‘To us,’ she said.
At that moment the first drops of rain fell on the awning. The balmy summer’s night on the terrace had come to nothing. They would have to move inside, not that it mattered now.
67
The address of the 127th police precinct was Bayreuther Strasse 13, but the station building itself was on Wittenbergplatz, close to the U-Bahn, bus and tram stations which thousands of Berliners used on their journeys to and from work. Thus the big letters painted in reddish brown across its front were seen by a great number of people that morning. Huge letters, smeared crudely across the wall.
In Communist areas, slogans scrawled overnight were usually political and might be normal, but here in the west they were anything but. The dirty-red graffiti, wet and running down the wall, had a deeply unsettling effect. Whether or not it was political was open to debate, but it certainly provided ample conversation material on an otherwise drab morning.
Not least for the three men in the Berlin Police Commissioner’s office currently discussing what it could mean.
Commissioner Albert Grzesinski, back on duty only yesterday, skimmed through the black and white photographs on his desk, which were still damp from the lab, and shook his head. He wished he could change the words, but they stubbornly remained the same.
A MURDERER WORKS IN THIS PIG PRECINCT! REVENGE FOR BENNY S.
‘The 127th precinct?’ Grzesinski asked, in his characteristically sober way.
Ernst Gennat nodded, his ample form spread across the visitor’s chair.
‘Why did the ward sergeant call in Homicide? I hope he isn’t taking this nonsense seriously?’
‘He didn’t,’ Gennat said. ‘Homicide is here of its own accord. One of my officers changes at Wittenbergplatz on his way to work. He notified me and I sent Herr Lange to photograph the whole mess.’ Andreas Lange sat in the second visitor’s chair. ‘I spoke to the ward sergeant over the telephone,’ Gennat continued. ‘He’s putting it down to Communists, which is unusual enough in this area. But I…’ he pointed towards Lange, ‘ … that is, we don’t agree.’
‘Go on.’ Grzesinski waved his hand impatiently.
Gennat explained that Homicide currently suspected one of the precinct’s officers of murder, outlining the fatal incident at KaDeWe. When he mentioned the name of the dead boy, Benjamin Singer, Grzesinski shook his head. When Gennat finished, he shook it again. ‘A uniformed officer, who causes a boy to fall to his death,’ he said, more or less stunned. ‘Are you certain?’
‘Everything points that way. Above all the pathology report. Of course, that’s not enough for the courts, which is why we’ve been handling the matter as discreetly as possible.’
‘So discreetly that not even I knew about it.’
‘Well, now you do,’ Gennat shrugged.
Lange raised his hand as if he were in school.
‘Not so formal, man,’ Grzesinski said. ‘You can speak freely here.’
Lange’s face turned red. ‘We’re assuming that the graffiti comes from the dead boy’s female accomplice, who almost certainly witnessed his fall. We received an anonymous telephone call.’
‘And you think this witness will be able to help you. A juvenile department store thief – not exactly ideal.’
‘She’s the only witness we have,’ Lange said.
‘Then see to it that you bring her in as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, Sir.’
He looked at Gennat. ‘Who else knows about this?
‘So far, only Officer Lange, who came to me with his suspicions right away, Dr Schwartz, and myself. I’ve deliberately involved as few people as possible.’
‘Good, but with this…’ Grzesinski pointed towards the photos on his desk, ‘…it could grow out of all proportion. We need to send someone to keep the press quiet.’
‘With respect, Sir, I think that would be a mistake,’ Gennat said. ‘Best let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘So, what should we do, in your opinion?’
‘Nothing. The best thing would be to do nothing. If the press believe the story about Communist graffiti we won’t have any trouble. As soon as we issue a denial, the problems will start.’
Unlike his predecessor, Karl Zörgiebel, Albert Grzesinski was capable of conceding mistakes in front of colleagues. ‘You’re right. So what do we do with this sergeant? If we stick him in custody, the press will have a field day. Even if we didn’t leak anything about our suspicions, journalists would have plenty of reasons to start digging.’
‘That’s my view too,’ said Gennat. ‘We would only create unease among our fellow officers, and such evidence as we have might not be enough for the magistrate.’
‘Nevertheless, you’ll agree that I cannot simply allow an officer accused of such a heinous crime to carry on as if nothing has occurred.’
‘Absolutely, Sir.’
‘Then I’ll suspend him from duty with immediate effect.’
‘It’s probably for the best,’ Gennat said. ‘But you’ll need plausible grounds.’
‘We have them already,’ Grzesinski said. ‘In the wake of the intense pressure he has faced since the tragic events at KaDeWe, Sergeant Major Kuschke has been temporarily excused from duty. The measure is taken to avoid placing further strain on his work, as well as that of his colleagues.’
‘There is something else,’ Lange said, taking a brown envelope from his jacket and placing it on Grzesinski’s desk. ‘We should deal with this too, before the press get wind of it and start joining the dots.’
The commissioner opened the envelope. ‘What is it?’
‘After taking the photographs at Wittenbergplatz, I went out to Kuschke’s home. It’s nearby, in Schöneberg.’
Grzesinski held the envelope upside down and half a dozen photos came tumbling out.
‘Kuschke hasn’t reported this, which I find very surprising. It reinforces our suspicion that the man has something to hide.’
Grzesinski listened attentively, looking at the photos spread across his desk. They showed a Schöneberg tenement, on the front of which four words were hastily scrawled.
REVENGE FOR BENNY S.
68
Charly hadn’t been up this early in a long time, especially not after such a late night, but business at Wertheim began with the lark. She wrenched herself out of bed, showered and took the U-Bahn to Kaiserhof. Alighting there she retraced her steps to Vossstrasse, past the Department of Justice and country embassies that filled one side of the street, with its relics of Berlin’s Royal Prussian history. On the other side was an enormous building complex several hundred metres long, which, despite its ornamentations, appeared strangely industrial.
Wertheim’s front looked onto Leipziger Strasse, leaving Vossstrasse a view of its rear. The once quiet street had become the department store’s lifeline, feeding the hungry Moloch with an endless supply of goods to keep its thousands of daily customers happy. It was in Vossstrasse that the delivery vans arrived with fresh produce, in Vossstrasse the rubbish trucks picked up whatever wasn’t sold, and in Vossstrasse the majority of Wertheim employees reported for duty. To gain access they passed through a huge wrought-iron gate, more like the entrance to a castle or villa than the delivery area of a department store.
Charly yawned. She hadn’t had much sleep. The evening with Gereon had turned out differently than expected, and she hadn’t drunk the champagne alone after all. They shared the crab meat salad too; enjoyed a little picnic in bed. After. And before.
That was yesterday, but this morning things were no clearer. Six months abroad with Heymann, a decision made over Gereon’s head, and he had accepted it. Then, somehow, she had yielded to his charm again, his stupid jokes. When had the turning point come? Certainly by the time she switched from mineral water to champagne, and then later to white wine, leaving all her best-laid plans in the dust. They had wound up back at Spenerstrasse, in bed – the place where they had always understood each other best.