The Secret of Spandau

by Peter Lovesey

  He would still go down to Plévenon and phone Jane. He had been robbed of the evidence, but they couldn’t take away the knowledge he had. He would pass it on to Jane and Cedric, and they would get in touch with Red. It would all come down to Hess and how much he would say, but that was how they had planned it from the beginning. They had to shock the old man with the truth and let him tell the story.

  The Porsche was moving fast, too fast for safety on the corniche, the narrow cliff road. Dick touched the brakes slightly. There was no response. He pressed the pedal harder, but the car, if anything, went faster, accelerating on the downward slope. The brakes were useless.

  The bastard had tampered with the car.

  He tried changing down. The gears were functioning, but there was a tight bend ahead and he was not going to get round. He knew he was not going to get round.

  The muscles of his stomach flexed as the Porsche failed to respond. It was too much to ask of any car. It went into a screeching skid and broadsided off the road, smashed through a wooden barrier and careered over the cliff.

  The car was falling, turning, diving through the air.

  You’re going home.

  He thought of Jane and the message she would never receive. And Madame Guillon, who had not understood what it was all about. And Churchill and de Gaulle and Hitler, all dead. All silent.

  The car plunged a hundred feet and hit the rocks.

  Dick’s spine was severed by the impact. He died instantly.

  36

  ‘Red.’

  He felt a hand creep over the small of his back and come to rest on his left buttock. The fingers pressed gently into his flesh.

  Tuesday morning. He opened his eyes to check the time from the clock on the bedside shelf. 6.55. He closed them again and did some arithmetic. Heidrun had to be at work by 8.30. She needed to leave by 8.00 to be sure of the bus. She would want twenty minutes in the bathroom and fifteen for breakfast. That still left a gaping half-hour. He stayed immobile and began to simulate the regular breathing of deep sleep.

  The hand slid over his hip and assertively down towards his crotch. The fingers found some hair, teased it out and curled it around one of them like a ring.

  ‘Red.’

  He tensed, anticipating one of Heidrun’s playful squeezes. Playful could be painful for the recipient.

  ‘You are awake!’

  ‘Not really.’

  She pressed against his back. They had both slept naked, Red from habit, Heidrun because she had not been back to her apartment since Sunday.

  She murmured in English, ‘Turn over.’

  ‘Too tired, love.’

  ‘I am not wanting sex.’

  ‘You really mean that?’

  ‘I want you to hold me.’

  He rolled towards her and put an arm around her. She clung to him, grasping his shoulders.

  ‘Red, I’m scared of Kurt Valentin.’

  ‘Scared of that jerk? He’s rubbish. Forget him.’

  ‘There are others. There will always be others.’

  ‘Coming home to roost?’

  ‘I don’t understand. What does that mean?’

  ‘Tell them to piss off, you have other fish to fry. It’s a mixed metaphor, but they’ll get the message.’

  She gave a heavy sigh and lapsed into silence.

  ‘I ought to get up,’ she murmured after a while, but without much conviction.

  ‘True,’ said Red, smartly unwinding himself from the embrace. ‘Is the table-tennis still on tonight?’

  ‘The Moabit match? Yes,’ she answered bleakly. ‘I don’t think we shall win without Cal. I’ll have to play the doubles with Frank. He’s rubbish.’ She sat up and slid her legs off the bed, then stood up entirely and started her exercise routine, standing astride and rotating her hips, hands clasped behind her head. ‘I wish I knew what is the matter with Cal. I’m sure if he really wanted, he could have changed the shifts to make sure he played tonight.’

  ‘He told you,’ Red reminded her, watching the work-out; it was a spectacle worth sitting up in bed for, even after two heavy nights. ‘He has to fill in for some guy who is off sick.’

  ‘I don’t believe him. He told me once before that he could always get time off. He isn’t being honest with me.’

  ‘Maybe he’s had enough table-tennis.’

  Her answer to that was to turn her back on him and touch her toes.

  Later, after Heidrun had left for work, Red gave the matter some undivided thought. There was something in what she had said. It was mean of Cal to let her down after he had promised to play the matches with her. The impression Red had got was that Cal was dependable, the sort of guy who kept his promises. Conclusion: either Cal had been ordered by the prison directors to stop mixing with the locals, or there was some conflict of loyalties, and Heidrun had lost out on this occasion. On balance, the second explanation seemed the likelier. Could it be anything to do with Hess?

  The lone prisoner in Spandau was notoriously wary of the prison staff, but he seemed to have got on terms of some sort with Cal. And Cal’s few utterances about Hess had conveyed a certain respect for the old man, even a sneaking admiration for his bouts of insubordination. He had said on Sunday that Hess had been unsettled by something he had read in the paper about an old building in Munich being destroyed by fire. Maybe Cal was helping Hess over an emotional upset, putting in extra time to keep him from getting too depressed.

  Strange that a burnt-down building should bother Hess at all. It wasn’t as if he had spent his childhood there; he had been raised in Egypt. Maybe there was a link with the founding of the Nazi movement in Munich, the beerhalls where Hitler had first sprayed spit and racism over anyone who would listen. Perhaps it was a beerhall that had just gone up in smoke. Most of last week’s papers were still lying about the apartment. After a shave and a few bites of breakfast, Red gathered them up and searched for the report of the Munich fire. He couldn’t find it. He took out a cigarette, put up his feet and told himself his job was reporting the news, not reading it.

  Then he had his inspiration. Cal worked shifts. If he had fixed an extra evening on, it followed that he ought to have the morning off. What better time than now to look him up at home and get to know him better, for once without Heidrun in attendance?

  He slung his jacket over his shoulder and took the next bus out to Spandau.

  Cal had lodgings in the Altstadt, the ‘old town’, at the meeting-point of the rivers Havel and Spree. Red knew the name of the street, but he would need to ask for the number. Cal had lived several years there, so someone ought to be able to help.

  His luck was in. Two-thirds of the way along Reformationsplatz, who should he meet but the man himself, dressed for once in a jacket and slacks, complete with grey and blue striped shirt and brown, hand-woven tie?

  ‘Hi,’ said Cal, without looking too delighted. ‘How’re you doing, pal?’

  ‘Great! So you are off duty. I was coming this way to look you up. Thought we might have a coffee or something.’

  Cal was already edging away. ‘That would be nice, but I have an appointment this morning.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  Cal glanced down at his clothes and smiled self-consciously. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Anyone I know?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Some other time, then?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Cal nodded and moved on rapidly. Red stood back, watching for a while, and then followed. He had tumbled to the strong possibility that Cal had not, after all, cried off from the table-tennis match to spend the evening with Hess, but to keep his appointment this morning. If Cal believed it was worth getting out of a tracksuit for, it had to be important.

  Cal moved briskly through the old town towards the pedestrian walkway of the shopping complex, past the black fountain where the husbands chatted while their wives went round the supermarket shelves, and south to the bus station. He got straight onto a waiting bus, paid the driv
er and went upstairs. It didn’t look like moving off right away, but Red increased his pace to be sure of getting on. Then he pulled up short.

  Ahead of him, a mere ten yards or so ahead and about to climb on the bus, was Heidrun’s bête noire, Kurt Valentin, accompanied by two other guys Red didn’t recognize. They were all in suits. If they were going to the same place as Cal, Red thought, he wished he had brought a tie with him. It looked like being a dressy occasion.

  When they were all safely upstairs, he entered the bus. He didn’t join them. He felt more comfortable among the elderly and disabled.

  It was now a matter of watching the exit-stairs at each stop. In the movies, they would all have had fast cars and raced along Spandauer Damm ignoring the traffic-lights. It was more sedate on a fifty-four bus, but it suited Red. His driving wasn’t up to much.

  They travelled three-quarters the length of Spandauer Damm before Cal’s brown shoes and camel-coloured slacks appeared in view on the stairs. Red swayed out of sight behind an old man reading Stern. Right behind Cal came Valentin and his three friends, exchanging conversation like any businessmen, not in the least like shadows.

  Red let them and a couple of other passengers get off before he left his seat. Cal had already started along Königin Elisabeth Strasse, and the others were crossing to the other side, but they turned in the same direction when they got over.

  Coincidence could now be ruled out. They were tailing Cal as surely as Red was. The guy on Valentin’s left was the shortest of the three, but the best-dressed. His grey pinstripe was definitely tailored, probably by Selbach or one of those big-name outfitters on Kurfürstendamm. His dark hair was thinning at the crown, but he still had about fifteen years on Valentin.

  Those two continued to talk, for the most part ignoring the third member of the party, who was a head taller than either of them, and broader in the shoulders. The back seam of his jacket looked to be under strain. It was the kind of cheap blue suit you buy in chain-stores without trying on the trousers. He was carrying a large, black briefcase.

  The street was busy enough for Red to remain inconspicuous on the same side as Cal, some sixty yards behind. He would have treated the whole thing more lightheartedly if it were not for Heidrun’s fear of Valentin. This morning she had talked despairingly of others, and it certainly looked as if Valentin hunted in a pack. Did they expect Cal to lead them to her?

  Near the Kaiserdamm end, Cal turned left into a side-street. It caught everyone by surprise. Valentin and his companions immediately stopped talking and moved fast, dodging into the road to break out of the slow procession of pram-pushers and window-shoppers. Red, on the opposite side, had to trot to keep up with them.

  Cal was not in sight. The street was part-residential, with entrances irregularly located between small shops and up staircases. There were several basement flats. He could have been in thirty or forty different places.

  The man in the smart suit took over, sending Shoulders to check the shops on one side, Valentin those on the other. Red observed them from the corner of the street, standing by an open-front shop that traded in electronic parts.

  The search was unproductive, so an agitated consultation took place on the pavement, heads turning repeatedly in case Cal reappeared. Finally, Shoulders was posted to the far end of the street, and the two older men kept watch nearer to Red.

  Ten or fifteen minutes went by. Everyone kept checking their watches. Red moved from the electronics shop to a new position beside the revolving stand of postcards next door.

  He was taken completely by surprise when a door opened behind him and Cal came out, passing close enough almost to brush his shoulder, and moved off without apparently noticing him. Not wishing to be caught in the spotlight, Red dodged out of sight behind the postcards. The place Cal had emerged from was a private doorway between the electronics shop and the newsagents.

  Across the street, Valentin was sent after Cal. The short man also signalled to Shoulders, who came running. Red, in two minds, plumped for his original intention and followed Cal and Valentin back into Königin Elisabeth Strasse. He had plenty of ground to make up, so he broke into a run. It committed him absolutely to following Cal, but he regretted not finding out who he had visited, and why the others had remained behind.

  Valentin’s silver hair was suddenly in view again, so Red slowed to a walk as they approached the traffic lights at Spandauer Damm. Increasingly, the depressing conviction pressed in on him that he had made the wrong decision. Even the incentive of the chase dwindled when Cal crossed Spandauer Damm and tamely joined the bus queue. Valentin dutifully stood a couple of places behind, and Red glided to the other side of the bus shelter and smoked his second cigarette of the morning. He felt a strong sense of anticlimax.

  As the bus drew up at the stop and Cal prepared to board, with Valentin almost holding onto his shirt, Red decided to cut his losses and let them go. He was a newsman, bugger it, and a bus ride home wasn’t much of a story. He was going to work.

  A half-hour had gone by when he got back to the side-street. Valentin’s companions were nowhere in sight, but plenty of others were. A crowd had gathered outside the place, the lights of two police cars were flashing and someone was using an intercom.

  Red shouldered his way through and asked one of the crowd what had happened.

  ‘Some woman murdered. The people in the electric shop heard screams and called the cops.’

  Red broke through the cordon and headed for the open door that he had last seen Cal come out of.

  ‘Hey, you!’ One of the police grabbed his arm. ‘What the hell …?

  Without actually stopping, Red took out his press-card and passed it so rapidly across the policeman’s line of vision that it might just as well have been a season ticket. Or a police ID. ‘Take your hands off me, officer,’ he ordered with authority.

  The grip loosened, and he was through the door.

  The place was stiff with uniforms. Red wished he owned a suit. Someone immediately asked him who he was.

  ‘A vital witness. Is it a killing?’

  ‘Herr Ulzheimer. A guy here says he is a witness.’

  A movement among the uniforms gave Red a glimpse of a dead woman lolling in an armchair. Her face was badly cut about. A gory mess. Unrecognizable. From the look of her fine white hair, she must have been old.

  Ulzheimer, a detective in plain clothes, shouted, ‘Take him outside and hold him in the car until I’m ready. All of you flatfeet get outside. I have a job to do here, and you’re not helping.’

  ‘Any idea who she is?’ Red asked the officer who showed him to the car.

  ‘Her name is Edda Zenk. Unmarried. Lived alone. She was shot through the head. Before that she was pistol-whipped. God knows why. Harmless old lady with nothing worth stealing.’

  ‘Maybe she knew something.’

  ‘Just who are you?’

  ‘I’ll save it for Herr Ulzheimer, if you don’t mind.’

  By then there was another witness, a woman who worked in the electronics shop. Ulzheimer spoke to her before he got to Red. He questioned her closely and then handed her over to one of the uniformed men to make a statement.

  He got in beside Red and studied him minutely. He took in everything with his grey eyes and then said, ‘Show me your hands.’

  Red obeyed in silence. Ulzheimer wasn’t the type to enjoy a quip about fortune-telling.

  ‘Now turn them over … OK. Name?’

  ‘Goodbody.’

  ‘From?’

  ‘England.’

  ‘Identification?’

  Red showed his press-card.

  Ulzheimer sniffed. ‘What have you got to tell me?’

  Red was glad of the time he had been given to prepare for this. ‘I may be able to help. I was passing earlier this morning. I noticed two men watching this place. There was a third one up the street. They were signalling to him.’

  ‘Three men, huh? Describe them.’

  Red provided accura
te word-pictures of Valentin and his associates.

  ‘Pretty good,’ conceded Ulzheimer. ‘How is it you took such a strong interest in them?’

  ‘I’m press, aren’t I? You learn to be a good observer. Part of the trade.’

  ‘Where exactly were you … passing … when you noticed these suspicious characters?’

  ‘Just about here. The two short guys were over the street approximately where the red Volkswagon is now. The other was up there.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I was here.’

  ‘Passing by?’

  ‘Well,’ Red guardedly admitted, ‘I spent some time looking at the shop-fronts.’

  ‘The electronics shop?’

  ‘And the postcards.’

  ‘You interested in electronics, Mr Goodbody?’

  ‘I was watching the men, wasn’t I?’

  ‘So that was why you lingered so long outside?’

  ‘Yes, I told you.’

  ‘OK, you saw them and you wondered what was going on, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘In that case, why did you walk away? A good newsman doesn’t walk away from a promising story.’

  ‘One of them left. I decided to follow him.’

  ‘Ah, which one?’

  ‘The silver-haired one. I followed him up the street to Spandauer Damm, where he got on a fifty-four bus. I decided to come back and see if the others were still here.’

  ‘And were they?’

  ‘No.’ Having regard to the not over-friendly narrowing of Ulzheimer’s eyes, Red added, ‘I offered myself as a witness, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, and I think you may be able to help us, Mr Goodbody. I want you to come down to the station and spend a little more time with me. You weren’t planning anything else?’

  37

  Jane caught her breath and closed her eyes. A chill feeling spread over the surface of her body like a cold garment. ‘How?’

  Cedric’s voice at the other end of the line was so subdued that it was barely audible. ‘A car crash. Late yesterday afternoon.’