The last few days were for the rubbish bin. Chuck ’em and forget they ever happened. It was high time they embraced and went to bed together, which they hadn’t managed since his return from Cologne. The day before yesterday she’d slept at Greta’s, yesterday he was back late. Perhaps he was just tired this morning – and she was in her usual bad mood, the source of which was the Castle, police headquarters, a place that had once been like a second home.
Someone had left a newspaper on the wooden seat opposite: Der Tag. Not exactly her preferred choice, and it was yesterday’s edition, but the first paper she’d seen in a while.
There was a twenty thousand mark reward for anyone with information about the Reichstag fire. She doubted the appeal would be of much use to the task force but, all at once, her eyes fell on a different article. Though it was the byline that grabbed her attention, she soon stumbled upon the words homeless man and Nollendorfplatz in the title. She read on, and by the end, realised that she, Charlotte Ritter, was the biggest fool ever to have carried a police badge.
31
She was smiling again, she was even smiling at him, and that was worth whatever the evening might cost. Rath knew it wouldn’t be cheap. Horcher, small but perfectly formed, was one of the most atmospheric restaurants in the city, and one of the most expensive. If your luck was in, you could rub shoulders with the great and the good. Charlie Chaplin had called in during his Berlin visit, and more than one UFA star was known to dine regularly here on Lutherstrasse, as well as political notables of every persuasion. It hadn’t been easy switching their table reservation from Sunday to Saturday, but Rath knew just the man to call.
He opened the passenger door and held out his hand, earning himself another smile. Twenty-four hours ago the smart money was on their weekend passing in silence; forget about going out, or eliciting a smile. In point of fact he hadn’t even reckoned on seeing her, thinking he’d driven her back to her mother, or at the very least to Greta. Yet here he was helping her out of the car on Lutherstrasse, and delighting in that smile.
He hadn’t told her where they were going, only that she would need to dress for dinner, and so he enjoyed her wide-eyed stare all the more when she realised where they were. No doubt she was wondering whether a place like this wasn’t too expensive for a police couple. He hoped his inheritance from Uncle Joseph might still serve as an explanation. Once they were married, things would be trickier. Charly might not be the perfect housewife, but in financial matters she was by far the more careful, and had even started a housekeeping book.
The head waiter, initially so blasé, bowed and scraped on hearing the name Rath. ‘But of course, Herr Rath, if you would be so kind as to follow me. We have a fabulous table for you.’
The staff in Horcher was as numerous as it was discreet. He needn’t have worried about Marlow’s name being mentioned. A man in tails took their coats as a colleague led them through the dining room into a smaller lounge, where a bottle of champagne stood in a cooler on a freshly laid table. No sooner had Charly taken her place than a third man slid a footstool under her seat and they felt as if they were the most important people in the world. Horcher had made an impression on Charly, and Rath was pleased as Punch.
They sat by the window and looked out onto Lutherstrasse. Diagonally opposite, a building front displayed an old sign for Eldorado, a transvestite bar Rath had visited during his first days in Berlin. On duty, when he was still working for Vice. It had been forced to close in summer, one of the first official acts of the staunchly conservative police commissioner Melcher, who had been appointed last year by Papen. Around a hundred queer bars in Berlin had been closed. The Nazis didn’t stand for any of that nonsense, even though half the SA were… Suddenly Rath remembered the blond youth standing half-naked in Gräf’s kitchen, in his old kitchen, and shuddered. For all he tried to erase it from his mind, the image refused to budge.
‘What’s wrong?’ Charly asked. ‘Are you cold?’
‘I get it whenever I come into the warmth from outside.’
A waiter filled their champagne glasses, while the maitre d’ distributed the menus and recommended the house speciality, Faisan de Presse, pheasant bones, minced to give the sauce its special flavour. Charly looked at the menu and checked there were no waiters close by. ‘Gereon,’ she said. ‘Isn’t this a little expensive for us?’
‘You only live once.’ They clinked glasses. ‘Luckily, we don’t have to get by on a single salary.’
‘On two salaries,’ she corrected.
‘There’s also Uncle Joseph’s inheritance. God rest his soul.’
Charly fell silent. Rath knew she came from poorer circumstances, and expected little by way of inheritance. She couldn’t know that Uncle Joseph hadn’t left him much, or that the money in his account was from Marlow’s handouts.
‘Thank you for this,’ she said. ‘What are we celebrating? Your final night as a thirty-three year old?’
‘Why not?’ Rath raised his glass a second time. ‘Here’s to tonight.’
He thought back to their reconciliation yesterday evening in Carmerstrasse. On returning home he had discovered her in the kitchen in a frenzy of activity. He stood speechless as she greeted Kirie. ‘You like Bouletten, don’t you?’
‘Are you talking to me or the dog?’
She advanced cautiously, taking him in her arms. ‘I’m sorry about this morning, Gereon. I’m such a clot.’
She had actually apologised! Something must have happened, and he’d soon find out what. After tentatively conceding that there might be political reasons for Böhm’s exile after all, he was met with a shake of the head.
‘No. Böhm was summoned because the press made a mockery of his case, and that’s my fault.’
‘Weinert wrote the article, not you.’
‘Where do you think he got his information?’
‘Come again?’
‘I met him at the Reichstag on the night of the fire. He had already filed his story and, frozen as we were, we wound up in an automat on Friedrichstrasse.’
‘And…’
‘And I mentioned Böhm’s case, Wosniak and the set-up at Nollendorfplatz, which you’ll remember was partly my idea. I couldn’t have known he’d make a story out of it.’
‘What do you mean, you couldn’t have known? Weinert’s a journalist, he makes his living turning information into stories. Especially information no one else has.’
‘I thought he was your friend.’
‘Someone like that can never be your friend.’
‘Someone like that?’
‘A hack like Weinert.’
‘Either way I’m going to apologise to Böhm. I owe him that much.’
‘Do whatever you think is necessary, but don’t blame yourself. Above all, don’t get mixed up in this. You are not responsible for Böhm’s fate. His card was already marked.’
He took her in his arms, and she nestled close. The crabbiness of the previous days was gone, and he kissed her properly for the first time since returning from Cologne. The news that he had to work on Sunday sobered Charly up somewhat, but by that stage they were lying next to each other sharing a cigarette, one of his as always. Never enthusiastic about his birthday, Rath wasn’t in the least put out by having weekend duty foisted on him by the Politicals. Even so, he put on a disappointed face, and said: ‘What can you do? There’s a time for work…’