The Wolf Children (Inspector Stave Book 2)

by Cay Rademacher

  ‘Police, CID,’ Stave called out, levelling his gun: ‘Hands up!’

  The shipyard worker choked on his cigarette smoke, began coughing and spluttering. ‘You’re as bad as the Führer's lot,’ he spat out, but did as he was told and raised his arms.

  ‘Name?’ Stave shouted at him. He hated acting like one of the Gestapo.

  ‘Herbert Gehrecke,’ the man replied.

  MacDonald was standing to one side, his weapon trained on the man's chest, a satisfied smile on his face. He looks as if he’d shoot this man without a second thought, Stave realised. Maybe he would.

  ‘What were you doing on board the Leland Stanford?’

  Gehrecke closed his eyes. ‘You were watching me?’

  Stave would have laughed at the naïvety of the question, if it wouldn’t have been out of keeping with his tough guy act. ‘What was in the bag you handed over to the American officer?’ he barked at Gehrecke.

  ‘It's really as if the Nazis are still in power. What do you want from me?’

  ‘That depends on your answers. What was in the bag?’

  ‘Two reels.’

  ‘Reels?’

  ‘Two tapes,’ the shipyard worker replied irritably.

  Stave's heart was pounding, but he tried not to let it show. His brain was working overtime. ‘What sort of tapes?’

  ‘How would I know? I don’t have a tape recorder.’

  ‘Were the tapes you handed over still in their original packaging? Or did they look as if they’d been used?’

  ‘Used. They were in cardboard boxes that looked a bit battered.’

  ‘From before the war?’

  Gehrecke laughed. ‘What else?’

  ‘German?’

  ‘There was a swastika on the box, and a stamp.’

  ‘What sort of stamp?’

  ‘No idea. Something official-looking.’

  This guy was just an innocent go-between, the chief inspector told himself. ‘Who told you to take the tapes to the American ship? How did you know which officer you were to give them to?’

  Gehrecke licked his lips. Trying to think up a lie, Stave realised. He nodded to MacDonald. The lieutenant released the safety on his gun and aimed it a little higher, right at the man's head.

  ‘Honestly, I know nothing,’ Gehrecke protested, an uncontrollable tick causing the muscle of his left cheek to twitch. He looked as if he was about to cry. ‘Who was it?’ Stave pressed.

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see. That's the basis of my business.’

  ‘Your business?’

  ‘I bring stuff to the Allies's ships when they’re here being repaired at Blohm & Voss. I’ve been doing it for months now. People get to know. I get parcels left in my cubbyhole, with a note to say which ship it's for, who I should ask for, and what time I should turn up, and whether or not I’m supposed to collect something in return. The next day I find cigarettes in my cubbyhole, or maybe a pound of butter.’

  ‘And what is it you deliver, usually?’

  ‘Mostly I don’t know. I never open the packets. I’m not interested. That's why I’m still alive.’

  ‘If you’re not interested, how did you know that the package you delivered today was recording tape?’

  ‘Because it's all changed around here. I got a note a few weeks ago.’

  ‘How long ago precisely?’

  ‘Can’t remember. It must have been just after the hunger winter, when the Elbe began to thaw and the first ships started coming in again. I got a note to say that in one particular warehouse there were dozens of jute bags with tapes in them. I was to take one of them and deliver it to an American ship. So that's what I did.’

  ‘Didn’t you ever stop to think about any of this? The unusual way of getting in touch with you? The unusual nature of the stuff you were delivering?’

  A shrug. ‘I suppose I was curious. A bit. But also relieved. Sort of. What would it matter if I was caught acting as a courier for recording tape? What could be illegal about that?’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘What I was told. The next day I found a carton of Lucky Strikes in my cubbyhole. The American freighter was gone. The warehouse was empty.’

  ‘But you didn’t take all the rest to the freighter?’

  ‘No. Odd, isn’t it? Somebody must have come during the night and taken them all.’

  ‘To the freighter?’

  ‘I don’t know. All I know is that they were gone. Then a few days later the same thing: a note in my cubbyhole, tapes in the warehouse, I take one jute sack to the ship, the next morning I get the cigarettes, the ship is gone and so are the tapes.’

  ‘Was it an American ship that time too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The same one?’

  ‘It's always the same one, the Leland Stanford. I’d love to know how they manage it, breaking down every time they come through Hamburg.’

  Stave was now convinced there was nothing wrong with the ship. It was all a sham. Taking the ship to the yard, staying for longer than necessary. Somebody had to be making a fortune to go to all this effort. ‘Which warehouse were the tapes left in?’

  ‘The one with the unexploded bomb.’

  The chief inspector wasn’t surprised. ‘The one where the murdered boy was found?’

  ‘That's the one. Terrible thing to happen. I knew there was an unexploded bomb in there. I walked all round the shipyard after the end of the war and stumbled on it in there.’

  ‘Didn’t you report it?’

  Gehrecke looked down at his feet. ‘It was an ideal place to hide stuff. If anyone had looked in, they would have disappeared again fast. It was a great place for me to park stuff I had to deliver to the ships. That was my business plan: storage and delivery. It didn’t make me much at first, because after 1945 there were hardly any ships coming into the port at all, never mind coming to the shipyard. But gradually it got better. I was surprised to find that place being used for the tapes. Seems somebody else must have had the same idea.’

  Or somebody had been watching you, the chief inspector thought, though he said nothing. A warehouse full of recording tape. Somebody who had the ability to get the stuff there, either overnight or at the weekend. And could also get it on board a ship. But why would he employ a shipyard worker to take a couple of tapes to the ship in advance, in the middle of the day? It had to be somebody checking out the merchandise. Somebody on board had to be listening to the tapes. But what could be on them that was so interesting? Nazi secrets? Confessions? Who might be interested in stuff like that? Secret services. In this case the American secret service. Quite clearly MacDonald knew nothing about any of it. It would be interesting to see if he had come to the same conclusion. Perhaps now he really would try marching on to the Leland Stanford to interview a few people.

  ‘Does the name Walter Kümmel mean anything to you?’ he asked.

  ‘Never heard it before.’

  ‘Did you ever come across a stranger here in the shipyard?’ Stave gave him a physical description of the boxing promoter.

  ‘No, I’d have noticed somebody in a smart suit with a broken nose.’

  It was said so matter-of-factly that the chief inspector didn’t believe it was a lie. He was disappointed. ‘Were you here the morning the murdered boy's body was found?’

  ‘Not exactly. I saw a few colleagues looking around the parts of the shipyard that weren’t being used. Old Blohm has a few ideas about what we can build up again and sent out a few teams. I reckoned they’d spot the unexploded bomb and that would be the end of my transport and storage business.’

  ‘Did you know the boy?’

  ‘Never seen him before. When I heard the alarm, my first thought was that the bomb had gone off. But the story soon got around. I took a quick look down by the warehouse while everybody else was waiting for the police and the fire brigade. Whoever the boy was he had nothing to do with the shipyard.’

  ‘Was any of your special cargo there at the time?’ M
acDonald raised his weapon again.

  ‘No! Honest!’ Gehrecke exclaimed. By now he had been holding his hands up so long there were rivers of sweat running down his temples, his hair was glued to his head and there were dark patches appearing on the thin shirt he wore. Let him sweat, the chief inspector thought: he wasn’t going to help.

  ‘I had nothing in there. There were no ships in the yard.’

  ‘Did anything you stored there ever go missing?’

  The shipyard worker gave him a surprised look, then realised what he meant and straightened his face. ‘You mean, did the boy ever steal anything of mine? No, not that I know of. I never noticed anything missing.’

  ‘Not even tapes?’

  He hesitated a moment. ‘I never counted how many sacks there were. And I certainly didn’t count how many tapes were in each sack. If somebody had taken one, I wouldn’t have noticed. Would you mind if I lowered my hands?’

  Stave acted as if he hadn’t heard. ‘After the murder, did you continue to use the same place?’

  ‘Hardly I’m not stupid. That would have been far too dangerous.’

  ‘You found somewhere else?’

  ‘I’m still looking,’ he admitted. ‘But it's getting more difficult all the time. Old Blohm is turning everything topsy-turvy. I may have to give up altogether,’ he sighed dejectedly.

  It sounded plausible enough, Stave reckoned. ‘Where did you get the tapes you just smuggled onboard the Leland Stanford?’

  ‘I found them in my cubbyhole this morning. Along with a note to tell me who to deliver them to.’

  ‘Where is the note now?’

  ‘I threw it into the water. It's safer like that.’

  Stave suppressed a curse. ‘Let's imagine it all goes as it did the first couple of times: where will the rest of the tapes be kept?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gehrecke spluttered. He's ours now, Stave told himself, ready to collaborate. He gestured to the man that he could lower his hands, but added, ‘Keep them at wrist level.’

  Assuming the man's story was true there was a stockpile of tapes around here somewhere. And somebody was going to come here at night to collect them. But I have no idea where the tapes might be. And I have no idea who that somebody might be. But at least I do know where they are to be taken and when. Because the freighter is due to depart on the first tide the day after tomorrow.

  ‘Come with us,’ he told Gehrecke.

  Stave and MacDonald put their weapons back in their holsters. Gehrecke walked along in between them, showing no signs of resistance. We just have to hope he keeps quiet and that the other workers treat us normally, thought Stave.

  They were lucky. It was lunchtime. The air was full of concrete dust and the remnants of the destroyed cranes were too hot to touch. There was nobody around. Stave reckoned the workforce were all either in the makeshift coffee shop, or squatting somewhere in the shade eating the sandwiches their wives or mothers had made. Stave thought this could be a good moment to investigate the contents of MacDonald's briefcase, but he thought there was every possibility that Gehrecke would have less respect for a chief inspector munching on a sandwich, and might do something stupid.

  They walked up to one of the ferries, waking the dozing man at the wheel. He looked as if he was going to tell them where to go, but when he saw the look on their faces, he swallowed his annoyance and cast off.

  Once they were back out on the Elbe, Stave took a deep breath. Gehrecke was sitting on his own at the stern. Stave sat next to him and took two photos out of his jacket pocket: photos of the dead bodies of Hildegard Hüllmann and Wilhelm Meinke.

  Gehrecke went pale: ‘You mean they’re both dead too?’

  ‘You know them?’

  ‘Never seen either of them. Am I a suspect?’

  The chief inspector was taken aback. He hadn’t expected an answer like that. It wasn’t impossible of course. He hadn’t seen Gehrecke in that way because he was looking at the case from another angle. But don’t get it wrong. He could well have been the killer. When he was leaving the Leland Stanford, though, he had used his right hand to light his cigarette. Stave handed him his notebook and said, ‘Write down your name and address.’

  The man was right-handed.

  Stave looked at the clumsily formed letters, thought about the way the man had spoken, his behaviour, about his lack of interest in the whole business. Surely most people were fascinated with what was being smuggled in and out of the port? Surely anybody would look into a bag, would peel back the label on a package, if only out of curiosity. The opposite also made sense. Who would risk going backwards and forwards for months in the vicinity of an unexploded bomb just to store something or other when he didn’t even know what it was? Who on earth would take a risk like that for a few ciggies and the occasional pound of butter? This guy next to me is a bit simple, he thought to himself, certainly far too simple to have been involved in a murder like this. But in answer to Gehrecke's question, he said only, ‘I’m not excluding anything.’

  Stave let the shipyard worker sit where he was at the stern. There's no way he's going to jump into the Elbe, he told himself as he sidled over to MacDonald. The British office was using his left hand to fan himself, even though he was sitting in the small area of shade cast by the boat's little bridge, but with his right hand still holding his revolver between his knees. ‘Just in case our friend tries any tricks,’ he said, in a quiet voice he clearly hoped the shipyard worker wouldn’t hear.

  ‘I’m going to arrest Gehrecke and interrogate him later. There's always the possibility we’ll get more out of him. Also I need to persuade Breuer to carry out a raid the night after tomorrow so we can catch the smugglers.’

  ‘Blohm & Voss is a no-go area, under British control,’ the lieutenant reminded him, shaking his head. ‘The German police have no access rights. And don’t imagine the British are going to launch anything major. Not with the mood the way it has been of late. And certainly not over somebody smuggling tapes. And least of all when it involves one of our American ally's ships.’

  Stave began to protest, but MacDonald held up a hand. ‘I know that's where the boy was killed and you think the smugglers were responsible. Governor Berry wants the case solved, but not at any price. He doesn’t want embarrassment and strikes down at the port, unrest in Hamburg and difficult conversations in London and Washington.’

  ‘You mean in that case you wouldn’t be on a ship to Palestine on your own? You’d have Berry with you.’

  ‘What a good idea. At least then I’d have a friend in my new job.’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’

  ‘I’m going to take Gehrecke in my Jeep. He won’t draw so much attention if he's in a British military cell. Down at your CID headquarters somebody might recognise him and tip off the smugglers.’

  ‘Are you suggesting one of my men might be corrupt?’

  ‘I’m saying they’re badly paid. And one or two of them might not be too upset if we British have problems down at the shipyard. It might distract attention from a few things in their own past.’

  ‘OK, fine. Gehrecke is yours. What do I do?’

  ‘Is there anybody you trust 100 per cent?’

  Stave thought of Ehrlich, but he was the last person he wanted to have to deal with at the moment. ‘No,’ he replied, realising as he said it how pathetic it sounded.

  ‘In that case we’re going to have to think up some way of handling this on our own, without any help.’

  ‘You mean going down to the shipyard again?’

  ‘The night after next, secretly.’

  ‘There aren’t even any ferries at night.’

  ‘That's what I mean, we’re going to have to think of something.’

  They got out at the landing stages, the shipyard worker between them. It was only when they were standing on the road next to an English Jeep and MacDonald pulled out a pair of handcuffs and snapped them on the man's wrists that he understood: ‘You’re not cops at all!’
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br />   ‘It's too complicated to explain here and now,’ Stave said. ‘Nothing's going to happen to you.’

  Gehrecke stared at him in disbelief and then at MacDonald: ‘This was a set-up.’

  ‘You will get a fair trial,’ MacDonald said in a vain attempt to reassure him. It was the first time he had spoken to Gehrecke. ‘If what you’ve told us is true, then you’re just a tiny cog in the machine. The worst that can happen is a month or two in prison.’

  ‘I have children at home,’ the man protested.

  ‘You should have thought of that before you got involved in business like this,’ Stave growled. He didn’t like Gehrecke and didn’t like his nasty little game, but even so he felt guilty. ‘You might get off with a warning,’ he said, though he didn’t really believe it.

  The handcuffed shipyard worker got into the Jeep without making a fuss. MacDonald turned the key in the ignition. ‘I’ll call you on the phone,’ he called over the roar of the engine, then set off down the road.

  On his own long walk back home the chief inspector stopped at a little restaurant and ordered himself a potato salad with gherkins. The gherkins were dried out and wrinkled, and the watery sauce that came with the salad was vinegary. But Stave hardly tasted it. He just chewed mechanically, threw a couple of coins on to the table and set off again.

  Damn sun! He felt dizzy. How was he supposed to concentrate in this heat. I’m cursed, he thought to himself. It's as if I’ve got some invisible mark on my forehead, singling me out forever. The asphalt beneath his feet had gone soft in the heat and felt like some old carpet. Back in the bombing raids of 1943 the tarmac had caught fire. Women and children had run out of their houses to avoid the fire only to end up stuck in burning tar. They had pulled their feet out of shoes stuck in the road, only to find their feet in turn burned to bare bones up to their ankles. And then the fire caught up with them anyway. The following morning the local Gauleiter sent the police in to put up barricades to keep out ghouls, thieves, despairing relatives who still thought they could pull the remains of their loved ones out of the sea of burnt asphalt. Stave knew. He had been there, he knew how they felt. Just a few weeks previously he had tried to pull Margarethe's body out of the rubble of their bombed house, but she had been trapped between two concrete beams. He had pulled and pulled, until thankfully at last he felt a hand on his shoulder and someone took him aside.