‘Don’t think, just answer.’
Lange had found the right tone. Evidently a man like Jochen Kuschke needed to be treated with the arrogance of a Prussian officer.
‘Some coked-up little fag boy from Nolle who got a little edgy when I tried to ID him. I couldn’t know he was packing a knife.’
‘Then I’ll be able to read all about it in your report.’
‘There isn’t one yet.’
‘Then please submit it,’ Lange said, making a little note to himself. ‘What did you do with the assailant?’
‘Nothing! He was long gone, but if I see him again, he’s finished.’
‘Meaning?’
‘That he needs to be held to account. Can’t go around stabbing officers.’
‘But you won’t be overseeing the punishment personally…’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Well.’ Lange opened the folder and looked through the file. ‘There are colleagues among us who occasionally… anticipate judicial proceedings.’
‘How do you mean?’
Lange read from the file: ‘April 14th 1927, violent infringement whilst on duty. Grievous bodily harm proceedings discontinued in September of the same year, but internal warning, noted in your personal file.’
‘As you say: proceedings discontinued.’
Lange read the next entry: ‘May 3rd 1929.’ He paused and checked to see that Hilda Steffens was noting everything down. ‘On that day you beat a passerby, later identified as a journalist, unconscious with your baton…’
‘I’m not someone who shirks his duty when things get hot,’ Kuschke said. ‘There are no prizes in this job. Either you’re shot by the fucking Commies – like we’ve just seen – or some arsehole dobs you in.’
‘The complaint in ’29 came from one of your colleagues. You had to be restrained in order to prevent further injury.’
‘I didn’t say that some of my colleagues weren’t arseholes. They wanted to land me in the shit.’
The man had a gift for provocation, that much was clear.
‘What I’m trying to say, Sergeant Major,’ Lange said, ‘is that you have a tendency towards violence. I’m starting to wonder what really happened on that balcony in KaDeWe.’
Kuschke jumped to his feet, his face under the snow-white bandage somewhere between bright red and violet. Hilda Steffens’ grip tensed, the notepad sagged under the weight and became scored.
‘What are you trying to say?’
Lange looked at the sergeant as an entomologist might regard a newly discovered species. Kuschke sat down again.
‘Do you know how it feels to put your arse on the line for this system, and then be treated like this?’
‘What system are you talking about? Do you mean our state? Our democracy?’
‘Draw your own conclusions.’
‘We’ve established the identity of the dead boy,’ Lange said. ‘He was just fifteen.’
There was no trace of remorse, guilt or sadness in Kuschke’s face, not even consternation.
‘Benjamin Singer. Does the name mean anything to you?’ Kuschke shook his head. ‘He ran away from the Maria Schutz orphanage about a year ago to live on the streets. A difficult boy, apparently, but he wasn’t known to police.’
No reaction from Kuschke.
‘We were only able to identify the deceased thanks to an anonymous telephone call. A girl gave us the name and demanded a proper burial. That’s how we stumbled on the orphanage. One of the nuns came to the morgue. Sister Agathe identified him straightaway.’
Lange paused and gazed at Kuschke as he sat on the condemned man’s chair. It made him look like a hardened criminal.
‘This girl who telephoned could have been the second KaDeWe intruder, don’t you think?’ Kuschke didn’t think anything. ‘I’ve spoken to our colleagues in Robbery. They now assume the deceased’s accomplice was female.’
Kuschke feigned indifference. ‘Looked like a boy though.’
‘You saw the second intruder? You’ve never mentioned this before.’
‘You only asked me what happened on the balcony. The little brat was on the street below.’
Lange made a further note in the folder, realising how much it unsettled Kuschke. It looked like there really was a female witness to the incident at KaDeWe. The anonymous caller hadn’t been lying.
‘This girl said something else,’ Lange continued, paying close attention to Kuschke’s reaction. ‘“It was murder,” she said, “you cops killed Benny.”’
38
‘Gereon, here you are at last!’ Gräf vacated the desk. ‘I’ve been sitting here like a cat on a hot tin roof. Can you imagine the fuss Kirie’s been making? Fortunately, a boy took him out. In exchange for a hefty tip.’
‘Lucky for the dog.’
‘But not for me.’ Gräf’s voice was unexpectedly strained. ‘Sorry, no time for a proper handover. I have to pee!’
With these words, Gräf made his exit. Rath shook his head and looked at Kirie, who had made herself comfortable under the desk again. ‘Can you understand it?’ he asked the dog. ‘How can anyone be so frantic?’
Rath sat at the table and opened the notebook he had filled with abstract patterns the day before. Gräf, who suppressed even the urge to pee while on duty, had been more conscientious. Judging by the date and times, he had made notes yesterday afternoon and this morning. He had written down everything that happened in the vicinity of room 301, even timing the appearances of the chambermaid and floor waiter down to the last minute. According to Gräf, Goldstein had only left his suite once since yesterday morning. It looked as if they had managed to spoil the Yank’s stay in Berlin.
Gräf returned from the toilet. ‘I needed that,’ he said. ‘Just going to pick up the car, were you?’
Rath nodded. The Hanomag hadn’t even managed the journey from Reinickendorf to Kreuzberg without incident. When the lights on Invalidenstrasse switched to green, the engine flooded and resisted all attempts to restart. Cursing, Rath left the crate by the side of the road, walked the few metres to Stettiner Bahnhof and telephoned the garage. It took a while to get hold of the right man.
‘Ah, the fuel line,’ Heinz said. Even on the telephone it sounded like he was eating a sandwich. ‘I thought I’d explained it to you?’ He hadn’t, so only now did Rath learn the whole truth. The Hanomag had a tendency to take on too much fuel and stall, but the driver could reduce the diameter of the fuel line with a clamp stored in the glove compartment. Rath did as bidden, and, after a moment or two of stubbornness, the car sprang back into life. Not that it was any more fun to drive. In neutral, the crate shook from side to side to such an extent that Rath came to fear every red light.
‘Goldstein doesn’t seem to be enjoying his time here,’ he said, gesturing towards the notebook. ‘A real stay-at-home, it looks like.’
Gräf nodded. ‘Probably spends the whole day telephoning overseas, home-sick.’
‘Or looking for a crafty lawyer to get him out of this. To be honest, I’m not sure what else we can do. On paper, he’s a respectable American citizen.’
‘I’ve kept less dangerous men under surveillance,’ Gräf said. ‘I think he’s just fed up. I bet we’ll see a boy wheeling his luggage trolley out of suite 301 before the week is out.’
‘You really want to bet?’
‘A crate of Engelhardt. He’ll be gone by the weekend. At the latest.’
Rath considered a moment before shaking on it.
At that moment, the chambermaid emerged from suite 301 and cast the two officers a curious glance before disappearing down the corridor. ‘Somehow that girl seems familiar,’ Rath said.
‘Of course she does. It’s the same one as yesterday and the day before.’