The Fatherland Files

by volker Kutscher

  ‘Hmm . . .’ A blurred image flickered in Rath’s mind. ‘That would mean Lamkau activated the switch himself, before he died, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘We’ll see. ED have taken fingerprints.’

  Rath gestured towards the office door. ‘Who is Gräf interviewing?’

  ‘The security guard. He was next on the scene, after the chef.’

  ‘Fine. I’m going in.’

  Rath knocked and stepped inside. The office was surprisingly small and dark in comparison with the brightness of the central hall, the only source of light a desk lamp with a green shade. Numerous photos of artists hung on the wall behind the executive desk where the detective sat: musicians, illusionists, singers, female dancers. Christel Temme sat with her pad at a small visitor’s table, registering the inspector’s appearance as stoically as she did everything else. The stenographer was famously unflappable, even during the interrogation of the most callous murderer. She simply noted everything that was said, no matter how appalling or how trivial.

  The man sitting on the chair between the two desks was no callous murderer, however, but a gaunt man in his early forties, dressed in the uniform of the Berlin Security Corps, kneading his cap in his hands. Reinhold Gräf rose from his chair.

  ‘Inspector,’ he said. It was part greeting, part explanation. The guard started to get up, but Rath waved him away.

  ‘Herr Janke works as a security guard here,’ Gräf added superfluously.

  Rath sat on the edge of the desk and lit a cigarette. Gräf remained standing. Together they gazed down on the man’s eyes flitting between them.

  ‘So . . .’ the guard began, and immediately the stenographer’s pencil could be heard scratching across the page, ‘where were we . . .’

  ‘You were about to tell me how you knew the man in the lift was dead, Herr Janke,’ Gräf prompted, sitting down when he realised Rath wasn’t interested in taking over.

  ‘Right.’ Janke nodded. ‘So, I went down into the car . . .’

  ‘Did you have to open the door?’ Gräf asked.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘The elevator door.’

  ‘No, Unger had already opened it.’

  ‘The chef who discovered the corpse.’

  ‘Right.’ The guard squinted from one officer to the next as if sensing a trap. ‘So, I went down into the car. The way he was lying there all glassy-eyed . . . I thought straightaway the man’s dead. But first I felt his carotid pulse.’

  ‘Why the carotid?’ Gräf asked.

  ‘That’s . . .what we learned . . .during training. Security Corps.’

  Gräf made a note. Rath caught himself looking at his watch. It was all getting too much for him: the guard’s long-windedness, Gräf’s pedantry, the excruciatingly slow pace of the interrogation.

  ‘What did you do then?’

  The guard stole a glance at Rath. ‘First I climbed out of the car, and then . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Herr Janke, but we don’t need to know every last detail.’ Rath slid from the desk. ‘I’d like to pause the interrogation for a moment. Would you be so kind as to wait outside?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Gräf waited until he had left the room. ‘Can you tell me what the hell you think you’re doing?’

  ‘No need to take down our conversation, Fräulein Temme. If you could wait outside too. Take a little break.’

  ‘I don’t need a break, Inspector.’

  ‘We’ll call you back in when you’re needed,’ Rath said, gazing sternly. The stenographer gathered her things and took her leave.

  ‘Damn it, Gereon! First I spend hours trying to reach you, then when you do finally turn up, you have nothing better to do than terminate an interrogation just as it’s getting started.’

  ‘Take it easy. I haven’t terminated the interrogation, only interrupted it. You can carry on in a moment; our guard here seems very co-operative.’

  ‘What did you want to talk about?’

  ‘First: the people outside – do you mean to question them all here? In person?’

  ‘I wanted to make a start. Now that you’re here, you can decide.’

  ‘In that case, continue questioning the guard but, first, tell the cops outside to take down the personal particulars of every employee waiting in the hall.’

  ‘What do you think we’ve been doing all this time?’

  ‘If someone saw something, then question them here. If not, these people should kindly proceed to headquarters. In the meantime Lange can supervise Forensics, and we’ll take care of everything else next week in the office.’

  ‘Who’ll inform the next of kin?’

  ‘Lange can look after that. He has to learn sometime if he’s to be an inspector.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Gräf nodded. ‘But that still leaves one question . . .’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘What’s your role in all of this?’

  ‘That’s why I’m telling you now.’ Rath didn’t attempt to appear contrite. No one would believe him anyway. ‘I have to go. I’d be grateful if you could run things in the meantime.’

  ‘Gereon, you know I’ve never led an investigation.’

  ‘Just do what I told you, then call it a day.’ Gräf didn’t look exactly thrilled. ‘Come on. I’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘You’ve got some nerve.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

  ‘You’re the boss.’

  Rath clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You’ll be fine. Maybe it was all just an accident. There’s no evidence of foul play.’

  ‘I know,’ Gräf said, ‘but it’s a mystery. Karthaus says the man drowned.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s simply mistaken.’

  There was a knock on the door. A man in a light summer suit stepped confidently into the room, took a quick look around, and made a beeline for Rath.

  ‘Inspector? They told me I’d find you here. Fleischer’s the name. I’m the director.’ They shook hands. ‘Good that you’re here at last. I hope you won’t keep my men much longer. We’re well behind schedule. Maintenance is unmanned, the central kitchen’s deserted, and our first customers will soon be arriving . . .’

  ‘My colleague here will inform you which members of staff we’re finished with,’ Rath said, gesturing discreetly towards Gräf. ‘Now, please accept my apologies, but I have another case to take care of . . .’

  The director looked annoyed, but before he could say anything Rath had lifted his hat and was gone.

  Quarter of an hour later Rath emerged from his Buick on Carmerstrasse, free of the guilty conscience that had accompanied his departure from Haus Vaterland. For the first time since returning to live in Charlottenburg, it felt as if he were coming home. He only had to think of who was waiting inside. They would be spending the weekend together again at last.

  The area around Steinplatz was a decent part of town: solidly upper middle class, with most buildings possessing a service entrance, and he had rented the modern apartment primarily because of its size. He opened the heavy front door and stepped into bright limestone and glossy marble. No wonder Charly was impressed; she liked the flat, he had seen it in her eyes. It was twice as big as his old place in Kreuzberg, with plenty of room for two – and perhaps more.

  Climbing the five carpeted steps to the entrance hall he heard the pitter-patter of doggie paws, and two short barks, and sensed that something was amiss. Kirie’s black head peered around the corner of the counter, while the porter looked, embarrassed, over the marble top.

  ‘What’s the matter, Bergner?’ Rath asked, even though he had already guessed.

  The porter cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid the young lady . . .had to leave. She asked me to look after the dog.’

  Bergner loosened the lead from Kirie’s collar and Rath accepted the dog’s wet greeting.

  ‘Did she say where she was going?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Rath’s thoughts were already elsewhere as he made tow
ards the lift with Kirie.

  Charly’s scent hung in the air, making the flat seem that much emptier than before. Kirie was unperturbed, pitter-pattering towards her basket and curling into a ball. Rath sometimes wondered how much sleep a dog could take. Standing at one of the big windows, he looked out, seeing nothing, but aiming a kick at one of the heavy armchairs. Out of anger or disappointment? He couldn’t say.

  She had cleared the breakfast things and left a handwritten note.

  Forgive me, Gereon,

  but I just couldn’t wait any longer. I held firm for an hour, but the longer I sat with Kirie in your lovely new home, the more I realised that after so long abroad I first needed to spend some time in Spenerstrasse, in my own apartment – especially since a new chapter awaits on Monday.

  Your friendly porter helped me with my luggage and agreed to take charge of Kirie. He seems pretty well versed in that regard, with the dog, I mean.

  Now here I am scribbling these lines. My taxi’s already waiting below. As for your question, and the ring . . . Please don’t be angry that I couldn’t give you an immediate reply. I was very touched by your proposal (after all the years we’ve known each other!) but such an important question demands a considered response, and, having just stepped off the train after ten months in Paris, I felt as if everything was moving too fast. Our long-awaited reunion, a new apartment and a marriage proposal, all in the space of a single morning – even for a girl from Moabit that’s too much at once.

  I suggest that we find a more convenient time and place for me to respond. Already I can tell you it isn’t a simple case of ‘yes’ or ‘no’. There are a few questions I’d like to ask you in return.

  I know it isn’t exactly romantic, but there’s nothing worse than an overly hasty decision when so much is at stake. I’ve already had to break off one engagement, as you know, and the last thing I need is a repeat performance.

  No hard feelings. Sending hugs.

  See you soon

  C.

  He folded the letter and went into the bedroom. The first thing he noticed was that the bed had been straightened. The ring lay on the bedside table. What did it mean? Did the fact that she hadn’t taken it constitute a response? He picked it up and examined it. What was he supposed to do now? Take it to their next meeting, await her response and – perhaps – slip it on her finger? No expert in such matters, he wiped the accursed thing with the tail of his jacket and placed it in his inside pocket, where it seemed destined to see out its days.

  He unfolded the letter again, and tried to understand. How did she feel about him? No matter how often he read it, he was none the wiser. He couldn’t help thinking back to the moment he had seen her on the platform. To that moment of shock, of being afraid he had lost her, or at least the person he remembered. Until he caught the scent of her hair and skin, and felt his whole body being drawn towards her. He knew she had felt the same way, at least when he’d shown her the flat.

  The business with the champagne glass was a crackpot idea. Who on earth had talked him into it? Paul? A colleague from the Castle? Perhaps it was the stupid engagement ring that had driven her away, rather than his lingering too long at the crime scene.

  Seeing himself in the mirrored doors of the liquor cabinet he realised he still hadn’t taken off his hat. He hung it on the hook and, in the drawing room, chose a record from the pile he had arranged in advance. He put on Ellington’s Mood Indigo, one of the many discs Severin had sent over from the States in the last few months. He had wanted to play it for her; for them both. The record player was a brand new Telefunken radiogramophone, but that hardly seemed to matter now.

  He took the bottle of cognac from the cabinet, along with a glass, and sat in one of the armchairs. The truth was he had bought them for her, after she had pointed out a similar set in the display window of some exclusive furniture store on Tauentzienstrasse. That was back in the days before Paris, with her departure already hanging in the air. At least the chairs were comfortable, even if they didn’t look it. He sniffed at the balloon glass and listened to the music, the sad melody of the trumpets, the earthy warmth of the clarinets.

  The smell of the cognac soothed him almost more than the music. How he had longed for this moment – even before she had gone away. And now, Herr Rath? It isn’t even lunchtime, and you’re sitting here pouring yourself a cognac just to get through the day.

  4

  A restless whimpering roused him from sleep. He opened his eyes to see Kirie wagging her tail. She took a few steps towards the door and turned. Rath sat up. He must have nodded off. An empty cognac glass lay overturned on the carpet. By now Duke Ellington spun inaudibly, the needle striking the groove again and again with a soft, rhythmical crackle.

  It was almost two o’clock and the dog urgently needed walking. Rath struggled out of the armchair, shovelled a few handfuls of cold water onto his face and fetched the lead. Kirie positively dragged him outside, down the external staircase and to the first shrub in Carmerstrasse, where she eyed him gratefully as she went about her business. Rath took her for a little stroll across Steinplatz and realised his stomach was rumbling. He found a seat on the terrace of a hotel that modestly termed itself Pension, and ordered a beer and a snack. Though the portion was small there were still some leftovers for Kirie, who patiently awaited her chance. Sitting afterwards with a black coffee and a cognac to accompany the obligatory cigarette, Rath knew once and for all that he wouldn’t be heading back to his flat. He called the waiter over and paid, bundled Kirie into the car and drove out to Moabit.

  He didn’t park in Spenerstrasse, but on the corner of Melanchtonstrasse, where two roadside trees meant he could keep an eye on her entrance without being seen from the window. By now, certainty had evaporated. Reading her letter for at least the twentieth time offered no clues. Did she actually want to see him? Should he really just go upstairs and ring her doorbell? Perhaps she’d gone for a rest. She’d mentioned how badly she had slept on the train. In which case it would be Greta who came to the door, and that he could do without. He thought back to the year Charly’s housemate had spent abroad, when they’d had the flat to themselves. It was almost like being married . . .

  You’d have been better off staying put, he thought, perhaps she’s trying to call you right now. Then he remembered she didn’t have his new number. Perhaps, thinking him at work, she’d tried the office, unaware of the extent to which he had neglected his duties on her behalf.

  While he was thinking, a young man crossed Spenerstrasse, heading for Charly’s front door. Rath hadn’t seen him in almost a year, but recognised him immediately. The grinning man. Guido Scherer, Charly’s former classmate, now plying his trade in some wretched legal practice in Wedding, but clearly still as devoted to her as ever. Rath couldn’t believe it: she couldn’t wait to get out of his flat, yet here she was hosting that arsehole on her first day back? Perhaps she’d invited all of her friends round for a little reunion, all those lawyers he’d never known quite what to make of . . .and of course Gereon Rath, that rough-hewn cop, would only get in the way.

  He started the engine and stubbed out his cigarette. At least he knew he wouldn’t be going up there now. He accelerated so hard that the tyres squealed, causing the grinning man to turn around before he disappeared inside that shitty little house on Spenerstrasse. Fuck! Rath vented his rage on the gas pedal, racing through the city. At first his only aim was to get out of Moabit, but then, without making a conscious choice, indeed, without even noticing where he was going, he travelled further and further south. Only when, in the shadow of the elevated train, he veered east via Gitschiner Strasse, did he understand that he was headed towards Luisenufer.

  Parking on the street corner he let Kirie out, and memories came flooding back, all too many of which, stupidly enough, had to do with Charly. The dog sniffed at a tree on the edge of the play area, almost as if she recognised it, before wagging her tail and gazing expectantly towards her master. The cries of the c
hildren romping on the vast expanse of sand reminded Rath of how he had sat on a bench here in the sun with Charly, imagining that one of the children playing was their child, the child they shared together. He hadn’t said anything, of course, neither that day nor later on – but then he had shared very few of his dreams with her. Kirie went ahead, full of expectation, having traced the same path many hundreds of times before.

  A youth in a brown shirt, blonde hair parted wet, approached from the courtyard entrance. On his left arm he wore a swastika armband; tucked underneath was an SA cap. The Nazi gave him a feisty look, but Rath refused to be intimidated. He’d had enough of these brown so-and-sos ever since he’d seen them running wild on the Ku’damm last year. They were worse than the Communists. If the boy wanted a fight, he could have one, so long as he knew he’d wind up in a police cell. For all that, it seemed as though a provocative glance was enough. The youth walked past Rath without saying anything, only to turn around and shoot him a final, wicked glance as he donned his uniform cap.

  Nazis were nothing new in this area, even back when a swastika armband wasn’t nearly such a common sight. At the same time the Liebigs in the rear building had always kept the red flag flying, without things ever coming to a head. Communists and Nazis sharing the same roof; that, too, was Berlin. In workers’ districts especially, Red and Brown often lived side by side, albeit not always as peacefully as here on Luisenufer. As for normal people, Rath had the impression they were getting thinner on the ground, even in the city’s more affluent neighbourhoods.

  Annemarie Lennartz, the caretaker’s wife, was out beating carpets, but paused when she saw who was crossing the courtyard. ‘Well, there’s a surprise! Nice of you to drop by.’

  Rath tipped his hat briefly and pointed towards the rear building. ‘Detective at home?’

  Annemarie Lennartz looked around and lowered her voice. ‘Night shift,’ she said, with a knowing expression. ‘Didn’t get home until lunchtime.’