'Hey, don't forget that the cases of Ohliger, Scheer and Gross are still uncertain and wrapped in mystery,' the second reporter said, reading from his shorthand.
'Ain't that what we pay a police force for? To solve mysteries?'
Ritter handed me a stack of photographic prints and shoved me at the reporters.
'No, we pay them to build fancy new headquarters on the edge of town and plunge the city into debt, didn't you know?' said the second reporter.
Bunch of snickering hyenas they might've been, but they had a point about the new headquarters being built down at Jürgensplatz. Damn thing was a publicity disaster, over budget and a year behind schedule already.
'Well why not, there's only a depression on. It's not like it's a bad time for large-scale public works or anything,' said the first reporter.
'Excuse me, can you please shut up?' said a woman dressed in silk and pearls. She had a foreign accent I couldn't place and her dress revealed a lot of shapely stockinged calf muscle. I handed her some photos and tried a smile on her. She smiled back.
'As you can see,' Gennat said, 'we want you to take three pictures each. The first shows a set of house keys buried with the body. The second is a torn silk summer dress she was wearing when killed. The colour is pink. The third is a straw summer hat of common design also buried with her. From the preliminary autopsy information that we have, this woman was most likely in her mid-twenties, with long, straight, blonde hair. Caucasian. She was between one metre sixty and one metre sixty-five in height.'
I stood at one end of a row of chairs, passing photographs down the line. The reporters took what they needed from the pile and passed it on.
'We are appealing to friends and family, to anyone who might have known her or any witnesses who might be able to help us trace her movements in her last days of life. We need to know who she was. According to our information, the woman was killed on Sunday the 11th August last year, on the same meadow where we found her. We believe she conversed for some moments with a smartly-dressed gentleman on a park bench in the Hansaplatz on Thursday the 8th August. She was next seen around one thirty pm on Sunday the 11th, at which point...'
I switched off.
17
The sun came out as Gennat and I entered the café. Light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows. A frayed poster of a bullfighter adorned the exposed brickwork of a nearby column, a splash of red, yellow and black against the clay and mahogany tones of the floor and walls. It was a recent national epidemic, this yearning to be from some other country. I got it, I'm not pretending I didn't, but hell, running away from problems ain't the answer to them. Besides which, things seemed to be just as bad all over as far as I could make out from those snippets of truth that did make it into the papers.
Post lunch rush, most of the tables were empty. Gennat selected one in the window. He sat and closed his eyes, his bulk and his bristling moustache giving him the air of a walrus sunning itself on the beach. How was I going to get him to listen to me now?
We ordered bockwurst and potato salad and a large beer apiece from the guy in the stained black apron behind the bar.
Gennat threaded his hands together and rested them on his belly. He opened one eye. 'Not only did you disappear this morning when you knew we would need you, but you turned up late for the press conference. So whatever you've been doing, it had better be damn good.'
He broke off as the drinks and food arrived. He drank most of his beer in a few smooth gulps before starting in on his sausage, which he dipped in the mustard clinging to the side of his plate. The crunch of the sausage skin breaking as he bit into it made me wince, waxen corpses coming to mind. I fought my way through a couple of mouthfuls of beer before wiping my top lip and taking a deep breath, trying not to think of the green man waking up next to a garrulous journalist in a dark coal cellar. Christ, why had I panicked and tied Du Pont up with him?
I forced myself to concentrate. 'Last night I checked Kürten's confessions against the crime scene information, just as you asked.'
'How kind of you,' Gennat rumbled, his mouth full of food. 'Perhaps now you'd like to get round to telling me what conclusions you came to?'
'Kürten didn't kill Gross.'
'No?'
'No, it was the only confession where he got details wrong – '
'Forgive me for interrupting, but could I trouble you for your opinion on the other five cases?' Gennat’s sarcasm was mallet-like in its subtlety. I tried not to betray my impatience.
'With all the others Kürten's recall was clear and detailed and it matched the existing evidence in every way,' I said. 'That's just the point. In the case of Gross he didn't know what he was talking about. Look, I don't have your experience, sir. This kind of maniac is new to me, but I've spent more time with him than anyone else on the department and I think he craves the notoriety. He doesn't want anyone else taking any of his glory. Does that make sense?'
'Yes, fine,' Gennat said. 'Then we stick with Stausberg for the Emma Gross killing, and everyone's happy.'
I sank some beer and took a deep breath. The beer had a bitter after taste. 'But that's what I was doing this morning, sir. Checking with Stausberg. He didn't kill Gross either.'
'What?'
'Stausberg's murder confessions were forced. Now he can't even remember who he's supposed to've killed, much less how he was supposed to have done it.'
'Go on,' Gennat said, shovelling food into his mouth.
'What do you mean “go on”? Isn't it obvious?'
'Watch your tone, detective.'
I lowered my voice. 'Kürten didn't kill Emma Gross. And if Stausberg didn't do it then that means someone else killed her. We've got another murderer out there.'
'And of course you're about to show me the evidence that trumps not one, but two signed confessions from undesirables we already have behind bars.'
Gennat pushed his plate away, emptied his beer and gestured to the barman for another. He pointed at my glass and raised his eyebrows at me. I shook my head. 'And bring a pot of coffee too,' he called.
'It's Ritter,' I said. 'He forced Stausberg's confessions to clear his cases last year.'
'Oh Ritter, Ritter, Ritter.' Gennat slapped the top of the table hard enough to rattle the salt and pepper shakers. 'That's what this is all about, is it? I don't know what it is between you two, and I don't want to know. But if all this is just to prove Ritter wrong then you can drop it. What do you think the chances are of the public prosecutor and the attorney general pursuing this? Undermining the head of the Kürten murder commission? Thereby undermining the case against Kürten? And that's before we even consider how low Düsseldorf Kripo's reputation has sunk with the press and the public. You think anyone in authority is going to risk it sinking any further?'
I started to speak but he shut me up with a raised finger.
'If you think I'm going to help you out you can forget it. Kürten gets transferred to Düsseldorf Prison at the end of the week and then Vogel and me are done here, off back to Berlin. So even if I wanted to help you I couldn't.'
The fresh beer and coffee arrived. Gennat downed the beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before pouring the coffee. I ate in silence.
'You say you don't have my experience,' he continued, softening his voice, 'and that's true. When you've been in this business as long as I have, Thomas, you'll know that people don't really care who killed their loved ones. They only care that someone did. You understand?'
Ah, fatherly advice. The perfect blend of do-as-I-say and it's-for-your-own-good. This shit I could do without. 'What can I say to that, sir? You're telling me you don't care who murdered that woman?'
He passed me a cup of black coffee. He added milk and sugar to his cup before passing the sugar bowl to me. I ignored it and waited for his response. He had to come back at me with something, for Christ's sake. Hadn't I just accused him of lacking moral fibre? Or maybe he really didn't give a damn. My guts boiled and slung
acid up my oesophagus. I tried to cough it out but it lodged where it had landed, slow-burning away.
'You know, about that business in Hanover,' he said. 'Fritz Haarmann was a police informant. That's why Hanover Kripo weren't too keen on linking him to all the bones those kids found buried in the riverbank.'
Gennat took out his cigar case and offered it to me. I shook my head. He lit himself one and puffed smoke rings at the ceiling. Was he going anywhere with this or was he back to playing to the goddamned gallery?
'I had a high case clearance rate in Berlin,' he went on, 'good press coverage, and I'd been making noises about the need for a permanent homicide squad in the capital. Basically making myself a nuisance to the brass, who didn't want me undermining them. So the police president sent me out to prove myself by discovering and arresting this Hanover killer.'
He grinned. 'Or to fail in the attempt. I suspect he hoped the latter, then I would come back with my tail between my legs and drop all this homicide squad stuff. It was the parents of one of the young men who went missing. God, what was his name?'
He clicked his fingers.
'Anyway, they hired this private investigator when it was clear the local Kripo didn't have the manpower or the expertise or indeed any interest in finding out what had happened to their son. He tracked the kid to Haarmann, and the rest was a matter of following the leads. Hanover got its werewolf, I got my homicide squad. Local cops went from pariahs to heroes, just like that. Luck, really, just like you getting that tip off from Maria Butlies.'
'The lucky part was Kürten leaving her alive,' I said.
'Well, quite. But lucky none the less. I'm afraid that's how it is with these serial killers.'
'Serial killers?' I said.
'Yes,' he smiled, 'it's a phrase I've been working up for a magazine article. Has quite a ring to it, don't you think? I mean, mass-murderer is all very well, but it's a little imprecise. Surely a mass-murderer is someone who kills several people at the same time, while what we have here is actually quite a different phenomenon – a killer who targets several victims, but in a series, one after the other.' He bounced his spoon in the air to illustrate his idea.
'No, my point was – and incidentally I'll be repeating it in my article – that traditional police work hasn't a hope when up against men of this stamp. Against the likes of Kürten and Haarmann all we can do is wait for them to make their mistakes and try to be there to spot them when they happen.'
A goddamned magazine article. I must've been the only mug in all of Kripo not treating the job as some kind of stepping stone to glory. He sipped more coffee and then topped up his cup from the pot. 'I phoned your watch commander today, told him you'd be free to return to normal duties as of tomorrow.'
'Oh,' I said. Now the end of my involvement in the case was in sight, I wanted to stay and see it through.
'Well, you can't be surprised, surely? Not after today.'
'I suppose not.'
I sipped my coffee. It was thick and strong with a good foam on the top.
Gennat blew his mouldy-leaf smoke at me. 'Of course, he reminded me that tomorrow and the day after fall on your days off. So you wouldn't be due back until Friday morning.'
His brown eyes sparkled.
'What are you saying, sir?'
'It occurs to me, thinking back over the Haarmann case, that the difference between a good detective and a bad one isn't just luck, it's also having the balls to keep pushing at a problem until that luck comes along. After all, you had one stroke of luck already.'
'Oh?' I said.
'Yes, who was it who picked up the Butlies case in the first place? For eighteen months, all of Düsseldorf Kripo tries to track down the Ripper, without success, and then the answer just falls into your lap? That's the kind of luck that clears cases. Maybe you're due some more of the same. Believe me, you keep pushing on this Gross case and you're going to need it.'
He rooted for his wallet. 'Lunch is on me, I think.' He passed me a couple of Reichsmark. 'And for God's sake get yourself a haircut and a shave. I might not be able to control what you do for the next two days, but I won't have you going round looking like a damned hobo.'
The bastard was giving me permission to go rogue. And making sure I couldn't prove it. Talk about your political animal.
'Sir...' I began. I wanted to tell him about my two captives and maybe even ask his advice on defusing the situation since he was in the mood to dish it out. But he spoke before I had the chance to go on.
'Oh, and let's have an end to this cavorting with Marxist reporters, eh? If there's one thing guaranteed to get you chucked off your little case – and off the department – it's that.' He took another drag on his cigar. 'Anyway, you wanted to say something.'
'Did you ever find out what happened to that young man?' I said after a second or two of mental fumbling.
'Mmmn? Which young man?'
'The one in Hanover whose parents hired that PI.'
Gennat shrugged and finished his coffee. 'Same as happened to all the others. Haarmann fucked him and tore his throat out.'
18
The air felt cool on my smooth face and around my ears as I entered the lobby of the Hotel Adler. Vogel's hat I'd left in the barbershop. A tip, if you will.
The clack-clack-clack of a ceiling fan drew my eyes upwards. The spinning blades cast swirling patterns into the tobacco smoke hovering beneath them. Flies bobbed and buzzed above the florid faces of dark-suited men occupying the chintz armchairs scattered about. In the smoked-glass mirror above a huge stone fireplace, a blonde with dark roots and stiletto heels tottered past a potted palm with brown spots on its leaves, on her way to a dark-suited lap. She just about kept time with the big band music crackling into the room from a concealed wireless. The blonde was the only one paying any attention to the music. When I turned to watch her without the mirror's assistance she looked unreal, un-tinted and back to front.
The lamp fittings trembled in time to the sound of a train pulling out of the station half a block away. I approached the check-in desk tucked into the corner by the stairs. The girl behind the desk had eyes as black as tar and a white cap atop her black hair which drew my eyes to the round studs in her ears. She wore a white blouse with a black skirt and a small white pinafore. She also had a crooked back. My heart gave that careless-fisherman's tug and I wondered when it was I'd grown so soft. Probably at the point when I'd accepted money for a shave from another man.
'Can I help you sir?' the maid asked. Her hand rested on an open ledger on the desk.
You can tell me who killed Emma Gross for a start, I thought. Besides avoiding having to deal with my captives, what was I doing here? On top of my suspicion of Ritter's paperwork on the case, it was true that crime scene sketches and photographs were a poor substitute for standing there in the space where murder was done and picking up what you could from the dimensions and the objects in the room. But what could I hope to find more than a year after the fact?
'I very much hope so,' I said, for some reason putting on the same posh voice I'd used on the telephone with Berg. I thought she'd be expecting that, maybe, I don't know. I flashed her my ID. Her eyes widened and she held up an index finger, then vanished through a door beside the pigeon holes. Another black mark against Kürten's confession: no wall clock. My watch told me it had just gone five pm.
The door opened and another woman bustled out to meet me. The thick lenses she wore on a beaded chain around her neck magnified the blue of her eyes, and dark hair ran to grey at the sides of her head where it obscured her ears. She snatched the ID from my hand and held it up to her lenses.
'It is genuine,' I said.
'What is this about?' She rolled something hard around her mouth, making her lips bulge so that I forgot my first question. Either she was hooked on hard candies or she had a pair of false teeth that didn't fit.
'I'm here about Emma Gross.' I held out my hand for the ID.
'Don't know anything about that,' the
woman said. She shook my hand. She had the look of a woman who would wear too much of the wrong kind of perfume just because it was in fashion. My damned stomach muscles were cramping again. I gave my belly a brief rub and shivered at the sensation.
'This is the Hotel Adler?'
'Yes?'
'You are the manageress?'
'I am the proprietoress.'
'You were the proprietoress on the night of 28th February last year?'
'Yes?'
'Well then you know plenty.' I consulted my notes. 'I'd like to see the room where she died.'
'Who?'
'Emma Gross.' I snatched back the ID.
'I don't know which room that was.'
'Are you in the habit of hosting murders at your hotel, Frau...?
'Frau Holz. And no I am not.'
'Seems to me you might remember a murder, even in a cum-cabin like this.'
The woman gasped and so did the maid, who raised a tiny hand to her mouth and watched Frau Holz for guidance on how to react. She was poised to cringe. Manners again.
Frau Holz adopted a stage whisper: 'This is not a cum-cabin! And I'll thank you to keep such talk out of my hotel.' The woman's eyeglasses fell from her nose and swung in front of her blue satin blouse.
'Well what else do you call a place that charges by the hour?' I turned the ledger and flicked through the pages. 'And doesn't write those guests in the book?' A cum-cabin with pretensions was still a cum-cabin.
'We do no such thing here, officer, I assure you.'
A man and woman descended the stairs with a burst of loud giggling that highlighted the lobby's hushed tones. The man's double-breasted jacket hung open over his waist-coated belly. His neck tie hung loose around his neck and his face had passed through florid to beetroot. The woman had the man's overcoat on her shoulders, just covering her skinny arms and legs and her thin silk dress. She tipped a champagne bottle to her lips until froth spilled down her chin. The man belly-laughed at her and she laughed right along with him. The man nudged me aside, slapped five Reichsmark on the check-in desk and moved off arm-in-arm with his floozy. He paused, clicked his fingers, delved into a pocket and slapped a key down on there too. The key was attached to a large wooden block with the number '12' stamped on it.
The Killing Of Emma Gross Page 14
