by James Craig
‘Water.’
‘Later,’ Max grunted. ‘We need to move first.’ Placing his hands on her shoulders, he tried to manoeuvre Barbolini into something approximating a standing position. However, without any leverage, he barely managed to lift her backside a centimetre off the ground before she slipped back onto the concrete.
‘Water.’ The woman repeated, her eyes still firmly shut.
‘I haven’t got any damn water.’
‘In the bag.’
‘In the bag,’ Max repeated. Struggling to his feet, he walked over to the doorway, reached down and unzipped the Adidas holdall. Looking inside, a sea of green presented itself. Max prodded half-heartedly at the money. Standing up straight, he scratched his head. ‘There’s no water in there.’ He half-turned to face the woman, only to be smacked flush on the jaw by something hard and metallic. Immediately, he felt his mouth fill with a soup of blood and teeth. Conscious that he couldn’t leave any evidence of his presence, he resisted the temptation to spit out the mess and instead swallowed hard. Looking up, he saw Barbolini come at him again. Her eyes were wide open now, blazing with a terrible mixture of hate and fear. Staggering backwards, Max grabbed at the length of pipe in her hand but she danced away from his grasp, getting off a glancing blow that caught him on the left temple. After all that’s happened, Max thought ruefully, feeling his legs buckle beneath him, what a way to go. Unable to get back on his feet, he could do nothing to prevent her final assault, sending him plunging towards a darkness that was as complete as it was unyielding.
51
‘So what happened this time? You fell down another pothole?’ Kriminalkommissar Marin no longer seemed so amused by the latest multicolour mess that was Max’s face. ‘Or was it the same one?’
Weighed down by the worst headache of his life, Max gave his boss a sour look. At least the double vision he had experienced on first coming round had finally cleared. The thought of two Martin Marins sitting in front of him would have been impossible to bear.
Marin’s gaze went from Max to his sergeant and back again. ‘I thought that I told you to sit tight and do nothing; sit out your last few days without causing any more trouble. How hard could that have been? Even for you.’
‘I haven’t been up to anything.’ Max glanced at Michael, who was busy trying to remove a ketchup stain from his Pink Floyd T-shirt. ‘Just getting ready for my retirement.’
The look of disgust on Marin’s face looked like it might cause his ugly mug to melt. With a theatrical shake of his head, he reached for a cigar.
‘Don’t worry boss,’ Max said flatly. ‘This time tomorrow, I’ll finally be out of your hair for good.’
Shoving a stogie into his mouth, Marin pulled a box of matches from his pocket and began lighting up. ‘And what about all the mess you’re leaving behind?’ he asked, between puffs.
As the first stream of smoke reached his nostrils, Max had to endure a wave of nausea that, momentarily, left him convinced that he was about to deposit the contents of his stomach on Marin’s desk. Sensing his discomfort, Michael abandoned his cleaning, jumped up, unlocked the window and pushed it open, allowing the air pollution outside the room to mix with the air pollution inside.
Marin looked nonplussed. ‘I didn’t know you could do that,’ he said finally.
Michael allowed himself a small smile as he sat back down. ‘I think things have resolved themselves reasonably well,’ he ventured.
‘Yes,’ Max agreed, his discomfort easing slightly as Marin’s cigar smoke finally began drifting towards the outside world.
Eyeing the pair of them suspiciously, Marin rolled the cigar in his mouth. ‘So Bruno Eichel shot Scaramanga – ‘
‘Kappel,’ said Michael and Max and unison.
‘Yes, yes. Eichel shot the bad guy and vice versa?’
‘It looks like they were both bad guys,’ Max pointed out.
The Kriminalkommissar raised an eyebrow. ‘Makes it even more convenient, don’t you think?’
Max said nothing.
‘A bit too convenient, perhaps.’
Max smiled blandly. ‘It’s rare enough that you get a bit of luck. You might as well take it when it happens.’
‘The crime scene guys have their doubts,’ Marin pouted.
I bet they do, Max thought.
‘Apparently, the angles were all wrong, given where the bodies ended up,’ he waved the cigar in an arc above his head, ‘and so on and so forth.’
‘I’m sure that there is an explanation,’ Max shrugged.
‘Then there’s the question of Eichel.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s supposed to have shot Scara – Kappel with his right hand.’
‘So?’
‘So, Eichel was left-handed.’
Max broke into a quick bout of coughing, the better to conceal the pained expression on his face.
Marin patiently waited for him to finish before adding: ‘Last, but certainly not least, we have the money – three million dollars.’ Marin shot Max an enquiring look. ‘Or, rather, we don’t have it.’
Max met his stare and held it. ‘Eichel took it from downstairs.’ He was about to add ‘with your blessing’ but thought better of it.
‘Yes,’ said Marin, who was thinking exactly the same thing, ‘but where the hell is it now? The idea that a Kriminalkommissar can steal that kind of money is bad enough. But if we can’t recover it –’ an expression of hopelessness spread across his face as his voice trailed away.
‘We’ve searched his apartment,’ Michael pointed out, ‘his office and his damn car and not even come up with a single dollar bill.’
‘They were all hundreds,’ Max pointed out.
Marin glared at him through a thickening wall of cigar smoke.
‘Forensics think there was probably a third person at the crime scene,’ Michael added, trying to move the conversation on. ‘Perhaps Carolina Barbolini.’
‘She’s the only major player in this little drama who’s still in the wind,’ Max pointed out. ‘Maybe she’s got the cash.’
Marin looked doubtful.
Max tried to look thoughtful. ‘It’s a possibility.’
‘She’ll have run off back to Italy by now,’ Marin pointed out, taking another doleful puff on his cigar.
‘That’s one for our friends in Rome to check out,’ Max offered.
‘Have you ever tried working with the Carabinieri?’ Marin scoffed. ‘It’s a complete waste of time. The fucking Italians don’t even pretend to be interested.’
Max looked at Michael and smiled. ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to be able to sort something out, boss.’
Closing the door to the Kriminalkommissar’s office, Max watched his boss puff away happily on his cigar. Having decided not to chase Barbolini to Italy, Marin was now fully engaged watching the smoke rising towards the ceiling, as if he didn’t have a care in the world. ‘Such a lack of curiosity,’ he mumbled, ‘it’s a terrible thing in a cop.’
‘Huh?’ Still fiddling with the stain on his T-shirt, Michael didn’t look up.
‘Never mind.’ Max began making his way towards the stairs. ‘Let’s go and get a coffee.’
‘Sorry, boss.’ Michael sounded genuinely apologetic. ‘I’ve got to go out and slap the cuffs on Erwin Helmes.’
‘Again?’
Michael nodded. ‘He tried to smack another cop last night.’
‘What will this be, his sixth arrest this year?’
‘Eighth.’
‘He must be going for some kind of world record. Shall I come along? You could hold him down while I give him a kicking for old times’ sake.’
‘Nah.’ Finally letting go of his T-shirt, Michael pointed across the room. ‘I won’t be going solo. Your replacement’s already here.’
Looking up, Max saw the back of the unnaturally blonde head sitting at a desk near the window. Feet up on the table, Ulrike Baachaz was talking animatedly to someone on the phone. ‘So she got the jo
b,’ he smiled.
Michael nodded. ‘Formally starts the day after tomorrow.’
‘That was quick.’
‘Just one of those things,’ Michael replied sheepishly. ‘It was Marin’s decision. He seems delighted that she’s come back.’
‘Ha. I bet he is.’
‘He reckons it makes up for Theo Oster packing it in, as well as you leaving, of course.’
‘Oster quit?’
‘Yeah. Apparently, Terium’s death was the last straw. The poor kid is struggling to cope. He’s still on medication for his nerves.’ Michael stretched his arms out wide. ‘He’s decided that all this is not for him.’
Poor kid, my ass.
‘The word is he’s gonna retrain as a history teacher.’
‘Good for him.’
‘Anyway, if Ulrike keeps Marin off everybody’s back that’s got to be a good thing, right?’
‘Right.’ Max looked across the room. Even at this distance, you could see that the woman was something special. ‘Does Sarah know that she’s going to be your new partner?’
‘Not yet.’
‘I’d get on with it, if I were you.’ Max gave him a pat on the back. ‘You don’t want her finding out from someone else.’
‘I was gonna tell her tonight,’ Michael stated unconvincingly.
‘Good idea.’ Changing the subject, Max gestured at his colleague’s stained T-shirt. ‘How was the concert?’
‘It was great,’ Michael nodded. ‘We couldn’t see a thing, but the sound was amazing. And the boys really liked the babysitter. We’re going to use her again.’
‘Excellent,’ Max smiled. ‘It’s good to know I’m not going to find myself landed with the role of child care in the Rahn household any time soon.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Michael glanced over at Ulrike, still talking on the phone, before lowering his voice. ‘But when are you going to tell me what really happened at that water tower?’
‘Later,’ was all Max would offer by way of reply.
‘Later?’
‘Later.’ Max gave his friend a final pat on the shoulder then turned away and headed for the stairs. ‘Good luck with Ulrike. And give Helmes a smack in the mouth from me.’
52
Clara Ozil tore off a strip of naan bread between her thumb and forefinger, rolled it up, popped it in her mouth and began chewing happily. ‘Willy Brandt’s dined here, you know.’
‘He has?’ Looking round the largely empty Indian restaurant, Max struggled to imagine the politician at one of the tables.
‘It’s quite famous.’
‘Hm.’ Max shovelled another mouthful of chicken curry into mouth. Famous or not, he had to admit that the food was good.
‘Nothing but the best for your retirement party.’ Clara lifted her glass and offered him a toast. ‘Good luck, Max.’
‘Thanks.’ Taking a sip of his own beer, he stifled a groan. After his run in with Carolina Barbolini, he still felt like he’d been run over by a truck. ‘And thank you again for all your help.’
Clara tore another strip from the bread. ‘I was just doing my job, Kriminalinspektor.’
‘I was wondering if I could ask you to do one more thing for me.’
‘Sure,’ Clara shrugged, still holding the bread in mid-air. ‘If I can.’
‘Bruno Eichel’s red Porsche. The Department will sell it off at auction. Can you get it for me?’
‘I didn’t know you could drive.’
‘I can’t,’ Max smiled. ‘But I was thinking that I might learn.’
Feeling more than a little full, it was a relief to leave the restaurant and head for the S-Bahn. After a delay of almost twenty minutes, caused by an inconsiderate traveller who’d gone under a train at the far end of the line, the Kriminalinspektor finally made it to Heidelberger Platz. Coming out of the station, he consulted the street plan by the exit before heading cautiously on his way. Although he was retracing his steps of a few days earlier, the Wilmersdorf neighbourhood was foreign territory and he had to endure a couple of wrong turns before arriving at Kerem Cin's door.
It took the old man several minutes to answer. Max was pressing the bell for the third time when the door finally creaked open. Kerem looked him up and down, saying nothing as he turned and retreated down the hallway. Stepping across the threshold, Max closed the door and followed him inside.
By the time he reached the dining room, Kerem had adopted his usual position, sitting at the table. In front of him, was a stack of papers a good five centimetres thick. Even in the half-light, Max could see the physical deterioration that had taken place in a few short days. The old man looked gaunt, exhausted. The dark rings round his dull eyes looked as if they had been smeared on with an eyeliner pencil; his cheekbones seemed more visible than Max recalled. His hair had lost much of its luster; even his eyebrows seemed to have wilted.
‘I brought you some whisky.’ Max pulled a bottle of Glen Els from a yellow plastic bag bearing the legend Oskar's Beer & Wine and placed it on the table in front of his host. ‘I thought I would replace some of what I drank the other night.’ Stepping over to the sideboard, he gave a nod to the photograph of Kerem's late wife as he picked up a couple of glasses.
Kerem watched impassively as his guest broke the seal on the bottle and filled each glass in turn.
‘You stole my gun.’
‘I needed it.’ Max placed one of the glasses in front of Kerem before lifting the other to his lips. ‘It helped me deal with the man who killed Volkan.’
Making no effort to touch his drink, the old man nodded. ‘I need it back.’
‘I'm sorry, it's gone.’ Max took a sip of his whisky, carefully returning the glass to the table.
‘But I need it,’ Kerem wheezed. ‘You know I need it.’
Max nodded.
‘You had no right to take it. You exploited my hospitality, in order to steal from me.’
‘I came to apologise,’ reaching into the plastic bag for a second time, Max pulled out a small package, wrapped in a cotton rag, and placed it on top of the pile of papers, ‘and to give you this.’
The old man looked at the package and then at Max. ‘What is it?’
‘A replacement for what I took.’
Kerem tugged at the cotton. Seeing the gun, a weary smile flickered across his lips.
‘It has been cleaned and is ready to use,’ Max explained. ‘And there’s a full clip. Six bullets.’
Raising his glass, Kerem offered a mock toast. ‘Thank you, kriminalinspketor.’ He let out a grim chuckle. ‘But, rest assured, I'll only need the one round, even if I am blind drunk when it comes to pulling the trigger.’
‘Let's hope so. On both counts.’ Reaching for his own drink, Max gave a silent toast to Arnold Kappel. He had been on the point of tossing the gangster’s gun when it came to him that it could be put to better use.
Tipping back his head, Kerem downed his drink in one and reached for the bottle. ‘Where did you get it from?’ he asked, refilling his glass.
‘It doesn't matter,’ Max said evenly. ‘It's untraceable. The previous owner had the serial number filed off.’
A sudden spasm of pain shot through his abdomen, causing Kerem to wince. ‘It won't be long now,’ he said grimly. ‘Weeks. Maybe not even that. The doctors know. You can see it in their eyes.’
Max gestured at the gun sitting on the table between them. ‘When the time does come, is there anything –’
‘No, no.’ The old man waved away his offer of help with his free hand. ‘That's all taken care of. No need to worry.’
‘Good.’
The old man smiled as he topped up Max's glass. ‘The one final kindness that you can do is to help me drink this very nice whisky.’
53
On his desk was a note. A simple message – Please call Angela Brinker-Behle – along with a phone number. ‘I don't think so,’ Max mumbled to himself, his head still thick from his drinking into the small hours with Kerem Cin. Scrun
ching the note up into a ball, he threw it towards a nearby waste bin, missing by some margin.
‘Making a mess on your final day, huh?’
Max looked up to see one of the department’s younger detectives, Kevin Stanza, pulling on a bullet proof vest. ‘Off to make an arrest?’
‘Hope so,’ the youngster grinned. ‘Word is that we're finally taking down the guys who kicked that Turkish student to death.’
‘Hakan Yaman?’ Max was surprised he remembered the named. ‘About time.’
‘Yeah. It's a big deal because of the politics. Apparently Marin's taking charge of the operation personally.’
Max glanced over at the Kriminalkommissar's empty office. ‘Jesus. I assumed he was out getting some smokes.’
Stanza laughed politely.
‘This'll be first time that Marin’s been out on the street in years. Make sure he doesn’t shoot himself.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Or anyone else for that matter.’ Max wondered if Michael would be there to see it. Sarah had invited him round for dinner with the family later and he would enjoy getting the lowdown on Marin's performance. ‘Is Sergeant Rahn going to be out on this one too?’
‘No idea,’ Stanza shrugged. ‘Have you seen his new partner, though?’ His face suddenly adopted the look of a kid in an overstocked sweet shop. ‘What a babe.’
‘So I've heard.’
‘She really is going to stir things up around here.’ Stanza pulled on a leather jacket over his vest. ‘Well. I gotta get downstairs. Good luck. See you around.’
‘You too. I hope you get those bastards.’
‘Thanks.’
Feeling sick in his stomach, Max watched Stanza jog over to the stairs and disappear.
That was me, what, twenty years ago? Twenty-five?
Telling himself to stop being so maudlin, Max began cleaning out his desk. A couple of minutes later, he peered into a small cardboard box containing a tatty contacts book, a few marks in change and a Storz Nougat Praline bar, along with the Silver Surfer comic he had acquired in the course of his final investigation.
