatre, whose demolition could be observed through the large windows of Alexanderhaus. Despite the light, something of the old building’s ambience had been retained. Most importantly, however, the menu – and the prices – were the same, meaning the Alexanderhaus branch was as busy as its previous incarnation, perhaps more so, for the new building attracted curious passers-by. It certainly took them long enough to find a table.
Rath was happy to be alone with her again after the chaos of the afternoon. The discovery that there was a link between Lamkau and the second victim had sent a rush through the group. Gräf was crestfallen that he hadn’t thought of the death notice sooner, and wouldn’t be consoled.
Rath had sent him to work through Charly’s list of drug traffickers, before dispatching Lange to Edith Lamkau in Tempelhof, and requesting that the forensic technicians from I Division join him in his office. Lamkau’s drawers had contained a second letter, with a further death notice, this one mourning the loss of a certain August Simoneit, who had died aged forty-seven on 11th May in Wittenberge – though not, it appeared, in violent circumstances.
He had asked Charly to investigate the circumstances surrounding the third man’s death, though this proved trickier than anticipated. There had been no police inquiry, nor was Simoneit’s name known to the local CID. It was a poor return, especially since Charly had appeared determined to prove how good she was, something neither Rath nor the others had ever doubted. The only person who had any doubts was Charly herself, and Rath couldn’t help wondering if it went deeper than her inability to trace the source of tubocurarine.