‘No, but it’s important, I…’
‘If you don’t have an appointment, I’m afraid I can’t let you through.’
The door to the office opened and Friederike Wieking emerged, furrowing her brow. ‘Fräulein Ritter! Fancy seeing you here.’
‘Good morning, ma’am. I wanted to speak with you briefly, if I may.’
‘Your timing is perfect. We have a lot to discuss.’
Charly thought she saw disappointment in the secretary’s face as she took her seat on the visitor’s chair.
‘This conversation ought to have taken place long before now.’ Wieking gazed at her sternly from behind her desk. ‘Fräulein Ritter, have you considered whether you possess the necessary moral fibre and work ethic to be a member of the WKP?’
‘I’m not sure what you’re driving at, ma’am.’
‘Let’s take your sense of duty as a starting point. Can it be that you feel more drawn to working in A Division, for example?’
‘Superintendent Gennat has requested my involvement in two cases. My former colleagues value my work.’
‘One in particular seems to value your contribution. I’m not talking about your official forays into Homicide, although I wish you showed the same enthusiasm for your work here. No, my problem is that you have been seen in Homicide on several occasions during the working day, leaving your colleague to cope by herself for hours while you stop by your fiancé’s office. God alone knows what you’ve been doing there!’ With each sentence Wieking’s voice grew louder. Had Karin van Almsick squealed? Perhaps, but there must be someone in Homicide who couldn’t keep quiet either. ‘As if that wasn’t enough,’ Wieking continued, ‘you absent yourself from duty for weeks…’
‘I was sick!’
‘Sick!’ Wieking practically spat out the word. ‘A psychological illness! I’m sorry, but I can do without all this Jew whining.’
‘This what?’
‘Paroxysmal Neurasthenia.’ Wieking made it sound like the Latin name for a slimy toad. ‘You do realise the doctor who diagnosed you is Jewish? They link everything to the psyche.’
Yes, Charly realised that Dieter was Jewish. He made nothing of it and she had never thought it significant. ‘You’re questioning Dr Wolff’s qualifications?’
‘What I’m questioning is your willingness to take part in the national-socialist revolution.’
The national-socialist revolution… What had started as the national concentration had morphed into the national uprising, then the national revolution. Now it was a national-socialist revolution. Terms that were in constant flux, and no sooner did they arise than they appeared in the written press. This was the pace of change in the new Germany. For her part, Charly believed that the old Germany still existed somewhere. The country she loved couldn’t have dissolved into thin air. ‘Pardon me, ma’am, but I’m not a National Socialist,’ she said.
‘You don’t have to be a party member, child. But you’re a German, and the fate of our country must matter to you!’ Friederike Wieking sounded like a headmistress refusing to give up on her student.
‘Of course it does.’
‘There you are, and you can’t just leave your colleagues in the lurch! God knows, we have enough on our plates. Especially here, charged with looking after the nation’s young. Our youth is our future.’
‘Perhaps I have different ideas about the nature of our work here. And our future.’
‘Then it’s time you reconsidered. In a people’s community everyone must pull together. It starts on a small scale, with family, and work, and expands into something greater. Think about that.’
‘I’ve given it thought, ma’am. It’s the reason I’m here today. I’ve come to realise that police work is not for me.’
How hard it was to say these words. They weren’t true, or at least were only half the story. I can no longer be a police officer for this state, which tramples over our every legal right, was what she meant, but being seen as an intractable supporter of the Republic could create problems for Gereon.
‘Might you change your mind?’ Wieking hadn’t been expecting this. Charly had taken the wind out of her sails. ‘You have done excellent work here, on the rare occasion you have seen fit, that is.’
‘My decision is final, and I will confirm it in writing, ma’am.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ Wieking’s maternal mask slipped. ‘I think I’ve heard enough. Your probationary service is terminated with immediate effect. Pack your things. I don’t want to see you here again. You will be paid until the end of the month.’
‘If that is all.’
‘That is all. Heil Hitler.’
99
Berthold Weinert felt uneasy. It wasn’t the first time Gereon Rath had dragged him to the Nasse Dreieck on Wassertorplatz, and he had never liked the place: too small, too smoky, too Kreuzberg. Looking at the bar and four tables, he realised he was the only journalist present just as, clearly, Gereon was the only police officer. Better to meet here than be surrounded by colleagues in the newspaper quarter, or at Alex where every third drinker was a hoodlum or a cop. The only person who paid them any heed in the Dreieck was the landlord, Schorsch, and he had eyes only for their beer glasses.
The things he did for information. Gereon had been playing hard to get for months but, after his enigmatic appearance at the press conference, Weinert knew he had to talk to him. Schorsch set down two fresh glasses.
‘Back on your feet, I see,’ Gereon said.
‘Since the Reichstag fire. Holiday cover at first, but after the elections the man extended his leave indefinitely. Right now he’s in Prague, and won’t return.’
‘You’re keeping his desk warm?’
‘An editor again, at last. What did you have to tell me?’
‘What if I said the dead man from the Spree isn’t Captain Engel, but someone else?’
Ten minutes later Weinert had heard a hair-raising story he would not have believed if it hadn’t come from Gereon Rath.
‘Engel isn’t dead?’
‘The corpse from the Spree still had its foreskin. Engel was circumcised eight days after his birth, in December 1883.’
‘So who is it?’
Gereon shrugged. ‘Pathology swept it under the carpet to avoid making a fool of the commissioner.’
Weinert shook his head. ‘Is that why they took you off the case?’
‘The commissioner took me off the case because I was investigating it, rather than hunting Benjamin Engel. What if I told you it isn’t Engel, but Lieutenant von Roddeck who’s behind the killings?’
‘He doesn’t fit the profile. Besides, they found the murder weapon.’
‘You think Roddeck’s going to drive a trench dagger into someone’s skull? That’s what his faithful Heinrich is for.’
‘His who?’
‘Heinrich Wosniak. Any money he’s the dead man from the Spree. The burns aren’t from a boobytrap in ’17, but a fire on New Year’s Eve ’31.’
‘Wosniak? Then he’ll have the other tramp on his conscience too?’
‘He gave him his coat before killing him. The pocket still contained Wosniak’s service record so everyone thought it was him.’
‘Why should he murder all these men? His former comrades?’
‘Only Achim von Roddeck can answer that. You should ask him sometime.’
‘Not likely. That’s up to the police, or is Roddeck so untouchable that…’ Weinert broke off in mid-sentence. Having signalled for him to be quiet, Gereon looked towards the entrance. Weinert turned to see that a blond SA officer had entered with a man in civilian clothes. Both seemed known here. The civilian raised his hand uncertainly in their direction. Gereon replied with a nod.