80
When Charly returned to the Castle with Böhm, they found Vosskamp, the head guard, sitting in Gennat’s office. Trudchen Steiner, Gennat’s secretary, waved them through. ‘The superintendent has requested your presence,’ she said.
Before Charly could confirm they were both needed, Böhm pushed her through the door. ‘So?’ Gennat said, his coffee poured. ‘What’s the word from Pathology?’
‘It’s a copycat,’ Böhm said. ‘He broke Assmann’s neck, doused him with water and left a red handkerchief to throw us off the scent. Well, we’ve caught it now.’
‘There were traces of aftershave in the water,’ Charly said.
‘Interesting.’ Gennat shovelled three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee, stirring slowly and deliberately. ‘A copycat, then. That tallies with Forensics’s findings. We still don’t know anything about the others, but the handkerchief from this morning came from the textile section in Tietz, right here on Alexanderplatz.’
‘That was quick.’
‘One of Kronberg’s men recognised it. He bought one himself a few days ago.’
‘Then the man’s a suspect,’ Charly joked.
‘You’re closer to the truth than you might like.’ Buddha looked at the guard on his sofa. ‘In the meantime Herr Vosskamp and I have solved one or two riddles.’
Vosskamp interpreted this as an invitation to make his report. He cleared his throat. ‘Yes,’ he said, placing his cup to one side. ‘We’ve questioned the duty guards on both late and night shifts and pieced together Herr Assmann’s final hours. The prisoner received a visit at twelve minutes past nine, from a detective inspector.’
Charly’s ears pricked up.
‘What inspector?’ Böhm asked. ‘I didn’t send anyone up to him in the middle of the night. Or did Customs…?’
‘No, it was a detective inspector,’ Vosskamp said. ‘At least according to our log.’
‘Based on what we know so far,’ Gennat said, ‘this is the man who has Dietrich Assmann on his conscience.’
‘What do you mean? Did an interrogation spiral out of control?’
‘We don’t know yet.’ Gennat shrugged. ‘The guard swears that everything was as normal when he fetched the officer from the cell. He claims the prisoner was already asleep.’
‘Or dead,’ Charly said, immediately irritated by her lapse in control.
‘Yes, Fräulein Ritter,’ Gennat said. ‘That’s what I think too.’ He glanced at a sheet of paper. ‘It was nine thirty-seven when the officer called for the guard, which was also when he left the cell wing.’
‘After which point there were no other incidents of note,’ Vosskamp said. He clearly thought it significant.
‘If he’s in the log then he must have left a name,’ Böhm said. ‘So why aren’t we grilling him as we speak?’
Gennat opened the log and passed it to Böhm. ‘The entry’s there, at the bottom.’
Böhm took the book and looked inside. Charly squinted at the page. Prisoner name, cell number, visitor name and length of visit were all neatly recorded. The last entry bore yesterday’s date and pertained to Dietrich Assmann. She could see the name and signature. No doubt about it, it looked the same as on all those letters he had sent to Paris: the book was signed: Gereon Rath.
81
There was only one fresh grave at the Catholic cemetery in Treuburg. Already the wreaths and flowers were starting to wilt; it smelled of herbs, topsoil and holy water. Maria Cofalka didn’t have a headstone yet, but Rath knew he was in the right place. He’d purchased flowers en route after depositing the homicide file at the train station, in the same locker he’d left his suitcase prior to meeting Naujoks.
He laid the bouquet beside the wreaths and, before he knew what he was doing, sank to his knees. He wasn’t especially devout, didn’t even know if he still believed – but he felt responsible for the death of this woman whom Wengler had ordered killed. For the distillery owner wasn’t only interested in preserving the legend of Anna von Mathée’s death, but also in concealing a murder he himself had committed, and, with the help of his brother, falsely attributed to another man.
If Rath hadn’t let the papers Maria Cofalka entrusted to him be stolen, then perhaps she would still be alive. He felt an urgent need to ask for her forgiveness, but this was ridiculous, kneeling before a mound of earth, communing with a dead woman.
She can’t hear you, goddamn it, it’s too late!
Still, he spoke with her, apologised that he would soon be disrupting her peace so that the circumstances of her death might come to light, in this town where all else, it seemed, was swept under the carpet at the bidding of just one man.
Wanting to confront this man, Rath had alighted from the train the station before Treuburg and walked up to the estate house, finding only Fischer, the private secretary, according to whom, Wengler was still in Berlin. Having settled his brother’s estate he would now depart on business, and wouldn’t return for at least a week.
Was the nimble-minded Fischer aware what kind of man he worked for, that Gustav Wengler had his own fiancée on his conscience, and more people besides? Perhaps the secretary was in cahoots with him?
Rath stood up and wiped the dirt from his knees. Jakub Polakowski’s grave was close by, and, passing it, he read its inscription once more.
For love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave. The coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.
Love. Rath wondered who was responsible for Polakowski being buried here, and for these verses. Perhaps the same person who was responsible for the murders. Someone who knew who first deprived Jakub Polakowski of the love of his life, then sent him to jail for her murder.
If he hadn’t known better, he’d have suspected Maria Cofalka, who had worked in a hospital during the war and would be familiar with needles. As a woman, she’d have been able to get close to her victims without arousing suspicion, right until the needle entered the jugular. But Maria had been in Treuburg when Siegbert Wengler was killed in Berlin. Rath had questioned her in the library the day before.
Perhaps she’d had an accomplice who would finish the job now that she was dead? He needed to find out who else had been close to Jakub Polakowski.
Or he could keep his findings to himself, and let things slide. He could cross his fingers that this mysterious avenger would catch up with Gustav Wengler and subject him to as torturous a death as Wengler had Anna von Mathée.
He shook his head. He couldn’t. He’d have liked to, but he couldn’t. There was a madman on the loose who had killed four people; not innocents, perhaps, but four people all the same. People who hadn’t deserved to die, just as Gustav Wengler didn’t deserve to die.
No, the only right course of action was bringing Gustav Wengler to trial.
On Bergstrasse, just before the marketplace, he was met by around a dozen SA officers, led by Klaus Fabeck, Hella’s boyfriend. Fabeck glowered at him with the typical SA gaze, a strange mix of hatred and contempt. You could be forgiven for thinking the brownshirts practised it. As if it were a forward march, or a kick to the solar plexus.
He stood in the troop’s way, and Fabeck raised his hand and bade his men halt. At least the idiots were well-trained.
‘Well,’ Rath said. ‘What feats of heroism await?’ Fabeck stared in silence. ‘What’s on today’s agenda? Theft, murder, the usual?’
At last Fabeck found his voice. ‘How about decking the local gobshite?’
‘Bet you feel strong with all these men behind you, but that doesn’t mean you can incite your girlfriend to steal.’