‘Must look their eyes. Susi have so stiff eyes.’
‘Big eyes, you mean.’
The keepers or attendants or whatever were either grouchy alcoholics muttering incomprehensible remarks to themselves who presumably liked to kick the dogs in the face by way of saying good morning, or ladies in their mid-forties who truly loved animals. They didn’t love their fellow men as much.
‘You’re looking for a dog for dogfights, right?’
‘No, a German shepherd.’
‘Because I can tell you, we don’t give dogs away to all comers.’
‘Quite right too.’
‘You think so? But your daughter speaks hardly any German.’
‘Well, I’m sure there’s a lot to discuss there, but the fact is that we’re looking for a German shepherd, and we don’t have all the time in the world.’
Four unsuccessful hours later we drove home. I still had four animal rescue centres on my list. I’d try them another time. Or maybe not. The closer evening came, the less prominently Susi featured in my mind, and presumably in Leila’s too.
I parked the car round the corner, and we reached the flat unobserved by the greengrocer.
While I packed a bag with a chisel, a flashlight, a hooded jacket and my pistol, Leila sat on the edge of the sofa, jiggling her toes nervously up and down and eating sweets that smelled like room spray.
‘You think my mother come back today?’
‘Well, at least I believe I’ll find her.’ And I did. At times you get a sense of certainty that something is bound to succeed. Goal-scorers have it when they get the ball while facing the serried ranks of defenders, and they know: I’m going to shoot right through them and score the deciding goal. And they do. Or bouncers: OK, they tell themselves, that bastard is much larger, broader, stronger than me, but right now I’m flinging him out on his ear. And they do fling him out on his ear. Or just people looking for something: I’ll find it today, they say. And they find it.
‘Without me not very good detective.’
‘I’m better with human beings.’
‘Hope so. What about Susi?’
‘There are other refuges.’
‘When my mother back, you take me with you?’
‘Yes, sure. I’d be lost without you.’
The phone rang at six on the dot, and Höttges told me that no Stasha Markovic had been either arrested or done anything to get into police records since Sunday.
‘Listen, Leila.’ I sat down on the sofa beside her. ‘It would be better if you slept with some friends of mine tonight.’ I could have spared myself the educational approach. To my surprise, she agreed at once.
‘Not be alone better, you know?’
‘I understand.’
I dropped her off at Slibulsky’s just before seven.
Chapter 15
Ahrens’s white teeth and the slogan Ahrens Soups: Pleasure On Your Plate shone through the twilight. I was standing in a phone box opposite the dark brick building, pushing expired phone cards into the slot. Now and then there were situations which made me forget what a luxury not having a mobile was. It happened two or three times a month, when I had to rely on public phone boxes, or when one of those waiters who act as if they thought their place would run better without any guests declined to change a note for me, or when I needed a phone box and there just wasn’t one anywhere in sight. But the rest of the time not having a mobile was a little like always being on holiday. I had Slibulsky constantly going on at me: if a message could be left people felt insulted if they didn’t get called back at once; if no message could be left then they felt really insulted. And as one of those things was only occasionally switched off, because of the possible important incoming calls which was why you’d bought it in the first place, a ring tone was assaulting your eardrums every twenty minutes or so as if a fire had broken out. Maybe because of some misguided quota ruling, they use deaf people to develop new ringtones. Or maybe the whole mobile phone business was a kind of human experiment: can we make almost everyone who has over a few hundred marks a month available, independent of origin, religion, sex and education, into a poor idiot terrorising him or herself? As I saw it, they could.
The next card slotted in, and I dialled the greengrocer’s number.
‘Kayankaya here. Everything all right?’
Heavy breathing, trembling voice. ‘Herr Kayankaya, what luck, I’m completely …’
‘I’m sorry,’ I interrupted him, ‘but I’m in a really very important meeting at the moment, and it will go on for quite a while longer. So you’ll have to turn to the police today if anything happens. And if they don’t arrive in time, then I’d advise you, from my own experience, that facing up to the situation man to man, with a chair or a hammer handy, is more likely to be successful than covering your ears and waiting for the explosion.’
‘Oh … oh dear …’
‘Look, I must go back. I’ll be in touch when I get home. See you soon.’
‘Wait a minute, please, I … I was thinking about it today, if it goes on like this, well, I mean, perhaps it would be better for me to give up this flat and …’
‘Move house?’
‘… There, you see, I do admire your way of going about these things, oh yes, very much, but … well, bombs and chairs and man to man – I haven’t eaten a thing since yesterday evening, and my poor heart, oh, I don’t know, but if it goes on beating like this much longer I’ll explode of my own accord.’
‘Yes, I understand. But of course it would be a big step to take. My instant reaction would be to say maybe a sensible one too. But let’s think some more about it. Perhaps – who knows? – well, perhaps so. Possibly that’s the best solution – but I’m so sorry, now I must …’
‘Yes, of course. But you will ring me, won’t you, when you …?’
‘When I get back, yes, of course.’
I hung up, feeling glad that Leila was with Slibulsky. The greengrocer might perhaps work all right for raising the alarm, but as an obstacle to any characters who wanted to get into the building he certainly wouldn’t. Instead, I had a brief vision of a brand-new, friendly, humorous, civilised neighbour who would be wonderful in every respect.
I picked up my bag of tools, left the phone box, and walked past the entrance of Ahrens’s soup company and down the street. About a hundred metres further on I climbed over a tyre dealer’s fence, quietly crossed the yard, and approached the back of the brick building. Up on the first floor, faint light was falling through an open doorway into one of the offices. I climbed up a stack of tyres chained together, swung myself up on the wall, wriggled through the barbed wire stretched along the top of it, and let myself down on the other side, landing on a pile of gravel. A paved path led round the brick building to the metal factory shed where, I assumed, the soups or sweets or whatever were made. But perhaps nothing was being made there any more. Perhaps the shed now served only as a meeting place for the Army, and the tables were already laid for Saturday.
There was an entrance, locked, a lot of closed doors, and presumably an alarm system. I went once round the shed and found a loose flap over a gutter running down to the ground beside it and disappearing under a piece of metal. I raised the flap and listened. Nothing happened. There was a gap about thirty centimetres wide between the flap and the gutter. I got through it easily enough up to my waist, but then two things almost made me faint: first my breath was taken away, and second such a strong smell of urine met me as if they were boiling the stuff up to obtain its essence. Gasping, I squeezed my way on, centimetre by centimetre. Lack of air was bad enough, air smelling like that was even worse. Who pissed this kind of thing? Packet-soup manufacturers? The fat Hessian? The pretty secretary? Once I was inside the toilets I hauled the bag after me, straightened up and switched my flashlight on. Perhaps I’m more idealistic or I believe in authority more than I’d like to think – but the state of the toilets of this works, which did after all produce foodstuffs of a kind, staggered me. It
wasn’t just that the pans were a little dirty, they’d obviously been competing to see who could leave the most filth behind in here. Used loo paper was piled in the corners, the once white tiles round the urinals were covered with a dull, stained layer of stuff that looked crystallized, and the floor was covered by a slimy layer of something either thick or deep, but at least it gave slightly as you stepped on it. I got out of there fast.
Outside the toilets there was a coffee-break corner with a drinks machine, a small glazed-in office next to it, and right behind that the first of countless areas marked off only by partitions nearly two metres high. While I walked past enormous cauldrons, equally enormous and presumably computer-guided shovels for stirring them, conveyor belts, pipes leading from one area to another, stacks of plastic bags, pallets loaded up with cartons, a fork-lift truck and all kinds of other items, I came to the conclusion that the strong smell in the toilets must come from the equally strong and almost identical smell of the powdered soup hanging about in all the rooms. Well, obviously, what else did the employees eat at lunch time? So what else did they piss? But then I noticed the absence of any kind of soup powder and anything that might be its ingredients, and I sniffed myself with distaste. If I managed to find Leila’s mother this evening and take her out of here, she was going to get a fantastic first impression of me.
In the back area of the factory shed a second horrible smell mingled with the stink. Something rancid and very faintly reminiscent of chocolate. And there was also another difference: work had been going on until quite recently in the rooms I reached now. Small, unwrapped pieces of something dark lay on a conveyer belt, then the belt disappeared into a cavern containing all kinds of mechanical devices and presses, to reappear two metres further on with wrapped items on it. Red lettering on black paper: Mars bars. I took one, tore the wrapping away, bit off a corner and spat it out again at once. If this was what Ahrens sold as a chocolate bar, maybe the fillet-steak dinner was going to be held in the factory toilets. I’d never had anything like it in my mouth before. If you took the worst, almost cocoa-free chocolate made mainly of very dead animal fat and colouring agents, and kept it for a few weeks in a closed, switched-off fridge, then possibly the end product might be something tasting like this stuff. As an antidote I immediately lit a cigarette. I could happily have eaten the tobacco.
The storeroom was near the entrance. Crates were stacked to the ceiling, sealed and labelled. Mars Bars, Snickers, Milka, Werther’s Original, as well as new names like Berlin Sugar, Oktoberfest Choc Pretzels, Mercedes Power Bars, Sweet Steffi, and last but not least Orchard Fruits from Germany, Blackcurrant Flavour.
I spent the next two hours in the small glazed office beside the toilets. I read files and correspondence, examined bills, clicked my way through a computer. Locked filing cabinets and passwords were obviously thought unnecessary in Sheikh Soup’s domain. In the end I had worked out the following: Ahrens brought in reject products from all over the world – chocolate that had had a shot of engine oil added by mistake while it was being stirred in the vat, cocoa powder from a plantation next door to a chemical works that had blown sky-high, mouldy nuts, egg on the turn, flavouring agents contaminated for some reason or other, and just about any fat liable to leave you sick or dead – mixed it all together, formed it into bars, stuck a famous or invented name on them, and sold them in countries where Mars or Oktoberfest apparently sounded good enough to make marketing the product worthwhile. Mars, Snickers, and Werther’s Original went to Romania, Bulgaria, Serbia, Albania and the western part of Russia. Berlin Sugar, Mercedes Power Bars and Sweet Steffi went to Croatia and the Baltic states, as well as Siberia and the Volga, areas where large communities of Russian Germans lived. I imagined a simple young fellow whose great-great-great-grandfather had come to Russia from Swabia, so now he was indulging in a Mercedes Power Bar imported from the West, and not cheap either, in celebration of the day. Perhaps the taste surprised him. Perhaps he dreamed of a land where convertibles sprouted from the ground.
It was to the credit of Slibulsky’s palate that, as the computer recorded, the blackcurrant-flavour fruit sweets were the only product not to originate in Ahrens’s kitchen with its rubbish ingredients. A perfectly normal sweets manufacturer supplied them free every month, packaged to Ahrens’s specifications. As far as I could work it out from allusions and barely veiled threats in letters and notes, Ahrens knew about some incident in the manufacturer’s life which, if made public, would not quite ruin him but would have a far from innocuous effect. You couldn’t say that Ahrens missed much.
I put the files and papers back, switched the computer off, and set out in search of a door to break down. There wasn’t one. As I might have known in advance, they were all secured by alarms. I smoked two cigarettes to anaesthetise my sense of smell, which was working well again after the treatment the Hessian had given my face – was working too well, in fact, just now – then I gritted my teeth and went back to the toilets.
I stood up and gasped for air for a while.
There was still a light on up on the first floor of the brick building. I went over, tried in vain to open the front door, went round the building, pushed all the windows, and finally set off in search of a ladder. After I had used my chisel to break into a shed belonging to the tyre dealer next door, I found one among all kinds of other junk. A worm-eaten ladder with rungs missing. I put it up against the wall, where it wobbled and creaked, but it held for now. Through the barbed wire again, then down on the other side and over to the window where a light was showing. To look in I had to climb to the top rung of the ladder. Slowly and cautiously I hauled myself up by the window sill. What I saw next moment almost made me step off into the void. The room was nearly dark, with light coming in only from the corridor, a TV in the corner was showing the regular programme about film stars and celebrities presented by a famous former woman newsreader, and the fat Hessian was sitting on a chair in front of it tossing himself off. Every element of this scene was far from engaging in itself, and in combination they were a complete nightmare. However, I thought that for the first time I understood the secret of the woman presenter’s success. Obviously her bony face with its small eyes, plastered with pink cosmetics, a sly smile suggesting she’d do anything for money like a shot always on her lips, seemed just attainable enough for someone like the Hessian to work up his fantasies. And sure enough next moment, when a young woman – Sandrine Bon-something, the text under her said briefly – appeared on the screen he paused in his activities. She was just too attractive for him to fit her and his paunch into any kind of functioning scenario together.
Considering the state in which he would be found, this was a tempting opportunity to take instant vengeance for my smashed face. Perhaps they’d establish the exact time of death and compare it with the TV schedules. What headlines there’d be!
Of course nothing would come of it. Ahrens would have that fat bag of lard buried somewhere, and in the worst case he might cancel the meeting of the Army on Saturday or hold it somewhere else. I climbed down the ladder and looked through window after window on the rest of the first floor. After more offices I found a conference hall. As far as I could see by the beam of my flashlight, crates of champagne and cognac were stacked against the walls. Next door there was a kitchen, containing a huge electric grill standing at an angle which suggested that it had only just been delivered.
Apart from the Hessian there didn’t seem to be anyone in the building.
I took the ladder back to the tyre dealer’s place, climbed the fence into the street, sat down on a ledge by the wall and lit a cigarette. It was just after ten-thirty. Either I drove to Ahrens’s home now, or I hoped that something else would happen here this evening. A photograph had been printed to accompany the report of the Croatian economic delegation’s visit, specially mentioning the Ahrens company. It showed Dr Ahrens and his wife amidst a crowd of smiling men in suits. His wife was a strong woman in her late thirties, chin jutting assertively
and with a huge pile of bottle-blonde hair. She looked amiable, but not amiable enough to let Ahrens play around with other women at home.
Just as I was becoming only too well aware that everything I had intended to do and imagined happening this evening was based on a possibly completely mistaken assumption that Leila’s mother was somewhere very close to Ahrens, headlights at the end of the street fell on to my shoes. I jumped up and pressed close into the shadow of the wall. Next moment a BMW purred by as quietly as if the whole thing had been a dream. When it had turned into the entrance to the Ahrens premises, I followed it on tiptoe and peered round the corner. The doors opened, and out came two men who, from a distance, looked just the same as the bodies that Slibulsky and I had buried last week. Blond hair, short back and sides, cream suits, totally silent. They went up to the door, pressed the bell and waited. After a while the Hessian appeared and let them in. It was about ten minutes before they came out again. At least, I supposed it was them, for by now they had dark hair and wore jeans and leather jackets. They took two bicycles from a bicycle stand, and next moment they were cycling past me towards the city centre. The Hessian drove the BMW round behind the brick building, came back, cast a glance around him, adjusted his balls and went back inside. Half a cigarette later the next BMW purred in. Bell-ringing again, the disguised men let in again, they rode off on bikes again. Then came the third BMW, and the fourth, and the fifth. Business was booming.
Kismet Page 17
