by James Craig
‘Okay, I’ll send someone to pick Kerem up later on this morning, so that he can identify the body. If you could speak to him first, that would be a help. It will probably be a week or so before the body gets released for burial. Maybe longer. There’s a bit of a backlog at the moment.’
‘Muslims like a quick burial,’ Max pointed out. ‘And Kerem’s got enough on his plate as it is. So, if there’s anything you could do to speed the process up, that would be good.’
‘Of course,’ Zinke nodded. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘It’s agreed, then.’ Max turned to Terium. ‘You see if you can turn over anything useful here. Why don’t we compare notes back at Stresemannstraße in a couple of hours?’
‘Okay,’ Terium nodded. ‘Isar Services is imploding.’
‘Yeah,’ Max agreed, ‘looks like we’re heading into the endgame.’ Aping Zinke’s gesture, he gave Terium a pat on the shoulder. ‘And, with a bit of luck, maybe you’ll get your man, after all.’
Max looked at the bottle of Glen Els on the table and licked his lips.
‘I think we both need a stiff drink,’ Kerem Cin mumbled, ‘and I know that you don’t like raki.’ Breaking the seal on the whisky bottle, he unscrewed the cap before dumping a large measure into each of the two glasses in front of him. Picking up one of them, he handed it to the policeman. ‘Here you go.’
Max took the glass and sniffed cautiously. ‘Glen Els? Never heard of it.’
‘It comes from Lower Saxony. They only started making it a couple of years ago.’
‘German whisky, eh?’ He took a cautious sip, letting it trickle down the back of his throat. ‘Not bad.’
Raising his glass to the ceiling, the old man cleared his throat. ‘To Volkan. May he rest in peace.’ Tipping back his head, he downed his drink in a single gulp.
‘To Volkan,’ Max echoed, doing the same before slamming his glass down on the table rather harder than he’d intended. Despite the hour, he felt strangely energised and the warm alcoholic glow that spread through his stomach only added to his strangely good humour.
‘Another one?’ Kerem asked, reaching for the bottle.
‘Why not?’ Pushing his glass across the table, Max watched the old man refill it almost to the top. ’Thanks.’
Nodding, Kerem recharged his own glass and lifted it to his lips. ‘You know,’ he said, talking as much to the booze as to his guest, ‘I suppose that I always knew that things would end like this. Volkan was always just that bit too wild. His high spirits went too far. It was like some kind of death wish.’
In the end, he was just a hooligan with a gun. ‘It’s bad luck.’
‘Bad parenting,’ Kerem responded. ‘I was never around. Always working. There was never time for the family.’
That’s not really my area. Max wondered if he should maybe get the old man some psychiatric help. First things first, he told himself. Let’s see if we can stop him getting smashed, at least until he’s visited the morgue. Reaching across the table, he gently retrieved the bottle from Kerem’s grasp. ‘Let’s not get drunk and maudlin. What’s done is done. You know you did what you could. Volkan was an adult; you gave him a good start but he had to take responsibility for himself. There’s no point in blaming yourself.’
Staring at the table, the old man nodded.
‘I know nothing about being a parent,’ Max continued, ‘but I’m sure you did your best. You provided for your family. You couldn’t live his life for him.’
‘I suppose not,’ Kerem muttered. With his eyes beginning to tear up, he got to his feet and beat a retreat towards the kitchen. ‘I’m sorry. Excuse me a minute.’
‘Of course.’
Sipping at his whisky, Max sat in the gloom, listening to the sounds of sobbing coming from the kitchen. Embarrassed, he glanced over at the photograph of Kerem’s late wife. Even in the poor light, he could see that the silver frame had been bent and the glass was cracked.
‘Sorry about that.’ Shoving a paper tissue into his trouser pocket, Kerem returned to his seat.
‘What happened to the photo?’ Max asked, pointing at the sideboard. For a moment, it looked like the old man might start crying again, but he took a couple of deep breaths and got himself under control.
‘Volkan threw it at me. We had gotten into an argument, the usual kind of thing.’
‘Volkan was here?’ Max wrinkled his brow. ‘When was this?’
Kerem thought about it for a moment. ‘The day after your previous visit, I think.’
And you didn’t think to give me a call? A spasm of anger flashed through Max’s brain. However, he quickly realised that the old man clearly had more important things to worry about than shopping his only kid to the cops. Conscious of his elevated heart rate, he took another soothing mouthful of whisky. ‘Did he come home for a reason?’
Kerem smiled sadly. ‘Other than to shout at his father, you mean? He dropped some stuff off in his bedroom; said he needed to store it there for a while.’ He watched Max jump from his chair and head for the door. ‘It was just clothes and stuff, I think.’
‘Can I take a look?’
Kerem gestured towards the door with his glass. ‘Be my guest. Up the stairs, second door on the left.’
31
Flicking on the light switch, Max squinted against the harshness of the naked bulb as he surveyed a small bedroom. Not much more than two metres by three, the place was clean and tidy, but the cheap furniture and fading wallpaper conspired to give it a seriously melancholy air. The room looked – and smelt – like it hadn’t been lived in for the last ten years at least. It was hard to imagine a young Volkan Cin hunkering down in here, in order to escape from his parents downstairs.
Resisting the temptation to open a small window that looked out over the back yard, Max shut the door behind him and stepped into the middle of the room. ‘Take your time,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘There’s no rush.’
Supressing a smile, he wondered when he had first started talking to himself. It was something he had become increasingly aware of in recent months. No one else seemed to have noticed or, at least, no one had said anything to him about it. But for Max himself, it was vexing; just another sign that he was slowly losing it. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on regulating his breathing, taking a succession of deep breaths as he sought to clear the effects of Kerem’s whisky from his brain.
‘Take your time.’
After several seconds, he opened his eyes and looked around the room for a second time. Much of the floor space was taken up by a single bed with a heavy wooden frame which had been pushed into the far corner of the room. Neatly made, it was covered in a multi-coloured knitted blanket that had faded badly over the years. Above the headboard, a single shelf, maybe twelve centimetres long, was empty, apart for a small pile of magazines. Max stepped over to the shelf and picked one up.
‘The Amazing Spiderman saves the world.’ He casually flicked through the comic. Never much of an intellectual, young Volkan. Finding nothing of interest amongst its pages, he dropped the comic onto the small work desk that stood under the window and quickly sifted through the rest of the pile: half a dozen comic books, two porn mags and a football magazine. Placing them back on the shelf, Max turned his attention to the wardrobes that had been built in along the length of one wall. Opening each door in turn, he peered inside. Apart from a denim jacket and a tattered pair of Converse All Stars, they we completely empty.
Max scratched his head. ‘Okay,’ he muttered, ‘Volkan was storing stuff, he wasn’t hiding it. So where could it be?’
Finally, an imaginary light bulb went off, next to the real one above his head.
Of course. Fucking hell, Max, wake up. Sinking to his knees, he dropped his hands on to the carpet and brought his head forwards. Grunting, he cranked his neck and squinted into darkness under the bed.
‘Here we go.’
Crawling forward, Max grabbed the handle of a black Adidas sports bag and pulled it towards him
. Sitting back on his ass, he yanked at the zip, watching in disgust as a selection of Volkan’s dirty laundry spilled out onto the carpet. ‘Urgh.’ Grabbing the bag, he turned it upside down and gave it a vigorous shake, watching with glee as its remaining contents landed in front of him.
‘Now that is more like it.’ Staring at the stacks of crumpled dollar bills in front of him, he gave the bag one last shake. Turning it upright, he placed it next to the money and peered inside. On one side was a small, zipped pocket. Opening it, he stuck his hand inside and pulled out a small scrap of paper. On it, written in blue biro in a shaky hand, was an address in Moabit, near the Lehrter S-Bahn station. Underneath was scribbled a six digit code of some sort.
A bank account?
Max thought about it for a moment, but the code meant nothing to him. The address didn’t ring any bells either. Shoving the slip of paper into his pocket, he considered his next move.
‘Is everything alright, Kriminalinspektor?’ Hovering outside the door on the landing, Kerem Cin sounded like he’d helped himself to some more of the Glen Els in Max’s absence.
‘It’s fine,’ Max shouted, getting to his feet, ready to block the door if the old man tried to come in. ‘I will be back down in a minute.’
‘Take your time,’ the old man replied. ‘When you’re through, we can have another drink.’
I’ve had more than enough already, Max thought. And so have you. Grabbing the bag, he placed it on the bed and began throwing the stack of cash back inside. Although he was in no fit state to count it, he realised that he was looking at the root of all evil. This was more than enough money to explain the motivation for the killing spree that had started with the massacre of Carl Beerfeldt and his family; a killing spree that, unless the police got lucky, had yet to run its course.
Dropping the last wad of notes inside, Max zipped up the bag. Kicking Volkan’s dirty washing under the bed, he grabbed the handles, flicked off the light and stepped out on to the landing, careful to pull the door shut as he left the sad little room behind him.
Placing the bag at the bottom of the stairs, he stepped back into the living room. Sitting in his chair, Kerem had his head back and his eyes closed. He was snoring gently. The whisky bottle was considerably more than half-empty. Max shook his head. ‘You’re gonna regret that in a few hours when you get to the morgue,’ he muttered.
Stepping over to the old man, the Kriminalinspektor put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle shake.
‘Kerem.’
‘Huh?’
‘Kerem, I’m going now. Someone will come to collect you in a few hours.’
‘Yes, yes.’ The old man slowly forced his eyes open, stifling a yawn as he shivered against the cold air that had invaded the room. ‘Sorry, I must have dozed off. Did you find what you were looking for?’
‘I found this.’ Max retrieved the address from his pocket and handed it over for his host to inspect.
‘My glasses.’ Kerem pointed to a pair of heavy framed spectacles on the sideboard, close to the photograph of his wife. ‘Pass them over.’
Max obliged.
Slipping them on, Kerem squinted at the piece of paper. ‘Lübecker Straße 93.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s mine.’
‘Yours?’
‘Yes,’ Kerem nodded. ‘I own the apartment building. The business bought it maybe six or seven years ago. It’s been a good investment. Eight flats; you can always rent them out without too much difficulty. The trick is not to try and be too pushy on the rent. You should never be too greedy. A good, long-term tenant is far better than an extra fifty marks a month.’
‘I suppose so.’ Remaining on his feet, Max retrieved the scrap of paper, pointing at the numbers underneath the address. ‘And this?’
‘That’s the entry code for the building. The tenants have keys for their apartment but to get into the building you need to tap in the code. We change it every year or so. It’s a lot easier.’
‘But this is the current code?’ Max shoved the address back into his pocket.
‘I suppose so.’ The old man reached for the whisky bottle, then thought better of it. ‘You found this upstairs? Why would Volkan need the code?’
Max scratched his head. ‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me that.’
‘As far as I know, all of the flats are currently occupied although, to be honest, I haven’t been paying as much attention to things recently.’
‘That’s perfectly understandable.’
‘Lübecker Straße is very little trouble. I send some guys over once a year to check the plumbing and the heating and deal with any little odd jobs. Otherwise, the rental company takes care of everything.’
Max nodded. ‘Sounds very efficient.’
‘It is.’ Kerem stared into space. ‘I didn’t even know that Volkan had ever been there. I don’t think I’ve been there myself for over a year, at least.’
‘Well, it looks like he has. Would he have access to the keys to the flats?’
‘Oh, yes. I keep a set here and there’s a set in the office.’ Once again, he gestured towards the sideboard. ‘They’re in the top drawer.’
‘Can I take a look?’
The old man nodded.
Pulling open the drawer, he peered inside. ‘Kerem,’ he sighed, ‘there must be at least a dozen bunches of keys in here.’
‘You’re looking for three keys,’ the old man explained, ‘on a yellow key ring. It should have the address on it.’
‘Three keys?’ Max frowned as he rooted around in the drawer.
‘A master key for each of the flats, a key for the storage room in the basement and a key for the front door – in case the entry system fails, or gets changed by mistake.’
‘Got ‘em.’ With a grin, Max recovered the yellow keyring and held it up for inspection.
‘That’s the one,’ Kerem nodded.
‘Do you mind if I borrow these?’ Max asked, closing the drawer with his backside before stepping back to the table. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t need them for long.’
Kerem waved his assent. ‘Be my guest, Kriminalinspektor. But what do you want them for?’
‘I just want to go and take a look. See if I can find out a little bit more about what exactly Volkan was up to before he died.’
‘Karl-Marx-Allee, Lenin-Allee.’
‘Ho-Chi-Minh-Strasse.’
‘Klement Gottwald Boulevard.’
‘Dimitroff Straße.’
‘Dimitroff? Who was he?’
‘Bulgaria's first communist leader, apparently. Anyway, they’ll all have to go now that the Soviet dream is over.’
‘Christ. I’m glad I’m not a taxi driver in this damn city. If you aren’t stuck in a traffic jam caused by rioting anarchists, you have to deal with them changing all the street names.’
Idly eavesdropping on the conversation of a couple of passing colleagues, Max didn’t immediately notice the letter. It was sitting on the corner of his desk, stuck under a file that he should have returned to Archives several months earlier. Only after the two cops drifted out of earshot did it catch his eye.
Recognising the cheap brown manila envelope favoured by the HR department, he started at if for a good ten seconds. Had Clara Ozil sorted things out so quickly? And, if so, why hadn’t she let him know?
With considerable reluctance, he put down his coffee and retrieved the envelope. There was a small window, through which he could see his name and title, as recorded on the actual letter inside. With a sigh, he ripped it open and, reading quietly to himself, he scanned the contents: blah, blah, blah, This is to confirm that your employment with the Berlin Kriminalpolizei is to terminate four weeks from the date of this letter … blah, blah, blah … The terms of your departure will be confirmed in a separate communication … blah, blah … It was signed by a woman called Dagmar Lowit, Personnel Administrator.
Stomping his foot in frustration, Max sat back in his chair. ‘Well, fuck you, Dagmar Lowit.’ Reaching for the phone,
he started to dial Clara’s number, before giving up half way through and returning the receiver to its cradle. What was the point? Clara had got him his deal. She could have taken a bit more time about it, sure, but at least he had almost four more weeks. It looked like he would be able to close the Beerfeldt case before they kicked him out. And that, after all, was all he had asked for.
Fuck the lot of you. He’d got what he wanted, so why did he feel so damn angry? Crumpling the letter in his fist, Max dropped it in the wastebasket by his desk. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Michael approaching, carefully holding a plastic cup in each hand.
‘I hear you had quite a night last night,’ Michael grinned, handing his boss one of the cups. ‘I thought you might be able to use one of these.’
‘Thanks.’ Holding the cup between his thumb and forefinger Max took a cautious sip and winced as the toxic liquid scalded the back of his throat.
‘The coffee is still as terrible as ever,’ Michael shrugged.
Yeah, Max thought, but I’ll miss it when I’m gone.
‘I hear you had quite a night,’ the sergeant repeated.
‘It was long,’ Max grinned, happy at least that his hangover had not developed beyond a vague ache at the base of his skull. Glancing at the clock, he wondered how Kerem Cin was faring right now. The old man should have seen his son already. Max wondered how that must feel. Far worse than any hangover.
Worse than death.
Slurping his coffee, Michael perched on the edge of his boss’s desk. Looking round, he checked that no one was paying them any attention before leaning forward. ‘How much was it?’ he asked in a low voice, tinged with more than a hint of schoolboy excitement.
‘I didn’t watch the boys in the evidence locker count it all. When I left, they’d got to two and a half. Million. Dollars.’
Michael’s eyes grew wide. ‘And you weren’t tempted?’
