He was surprised not to be struck again but the man with the file simply pushed him along the corridor and up the stairs. It must have been dark outside. He couldn’t see any daylight. A fierce kick to the back, and he landed in a room lit only by a desk lamp, but managed to cling to a chair in front of a desk. Pools of blood were thickening on the floor. Blood glistened on the seating surface.
‘Prisoner Juretzka,’ File Man announced.
The man behind the desk was the highest ranking. He was writing something on a kind of report form, almost as if he were a real cop, but Leo realised he was playing at the role, perhaps to make himself feel more important. Behind him stood another, whose face was untouched by the cone of light shining from the desk lamp.
Despite the brown uniform and shorn hair, Leo recognised this third man immediately, having seen him often enough outside the door of Neunundsechzig, looking strangely out of place in evening dress. No doubt get-up like that was de rigueur for bouncers employed by the most infamous, and therefore most profitable, Nordpiraten-run illegal nightclub in the city. Müllerstrasse, in a rear courtyard basement of house number 69.
‘Hello, Katsche,’ Leo said. ‘Nice uniform.’
The man with the file pressed Leo onto the bloody surface of the chair and closed the door.
‘I didn’t realise the SA worked with criminals,’ Leo said. ‘Has Katsche here told you who else he runs with? Ever heard of the Nordpiraten?’
‘Keep your mouth shut,’ File Man said. ‘Comrade Kaczmarek will deal with you soon enough.’
Right on cue, Katsche emerged from the darkened corner, took up position next to Leo’s chair, and dealt him a blow to the liver. Leo doubled up in pain. He ought to have known what Katsche’s role was. The man was a bouncer. He knew how to strike where it hurt.
‘Am I being held by the Pirates or the SA?’ Leo asked, receiving another blow to the knuckles for his troubles.
The man behind the desk set his report form to one side. ‘You, scum, are in the hands of the German police.’ He planted himself in front of Leo. ‘And you’ll speak when you’re spoken too. Understood?’
‘Sarge.’ Leo said through gritted teeth. ‘I just didn’t recognise your new uniform. Didn’t it use to be blue?’
Another blow, to the ribs this time.
‘That’s Herr Scharführer to you, you piece of shit.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, Herr Scharführer, Sir.’
The Scharführer looked satisfied. Typical German, Leo thought, always crowing about his rank.
‘Might I ask what it is you want from me, Herr Scharführer? I’ve nothing to do with the Reichstag fire, and I’m no Red either. Just ask Katsch… I mean SA-officer Kaczmarek.’
Katsche struck him a blow to the solar plexus. He gagged and Katsche seized him and pulled him up by the collar. ‘See that you don’t puke over the floor,’ he said. ‘Otherwise you’ll be licking it up yourself. You Red swine.’
Red swine? Leo was surprised. Surely Katsche knew better. Had he denounced him as a Communist to his new comrades? To settle old scores?
Katsche let him flop back onto the chair.
‘We ask the questions here,’ said the Scharführer. ‘All we want from you is answers. Understood?’
Leo nodded. Why give these arseholes any more excuses? It would soon be clear enough that he was no Communist, in which case they’d have to let him go. Then, if he really had denounced him, Katsche would be the one in trouble. That was something at least.
18
Rath wakened at a quarter past four following a restless sleep. After tossing and turning for fifteen minutes he went into the kitchen to put on some coffee. He took a long shower and emerged feeling half-awake. The central heating, which ensured the supply of hot water was constant, was one of the advantages of his newly-built apartment in Charlottenburg. How he had hated having to switch on the water heater on cold winter days in his old place in Kreuzberg.
In the kitchen Kirie looked at him out of drowsy eyes, and Rath ran his hands affectionately through her black fur. Despite another late night, he didn’t feel too hungover, but perhaps the headache was still to come. Finishing his coffee, he saw that it wasn’t yet five. Kirie looked bewildered as he attached her lead and shooed her outside. The night porter greeted him with the same blank gaze as always, only Rath was more familiar with it on his way in. He had never left the house so early before.
Reaching the small park at Steinplatz, he was the only person for miles around. At other times of day it wasn’t unusual to run into fellow dog-walker Bernhard Weiss, who lived here with his wife and daughter, having been evicted from his official residence in Charlottenburg last summer when the Reich government made a purge of the Berlin police executive. It was a shame: in Police Commissioner Grzesinski and his deputy, two capable men had been lost. These days Rath felt slightly embarrassed at seeing him, unsure whether to regard him as his ex-boss or a new neighbour.
Charly had no such qualms, chatting as if they were old school friends… but now he was thinking about her again. It didn’t matter what else was going on in his head, at some point his thoughts turned to Charly. Even this stupid murder case linked back to her, or at least she thought it did. This crazy girl wandering the streets of Berlin like a ghost. It was only a matter of time before Warrants picked her up.
Once Kirie had completed her business he shunted her into the car and started the engine and drove aimlessly through the city, only to wind up in Moabit. To his left he saw the prison, the yard of which was brightly lit even at night, and the long, dark brick wall. To his right was Spenerstrasse. He switched on the indicator to turn, but pulled over at the last minute.
What’s the plan here? he asked himself. Ring on Greta’s door and offer Charly a lift to Alex? A crazy idea, they’ll almost certainly still be asleep. You’ll only make a fool of yourself.
He drove on through the city, past the burned-out Reichstag whose silhouette rose dark against the brightening eastern sky. Apart from the shattered, warped glass dome, the building looked exactly as before. You could be forgiven for thinking nothing had happened.
He tried to focus on something else, to look forward to the coming day, to seeing Charly, at the latest in the canteen, and greeting his colleagues. All at once he knew where he could go. They could discuss the case, perhaps even arrange to meet for a beer later in the Nasse Dreieck, just like old times.
Parking on Luisenufer, he felt better. It was still very early, but if Gräf was planning to take the bus to Alex, as he did every morning, then he would certainly be up. At worst, he’d be having his breakfast. Rath and Kirie crossed the empty courtyard and made for the rear building. At just after six, there was no one in the stairwell. Reaching the door on the first floor, he debated whether he should permit himself the obligatory greeting, before giving a loud knock and crying: ‘Police! Open at once!’
Moments later the door opened a crack and Reinhold Gräf, in a dressing gown and with his hair still wet, peered out, white as a ghost. ‘Gereon, for the love of God. What’s going on?’
‘Nothing much. Just thought I’d pick you up for a change.’
Gräf looked at the clock on the wall. ‘You do realise what time it is? I haven’t had breakfast yet.’
‘No problem. Why don’t I join you?’
Gräf made no move to let him in. The door was open no more than a crack, but for Kirie that was enough. Rath had noticed her growing impatient on the stairs, pulling on the lead as she sniffed out the flat where she’d spent the first years of her life. Or perhaps it was the liver sausage, but either way she broke off from her lead and charged inside.