by James Craig
Closing the drawer, he struggled to his feet and padded out of the bedroom, back into the hallway. He was about to step into the bathroom, to retrieve his shaving gear and some aftershave, when something in the lounge caught his eye.
‘Peter?’
Apart from the background hum of traffic outside, there was silence.
Dropping his bag on the floor, Max moved slowly towards the open way. Groping for his Beretta, he groaned silently when he realised that he’d left it in his desk at the Polizeipräsidium.
‘Peter?’
Taking a deep breath, Max shoved his head into the doorway. Immediately, he relaxed and tensed at the same time. His mouth dropped open, but it took several seconds for any words to come out.
‘Oh, fuck.’
Max ground the stub of his last HB into the dirt with the sole of his boot as he watched Michael Rahn walk slowly towards him across the lawn.
‘We found this.’ Michael handed Max a clear plastic evidence bag containing a single sheet of paper and stepped back a respectful distance.
Max glanced at the Charité Universitätsmedizin logo at the top of the page and knew immediately what he was looking at. It was exactly the same letter that he himself had been given. Only the name was different.
‘So you got yourself tested as well,’ he muttered. ‘You always were a terrible pessimist.’
‘Have they taken him away yet?’
‘Yeah,’ Michael stepped tentatively forward, head bowed. ‘They’re putting him in the ambulance now.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I’m really sorry Max. It’s a terrible situation.’
Max nodded.
‘It must have been a hell of a shock.’
Desperate for another smoke, Max said nothing.
‘He seemed such a –’ when words failed him, he regrouped and tried again. ‘He seemed so in control of things. Not the kind of guy you’d expect to down a dozen sleeping pills with a bottle of vodka.’
‘No.’
Michael, nodded towards the apartment. ‘I just realised; it was only three months or so ago that Sarah and I were here.’
‘God, yes,’ Max laughed, ‘I’d forgotten about that myself. He cooked dinner for us all. Or tried to. His bloody beef casserole.’
‘Yeah,’ Michael grinned.
‘How can you make such a mess of a beef casserole? It took him days to get it all ready and it still tasted terrible. That’s why we all ended up so drunk.’
‘Sarah had a hell of a hangover. She’ll be heartbroken at what’s happened.’
Max stared at his boots, covered in mud. ‘I’ve given my statement. I’m going to head off now.’
Michael put a consoling hand on his shoulder. ‘Are you going to be okay?’
‘Me?’ Max looked carefully at his partner. ‘Of course. I’m fine.’
‘Good.’
‘But I need you to do something for me.’
‘Sure.’
‘I need you to tell his wife.’
Michael didn’t flinch. ‘Tell her about you?’
Max frowned. ‘No. That’s not necessary. Tell her about the test. She needs to know.’
‘Do you think she knows,’ Michael asked, ‘about you, I mean?’
‘About me personally? Or about Peter’s double life in general?’
‘Either,’ Michael shrugged. ‘Both. What kind of marriage would it be if she didn’t know that her husband was –’
‘Bisexual? Maybe she knew and just looked the other way, for the sake of kids or whatever. I don’t really know. I didn’t pry too much, but I always had the impression that they were a loving family. Certainly, he was very fond of Angela. That’s her name by the way, Angela something-Behle. The family home isn’t all that far from here. You’ll find the address inside.’
‘Right.’
‘Obviously,’ Max continued, happy just to keep talking, ‘she’ll have to decide what to do about all this. At the very least, she deserves to be told in a sympathetic and confidential manner, not by some pimply youth in a uniform.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘It’s nothing. I’ll go and see her now.’
‘Good.’
Michael bit his lip. ‘Are you not worried?’
Max’s eyes narrowed. ‘Worried?’
Clearing his throat nervously, Michael gestured towards the piece of paper in the bag in Max’s hand. ‘About this.’
Max looked at him carefully for a moment. Fuck it, he thought, there’s no point pissing about on this. ‘No, Michael,’ he said quietly, handing back the evidence bag. ‘I’m not worried about Peter’s test.’
‘No?’
‘No. I was tested myself a couple of weeks ago. I’m HIV positive.’
Michael took an involuntary half-step backwards, then quickly corrected himself. ‘Shit, Max,’ he said softly. ‘I‘m really sorry.’
‘Thanks.’ Max gave Michael a consoling pat on the shoulder. ‘I’m fine.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know what it’s going to mean for the job, but I’m fine.’
Michael frowned. ‘Will they make you resign?’
Max shrugged. ‘I dunno. Maybe. There would be a payoff. I’d rather stay on the job, but we’ll see. It might be possible to be a gay policeman in Berlin, but one with AIDS? I just don’t know.’
Stepping closer, Michael clamped his partner in a bear hug.
‘Hey,’ Max chuckled, ‘it’s okay. We don’t want the crime scene boys thinking you’ve gone a bit funny.’
Michael broke off and stepped back. ‘Sorry,’ he said, laughing. ‘But, to be clear, I will never have a problem working with you.’
Max bowed slightly. ‘To be clear,’ he grinned, ‘thank you. I appreciate it, I really do. But the most important thing for the moment is that nothing about this can go any further, okay?’
‘Sure.’
‘You can tell Sarah of course, but you must say absolutely nothing to anyone at Polizeipräsidium, Marin especially. I have no doubts that the Kriminalkommissar will try and get me straight out the door if this comes to light.’
‘Won’t the union help you?’ Michael asked.
‘Up to a point, maybe. I’ve already spoken to Clara Ozil about it. But she needs a bit of time to work out what my options are. In the meantime, it’s got to be business as usual for us.’
‘Fine by me.’
‘Rest assured, I’m up to the job,’ Max smiled. ‘I’m as fit as a fiddle.’
Michael looked at him doubtfully.
‘Well, as fit as I always was.’
‘And when was your last medical?’
‘Sod off. I’m fine.’ Max’s face darkened. ‘However, if this does end up being the end of the road for me, I want to go out with a bang. I want to make sure that we get the bastards that murdered those Beerfeldt kids.’ Looking up, he fixed Michael with a steely gaze. ‘And get them good. Did you get anything interesting from your friend in Gesundbrunnen?’
‘Ulrike? Not really. She’s never heard of Isar Services, but she’ll ask around. I wouldn’t hold your breath though. Things are in chaos after what happened to Manfred Penzler.’
‘Fair enough,’ Max grunted. News of the killing of a fellow officer had raced round the Polizeipräsidium in a flash. He didn’t know Penzler personally but when a cop got shot everything else went into the pending tray.
‘He was a decent guy.’ Michael shook his head. ‘He had a family.’
‘So I heard,’ Max sighed.
‘All available resources are going on that one. Ulrike will try her best but she may not be able to help much.’
‘Don’t worry, it was always a bit of a long shot.’ Max began walking towards the gate. ‘Go and speak to the wife and I’ll see you back at the station. We’ll keep working this one on our own.’
‘Sounds like a plan.’ Nodding, Michael followed after him. ‘Something will turn up.’
‘Sure,’ Max agreed. ‘Something will turn up. It always does.’
17
At a loss at what else to say, Michael Rahn looked down at his hands. The only sound in the front room of the elegant Schöneberg town house was the sonorous tick of a grandfather clock to his left. As the second ticked past, he felt progressively less comfortable. He silently cursed the Kriminalinspektor for asking him to make this call.
Perched on the edge of an armchair, Angela Brinker-Behle eyed the police sergeant coldly. ‘Was there anything else?’ She tilted her narrow chin towards the window. ‘It is just that the children will be home soon and, well, I would rather that I had the opportunity to tell them about their father on my own.’ Her tone was neutral and composed, as if she was getting ready to disclose nothing more dramatic than a change of holiday plans or perhaps the death of a largely ignored family pet. ‘It is not the kind of news that a child should get from a stranger.’
‘No.’
Something approximating a smile spread across her well-preserved face. ‘Even if he does happen to be a policeman.’ She stood up. ‘So, if there is nothing more for us to discuss …’
‘Yes, of course.’ Jumping to his feet, Michael retrieved a business card from his pocket, and offered it to the woman. ‘If there is anything we can be of assistance with, please do not hesitate to get in touch.’
‘I’m sure that I will not need to trouble you any further.’ Ignoring the card, the woman buttoned up her Chanel jacket as she ushered him towards the door. ‘If you need anything else, you can contact my lawyer, Claus Apitz at Berg & Thumm.’ Reaching the doorway, she gestured for him to lead the way down the hall. Michael nodded. ‘I’ve heard of them.’
‘Claus is very efficient.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Berg & Thumm also represent Peter’s architectural practice.’
‘I will make sure that they are kept informed of any relevant developments,’ Michael coughed, ‘should there be any.’
‘Good.’ As he opened the front door, the woman forced herself to say: ‘Thank you for coming.’
Standing on the doorstep, Michael contemplated the quiet suburban street. ‘Forgive me, but I have to say, you don’t seem very surprised by the news about your husband.’
Looking over his shoulder, Angela Brinker-Behle sucked in her cheeks and fixed her gaze on a point in the middle distance. Her breathing was shallow but even; her expression more of annoyance than sadness. Biting her lower lip, she carefully composed her response. ‘It got to the point,’ she said finally, ‘where nothing that Peter did surprised me anymore.’ Not wishing to prolong the conversation any further, she slowly closed the door, giving him no option but to take his leave.
Max watched as Michael trudged towards his desk. ‘You look knackered. How was the wife?’
‘Good looking woman, if a bit gaunt. You know the type; all designer clothes and expensive jewellery. Borderline bad taste. You can have too much of a good thing.’
‘Peter used to say as much.’
‘Strong woman, though.’ Michael flopped into his chair. ‘She was very composed when I turned up. Took it all in her stride. There were no tears. It was almost like she was expecting it.’
‘Maybe she knew what he was up to all along.’ Max went back to the overdue report he was trying to complete, another work of fiction destined for the vaults. ‘I mean, you could ignore it but you’d have to try very hard to miss it altogether.’
‘Perhaps. For sure, she wasn’t interested in the details.’
Looking round, Max checked no one was eavesdropping on their conversation before he asked: ‘Did you tell her about the test results?’
Michael looked sheepish. ‘Well, actually no. The opportunity didn’t come up.’
‘The opportunity didn’t come up?’ Max hissed. ‘How could it not come up? You went there to tell the woman that her husband had killed himself, for God’s sake? How could you forget to mention why?’
‘I didn’t get the chance,’ Michael shot back. ‘I was only in there for, like, five minutes at the absolute most. She couldn’t wait to get me out of the house.’
‘Pah.’
‘If it was that important,’ the sergeant countered, ‘you could have gone yourself.’
‘Hardly.’
Not wishing to prolong their conversation any longer, Michael turned his attention to a large manila envelope on his desk. Picking it up, he tore it open and pulled out the contents. ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake.’
‘What’s the matter now?’ Max asked.
‘Bloody Hannah Leicht,’ Michael muttered, ‘she’s sent me the wrong autopsy report. How the hell is that possible?’
‘In this place, anything’s possible.’
Michael waved the front page of the autopsy report at his boss. ‘Instead of Carl Beerfeldt, she’s sent me the sheet for some guy called Grozer.’
‘Who’s he?’ Max asked, happy enough to be further distracted from the paperwork of his own.
‘He’s a guy that was found hanging from a beam in an empty warehouse in Lichtenberg. It was one of Penzler’s.’
‘Don’t tell me we’re going to get landed with his cases as well,’ Max grumped.
‘Hardly.’ Michael scanned the report. ‘He was an accountant and …’ His voice trailed away as he stared at the page.
‘What?’
‘Holy shit.’
‘What?’
Michael looked up. ‘For the last twelve months, this guy Grozer worked for a company called Isar Services.’ The battered olive green phone on Max’s desk started to ring, shrill and insistent. For a moment, both men looked at it. Finally, the Kriminalinspektor lent across the desk and tentatively picked up the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Serhat.’ The voice on the other end of the line was clipped, stressed.
Max raised an eyebrow. His informant wasn’t the type of guy who liked to use the telephone. The traffic noise in the background suggested Serhat Khedira was calling from a payphone on the street. ‘A bit early for you to be up and about, isn’t it?’
‘Something’s up,’ Serhat snapped, ignoring the Kriminalinspektor’s feeble quip. ‘We need to talk.’
‘Okay, talk.’
‘Not on the phone.’
Max sighed. ‘Why not?’
‘Meet me at the Kreuzberg Monument in an hour.’ Without waiting for a reply, he hung up.
‘Idiot.’ Max hissed at the receiver.
‘Problem?’ Michael enquired.
‘Dunno.’ Replacing the receiver on the cradle, Max got to his feet. ‘But I’d better go and find out.’ He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and pulled it on. ‘See what else you can find out about this accountant,’ he waved a hand in the air, trying to recall the guy’s name.
‘Grozer,’ Michael ran his finger down the autopsy sheet, ‘Bodo Grozer.’
‘Yes, right.’ Max was already half way to the door. ‘See what you can find out about Bodo Grozer. And if Marin comes sniffing around, give him an update. Make sure you keep him off our backs.’
‘An update on what?’
‘On whatever there is,’ Max chuckled, disappearing through the door.
If you were a tourist, or a local at a loose end, the Viktoriapark, opened at the end of the 19th century, offered the best views over the city. Standing at the bottom of the Kreuzberg Monument, a memorial to some long-forgotten war against the French, Serhat Khedira wasn’t much interested in the vista however. Puffing away on his L&M, he walked round and round in a small anti-clockwise circle, head bowed, muttering to himself as he waited for the Kriminalinspektor to arrive.
‘Bloody Max, always late.’
A hand on his shoulder made him jump. ‘Here, you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.’
Serhat turned to see a familiar face smiling at him. ‘Ah.’ His stomach did a somersault as he saw the semi-automatic glinting in Volkan Cin’s hand. With great force of will, he forced himself to lift his gaze to eye level. ‘What are you doing here?’
&nb
sp; ‘What are you doing here?’ Volkan Cin threw his question back at him. ‘Waiting for someone?’
Taking a final drag on his cigarette, Serhat let the stub fall to the ground, crushing it under the toe of his shoe. ‘No, er, I was just, you know, hanging around.’
‘Hanging around?’ Volkan sneered. ‘Here?’
‘Ye-es.’ Serhat looked past Volkan, hoping to see Max slouching towards them.
‘I thought you might be waiting for that cop?’
Serhat glanced back down at the gun. He could feel his legs trembling. ‘What cop?’ he stammered.
‘That slob who turned up at Kazan’s the other day.’
‘Him? Why would I be waiting for him?’ Serhat could hear the guilt and fear in his voice. Volkan could sense it too. The bastard was feeding off it. He was getting off on seeing Serhat squirm.
‘I was wondering,’ Volkan casually enquired, ‘how long have you been a snitch for the cops?’
‘I’m not –’ his words were lost in the explosion from the gun. Serhat gasped as a searing pain seeped through his gut. He staggered backwards before falling on his backside. Trying to staunch the flow of blood from his stomach, he was conscious of Volkan Cin hovering in his eyeline, the gun pointed at Serhat’s head.
‘How long?’
Does it matter? Serhat smiled at his assassin. ‘Fuck you.’
Emerging from the Platz der Luftbrücke U-Bahn station, Max lifted his face to the sun, enjoying its warmth as he ambled into Viktoriapark. Approaching the monument, he was dismayed to see that the waterfall was closed for repairs but his attention was quickly drawn to a small knot of people a hundred metres or so further up the hill. Increasing his pace, he began jogging towards them. From somewhere in the distance, was the sound of sirens, getting closer. ‘Shit.’ Upping his pace, he immediately felt a burning sensation across his chest.
