‘You presume to dictate Achim von Roddeck’s security arrangements?’
‘That wasn’t my intention, Sir.’
‘These wishy-washy statements. This waffle about feelings and instincts. These positively reckless suggestions of yours… They only harden my resolve!’ Magnus von Levetzow turned red in the face. ‘Inspector, I am relieving you of this case. Detective Gräf and Cadet Steinke will take over with immediate effect. I would ask you to pass on all relevant documents and report to Superintendent Gennat.’
Gräf, of all people! Was he being replaced by a lower-ranking officer to humiliate him? He pretended contrition but felt relief. He had blown it with the new commissioner, but experience told him that where commissioners were concerned, the Castle was a revolving door. Magnus von Levetzow was already the fourth since he’d started in Berlin, and Rath was certain he wouldn’t be the last.
‘You can go.’ Levetzow thrust his right arm forward with a brisk ‘Heil Hitler!’
This time Rath was ready for it. He raised his right arm, in a manner similar to Hitler himself, but not as briskly, rather, casually, limply, as if he were saying ‘Hello’, and his ‘Heil’ sounded more like a Hi. The commissioner shooed him away like a disobedient dog. For the time being he was in the clear, and it was unlikely he’d have to return anytime soon. When that day came, he doubted very much that a Nazi would still be in post. Melcher, the previous incumbent, had lasted barely half a year, and Gereon Rath was more than happy to wait his successor out.
They could hardly wait. Before the lunch break had begun Gräf appeared with a cardboard box under his arm and Cadet Steinke in tow. The meeting was an embarrassment for Gräf, but Steinke had no such qualms. ‘We require all documents pertaining to the Wosniak, Meifert and Wibeau investigations,’ he said, as if he were Rath’s commanding officer.
Rath fetched the three files from the cabinet and made a pile of them on his desk, leaving the Bülowplatz file and observation reports from Bonn in his drawer.
‘I’m sorry, Gereon,’ Gräf said. ‘It’s what the commissioner wants. I’d rather we could keep working together.’
‘It’s fine,’ Rath said, returning to the unspectacular case Gennat had assigned him, most likely a suicide, a contemporary for whom the national uprising wasn’t as uplifting as for the majority of his fellow citizens. Shopkeeper Daniel Rothstein had been found dead in his bed in Wilmersdorf and so far there was nothing to suggest foul play, unless, that is, someone had forced him to ingest the bottle of Veronal that lay empty by his bedside table.
Gräf unloaded the contents of his cardboard box into his desk drawers while Steinke moved the files from Rath’s desk onto Gräf’s and reached for the visitor’s chair.
‘What the hell is this?’ Rath demanded.
‘We’re merging the three files into a single dossier,’ Steinke said. ‘The Alberich file, the commissioner suggested. I think that’s what we’re calling it, right, Sir?’
‘You can call it the Arsehole file for all I care,’ Rath glared at Steinke. ‘What I want to know is why you pair of jokers think you can spread yourselves around my office.’
Gräf rediscovered his voice. ‘This is my desk. We have to work somewhere.’
‘And this room is my office. It says so on the door. If you want to take up with a new… partner, you’ll have to find somewhere else. With the Politicals for all I care. That’s where you two sweethearts have come from, isn’t it?’
Gräf packed his things back into the cardboard box. Steinke, however, wasn’t prepared to go down without a fight. ‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘your tone ill becomes you…’
‘Zip it, Steinke,’ Gräf shouted. ‘Take your goddamn files. You heard what he said. We’ll find somewhere else.’
The smirk disappeared from Steinke’s face. He took the files from the desk and followed Gräf outside. Rath knew Gräf was no fan of the Nazi careerist, and was all the more tickled by the commissioner’s decision to lump them together. The pair had distinguished themselves as avid supporters of the national uprising during their stint with the Politicals. How nice to see these spiritual comrades at loggerheads despite their common ground.
‘Shut the door!’ Rath yelled, and Steinke’s wobbly pile of files almost toppled to the floor.
81
Charly drew on her cigarette. ‘Perhaps it was the boycott,’ she said.
Gereon was focused on the traffic. It wasn’t yet five but already they were driving out of town on Landsberger Allee, one of Berlin’s major arterial roads. She didn’t know what Gereon had said to get off work, nor did she care, her sense of duty being currently at odds with the Prussian gold standard. Which wasn’t to say she had no interest in Gereon’s latest investigation, a suicide with no farewell note. In the three days since Levetzow had taken him off the Alberich case, he had yet to establish a motive.
‘This Rothstein,’ she continued, ‘had a little toy shop on Knesebeckstrasse, didn’t he? Perhaps he killed himself fearing the Jewish boycott would drive him to ruin.’
The papers had been full of it for days. As revenge for, supposedly Jewish, atrocity propaganda in the foreign press, a nationwide boycott of Jewish businesses was to be observed this coming Saturday. By now the Central Committee for the Prevention of Jewish Inflammatory and Atrocity Propaganda had sent its call to editorial offices up and down the land, and the newspapers had printed their text in full, even the Vossische. Reading about it, you’d think a national holiday was being observed, complete with parades and demonstrations. Where the new regime was concerned, parades and demonstrations seemed to go with the territory.
‘Bit much, don’t you think?’ Gereon asked.
‘What?’
‘Killing yourself for something like that. Who takes this sort of thing seriously? It’s just the Nazis shooting their mouths off again. Do you really think Berliners are going to be told where to shop?’
‘Perhaps it wasn’t suicide and the SA have him on their conscience.’
‘You should be careful saying that sort of thing.’
‘Gereon, if we can’t speak freely in your car, where can we?’
‘The man took to his bed following an overdose of Veronal. No external injuries. Doesn’t sound like the SA to me.’
‘You’re right. The SA would be sure to roughhouse any Jew they laid their hands on.’ The brick buildings of the Lichtenberg Waterworks flitted past as they approached the city boundary. ‘How far is it to Freienwalde?’
‘About an hour’s drive.’
She could hardly wait to see Hannah again, having known since Monday where she was being kept.
Gereon had sounded like a doctor: ‘She’s lost a lot of blood. It will be some time before she’s healed properly but, all things considered, she seems to be making a steady recovery.’
‘Freienwalde? Why is she in Freienwalde?’
He had hesitated a moment before replying. ‘Because Johann Marlow has a house there. Because there she’ll be safe.’
‘The Johann Marlow? Dr M.?’ She couldn’t believe it.
‘She’s in better hands with him than with your doctor friend.’ That much was true. Dieter was a neurologist, not someone familiar with haemorrhaging and stab wounds.
‘I thought you’d cut all ties with Marlow.’
‘I have, but he still owes me a favour.’
‘There’s a name for that, you know? You’re a police officer, allowing a criminal…’