by Val McDermid
He longed to score some remarkable coup that would win their respect. But that wasn’t going to happen while he was stuck in the dogsbody role. Take this latest job that Petra had dumped him with. How was he supposed to find out who Darko Krasic would trust to look after a child? He’d checked out the known associates in Krasic’s files, but most of them were the type of person you wouldn’t trust to hold the dog while you went for a piss, never mind leave in charge of a child. Then he’d had the brainwave of trying to find out if Krasic had any relatives in the area. He had this image of a Balkan stereotype who, like the Italians, would trust family ahead of anyone.
So for what felt like half a lifetime he’d been trawling public records, trying to find anyone with blood ties to Krasic. Immigration lists, tax rosters, property registers had all drawn a blank. Now he was reduced to phoning local police offices and asking if they knew anything. He’d worked his way round Berlin and now he was edging out into the Brandenburg countryside.
He crossed the last number off his list and dialled the next one, a substation on the northern outskirts of Oranienburg, near the former Sachsenhausen concentration camp. When the phone was answered, he went into his spiel. ‘I’m calling from the criminal intelligence unit here in Berlin. I know this is a long shot, but I’m trying to trace anyone who might be related to a Serb we’ve got operating here in Berlin. A guy by the name of Darko Krasic’
‘Hang on, I’ll put you through to someone who can help you.’
Silence, then the phone was picked up. ‘Detective Schümann,’ a voice said. It sounded as if he was talking through a mouthful of crunchy biscuits.
The Shark recited his speech again over the sounds of mastication.
‘That’d be Rado’s uncle, right?’ Schümann miraculously said. ‘Or cousin, or something, who knows with those Serbs?’
‘You know who I’m talking about?’ the Shark asked eagerly.
‘Sure, I know. It’s my business to know who’s connected on my patch, isn’t it?’
‘So who’s this Rado?’
‘Radovan Matic. Fourth division criminal, premier league arsehole. I nailed him about four years ago when he was still a juvenile for possession with intent to supply heroin. The usual rap on the knuckles. Then he buggered off to Berlin. We don’t see much of him these days.’
‘And he’s Darko Krasic’s nephew, yeah?’ The Shark was struggling not to sound too excited.
‘I think his old man and Darko are cousins.’
‘His father, does he still live in Oranienburg?’
‘Arkady? Yeah, he’s got a smallholding about six miles from here. Keeps pigs, I think. He’s a decent enough bloke. Never been in any kind of trouble. He beat the crap out of Rado after his arrest, so I heard.’
‘Does he have other kids, this Arkady Matic?’
‘There’s a grown-up daughter, I think. But she’s not living at home.’
‘Where exactly is this farm?’
‘You want the address or directions?’
‘Both, please, if you don’t mind.’ The Shark could hear the obsequiousness in his voice, but he didn’t care if he was crawling. He just wanted the information.
Schümann gave him a detailed description of how to find the Matic family farm. ‘What do you want with them anyway?’ he asked.
‘I don’t really know. I’m making inquiries on behalf of one of the other detectives here,’ The Shark said apologetically. ‘You know how it is. You clear your own case and somebody thinks you’ve got time on your hands …’
‘Tell me about it,’ Schümann complained. ‘Do me a favour, though. If your colleague is thinking about coming on to my patch, get him to call me first.’
‘He’s a she,’ The Shark said. ‘I’ll pass the message on. Thanks for your help.’ Bollocks to that, he thought. He wasn’t going to ask Detective Schümann’s permission to check out Matic’s farm. He wasn’t sharing his moment of glory with some provincial plod.
He jumped to his feet and practically ran out of the squad room, grabbing his jacket on the way. He had a good feeling about this. A smallholding in the middle of nowhere was the perfect place to stash Marlene Krebs’ daughter. He was on to something here. He’d show Petra he was worthy of her respect.
30
The hire car was waiting for Tony at Frankfurt, just as Petra had promised. He was grateful that she’d found the time to organize his trip; it would have been so much harder if he’d had to make his own arrangements. On the passenger seat was an internet-generated route plan to get him from the airport to Schloss Hochenstein in time for the appointment she’d arranged with the curator of the castle’s grisly records. He didn’t imagine he was going to find the ultimate answer to his quest this morning, but at least he might be able to leave with a list of names that could be used as a cross-reference if Marijke and her German colleagues managed to come up with possible candidates from the shipping community.
Even on a sunny spring morning, Schloss Hochenstein was a grim sight. The winding road that led up from the valley floor to the castle sitting on its bluff offered occasional glimpses of its forbidding grey walls and turrets. This was no fairytale Rhineland castle, he realized, as he rounded the final bend and came face to face with the looming edifice. There was nothing graceful about the schloss. It hunkered on top of the tor like a fat toad, everything about it heavy and overbearing. The towers on each corner were squat and ugly, the crenellated battlements threatening. This was a place to strike fear into the heart of your enemies, Tony thought, gazing up at the facade.
He parked in the visitor car park to one side of the castle and walked across the lowered drawbridge. Instead of a water-filled moat, there was a deep stone-lined ditch with savage iron spikes festooning the sides and bottom. Above the gateway were elaborate stone carvings of mythical beasts engaged in combat. A griffin crouched on the back of a unicorn, its claws buried in the unicorn’s neck. A strange serpent had its fangs plunged into the throat of a wyvern. As symbolic greetings went, Tony thought they might as well have carved, ‘Abandon hope all ye who enter here,’ and have done.
In the gatehouse, there was a ticket office. Tony walked up to it and told the attendant he had an appointment with Dr Marie Wertheimer. The man nodded gloomily and picked up the phone. ‘She will be with you now,’ he said, indicating to Tony that he should proceed into the courtyard of the keep. High walls towered over him, their narrow windows suggesting an army of hostile eyes. He imagined how this must have appeared to the frightened children herded here and shivered in spite of himself.
A rotund figure approached across the courtyard, swathed in a maroon woollen wrap. The woman looked like an autumn berry on legs, her greying hair twisted on top of her head in a neat bun. ‘Dr Hill? I’m Marie Wertheimer, curator of the records here at Schloss Hochenstein. Welcome.’ Her English was almost without accent.
‘Thank you for making the time to see me,’ Tony said, shaking her tiny plump hand.
‘It’s my pleasure. It’s always interesting to have a break from routine. So, why don’t we have a coffee and you can tell me exactly what it is that interests you.’
He followed her through a small studded wooden door at the base of the keep and down a flight of worn stone steps. ‘Mind your step,’ she cautioned him. ‘These stairs can be treacherous. Best to keep close to the handrail.’
They turned into a low corridor, lit with glaring fluorescent strips. ‘We have the least attractive quarters in the castle,’ Dr Wertheimer said. ‘The part the tourists never get to see.’ She turned abruptly into a doorway that opened into a large room lined with utilitarian metal shelving. To his surprise, it had narrow lancet windows along one wall. ‘Not a very enticing view,’ she said, noting his glance. ‘We look out on to the ditch. Still, at least I have some natural light, which is more than most of my colleagues. Please, take a seat, make yourself comfortable.’
Tony sat in one of a pair of battered armchairs set in a corner of the office while Dr Wertheim
er fussed with kettle and coffee pot. She brought him a mug of startlingly viscous coffee and settled herself in the chair opposite him. ‘I’m very curious,’ she said. ‘When I spoke to your colleague from Berlin, she was reluctant to give me any details of the nature of your inquiries.’
Tony sipped cautiously. There was enough caffeine in the brew to keep a narcolept awake for days. ‘It’s a very sensitive matter,’ he said.
‘We’re accustomed to sensitive matters here,’ Dr Wertheimer said tartly. ‘Our archive contains material that is still extremely uncomfortable for my fellow countrymen to contemplate. So, I need to be clear about the purpose of your visit. You can speak confidentially to me, Dr Hill. It won’t go any further.’
He sized up the placid face with its sharp eyes. He was inclined to trust this woman, and he suspected that, unless he opened up to her, she would be reluctant to do the same for him. ‘I’m an offender profiler,’ he said. ‘I was brought in to help with an investigation into a series of murders that we believe have been committed by the same person.’
Dr Wertheimer frowned. ‘The university lecturers?’ she said sharply. Astonished, Tony simply gaped at her. ‘You have not seen the newspapers this morning?’ She got up and rummaged in a large shopping bag at the side of her desk. She produced a copy of that morning’s Die Welt and turned to an inside page. ‘You read German?’ she asked.
He nodded, still not trusting speech. She handed him the newspaper and settled down in her chair while he read it. The headline was straightforward. Three murders – Are they linked? The text went on to point out that within the past two months, three university psychology lecturers had been found dead in suspicious circumstances. In each case, the police had been reluctant to divulge details of the deaths, except to say that each was being treated as murder. The writer went on to speculate as to whether this might be the work of a serial killer, although he had been unable to find a police source who would confirm the theory.
‘I imagine that there will be other stories in the press,’ Dr Wertheimer said as he finished. ‘I doubt they will be so restrained. So, is this what brings you to our records here?’
Tony nodded. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t more candid with you, but we have been trying to keep this out of the public arena.’
‘I can imagine. No police officer is comfortable working in the glare of the TV lights. So, what is it you hope to accomplish here?’
‘We need to narrow down our field of suspects. Dull, boring police work involving cross-referencing various lists. It’s tedious and time-consuming for the officers involved, but it could produce a result that will save lives. My analysis of the crimes leads me to think that it’s likely someone in our killer’s immediate family was the victim of psychological torture. I was told that you hold the archives relating to children who were either euthanased or experimented on by Nazi doctors. I’m hoping that somewhere in your archives there is a list of survivors.’
Dr Wertheimer raised her eyebrows. ‘This was a long time ago, Dr Hill.’
‘I know. But I believe our killer is probably in his mid-twenties. It’s possible that his father may have been a survivor. Or he may have been brought up by a grandparent who suffered at the hands of the people who operated institutions such as this.’
She nodded acquiescence. ‘It seems far-fetched to me, but I can see that you would want to clutch at any straw when you are trying to bring such a killer to justice. Well, we have no master list such as you speak of.’
Tony couldn’t help showing his disappointment on his face. ‘So I’m wasting your time as well as my own?’
She shook her head. ‘No, of course not. What we do have is individual lists for each of the institutions involved in this programme. There were six main centres where the euthanasia was carried out, but for each of those there were several feeder institutions. We hold records for all of these.’ She saw his look of dismay and smiled. ‘Please don’t despair. The good news is that all our data has been computerized, and so it is relatively easy to access. Normally, I would insist that you carried out any study here on the premises, but I can see that these are special circumstances. Perhaps you would like to contact Ms Becker and ask her to fax me a warrant that would allow me to provide you with hard copies of our data under a confidentiality agreement?’
Tony couldn’t believe his luck. For once, he’d found a bureaucrat who didn’t want to put obstacles in his way. ‘That would be extraordinarily helpful,’ he said. ‘Is there a phone I can use?’
Dr Wertheimer pointed to her desk. ‘Be my guest.’ He followed her across the room and waited while she scribbled down the fax number. ‘I expect it will take a little time for her to obtain the necessary warrant, but we may as well make a start. I’ll go and ask one of my colleagues to print out the appropriate data. I’ll be back shortly.’
She bustled out of the room, leaving Tony to call Petra. When she answered her mobile, he explained what he needed. ‘Shit, that’s not going to be easy,’ she muttered.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘I’m not supposed to be working on this, remember? I can hardly make a formal request for a warrant for a case that’s nothing to do with me. Have you seen the papers?’
‘I’ve seen Die Welt.’
‘Believe me, that’s the least of our worries. But now that everybody knows there’s a serial killer out there, of course, they also know it’s really nothing to do with me.’
‘Ah,’ Tony said. He’d wondered when the woman who got things done would finally hit a brick wall. It was just a pity that it had happened now.
‘Let me think …’ Petra said slowly. ‘There’s a guy in KriPo who really wants to work in intelligence. I know he’s got the right people in his pocket. Maybe I could persuade him that it would help him get a move on to my team if he pulled some strings for me on this.’
‘Is there anything that’s beyond you, Petra?’
‘This might be. Depends how sensitive this guy’s bullshit detector is. Keep your fingers crossed for me. Oh, and something very interesting came up in the Köln investigation. Marijke just e-mailed me about it. They found a colleague of Dr Calvet’s who remembered her saying something about a meeting with a journalist from a new e-zine, though she couldn’t swear to when they were supposed to get together.’
‘That confirms what Margarethe told her partner.’
‘More than that, Tony. It tells us we’re on the right track.’
He could hear a note of excitement in her voice. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The colleague remembered the alias the journalist was using.’ She paused expectantly.
‘And?’
‘Hochenstein.’
‘You’re kidding.’ He knew she wasn’t.
‘The colleague remembered it because it isn’t exactly a common name and, of course, Hochenstein has particular resonances for experimental psychologists in Germany.’
‘I bet it does. Well, at least that tells us I’m fishing in the right river.’
‘Happy hunting. I’ll talk to you later.’
He replaced the phone and walked over to the window. Dr Wertheimer had been right. This wasn’t a view for anyone who had depressive tendencies, he thought. He imagined the children cooped up behind these high walls, their lives narrowed to the prospect of death or torture. He supposed some of them were too profoundly handicapped to have been conscious either of their surroundings or their imminent fates. But for the others, those incarcerated because of their supposed anti-social behaviour or minor physical defects, the anguish must have been unbearable. To be wrested from their families and dumped here would have traumatized the best-adjusted of children. For those already damaged, it must have been disastrous.
His reverie was broken by the return of Dr Wertheimer. ‘The material you need is being printed out,’ she said. ‘We have lists of names and addresses, and in many cases there are also brief digests of some of the so-called treatments they endured.’
‘It�
��s amazing that the records survived,’ Tony said.
She shrugged. ‘Not really. They never thought for a moment they would ever be called to account. The idea that the Third Reich might collapse so spectacularly and thoroughly was unimaginable for those who were part of the establishment. By the time the truth dawned on them, it was too late to think of anything else except immediate personal survival. And it soon became clear that there were far too many guilty men and women for any but the most senior to face retribution. We began archiving records in the early 1980s and, after reunification, we were able to track down most of the old ones from the East too. I’m glad we have them. We should never forget what was once done in the name of the German Volk.’
‘And what exactly was done to these children?’ he asked.
Dr Wertheimer’s eyes lost their sparkle. ‘The ones who survived? They were treated like lab rats. Mostly they were kept down here, in a series of cells and dormitories. The staff called it the U-Boot – the submarine. No natural light, no sense of night and day. They did various experiments with sleep deprivation, altering the length of the perceived days and nights. They would allow a child to sleep for three hours, then wake it and say, “It’s morning, here’s your breakfast.” Two hours later, they would serve lunch. Two hours later, dinner. Then they would be told it was night and the lights would be turned off. Or else the days would be stretched out.’
‘This was supposed to be research, right?’ Tony asked, the tang of disgust in his throat. It never failed to appal him that members of his own profession could move so far from the avowed duty to help those entrusted to their care. There was something fright-eningly personal about this case, summoning as it did the images of a nightmare that had been created by men and women who must at some point have believed in the therapeutic possibilities of their work. That they could have been so readily corrupted from that ideal was frightening because it was a stark reminder of how thin the veneer of civilization truly was.
