In Potsdamer Strasse the first cars began tooting their horns. He took a final glance at the girl’s legs before turning the left-hand lever and bringing the traffic on Stresemannstrasse to a standstill. When he switched the lights to green on Potse, the blonde disappeared behind the two gatehouses flanking the carriageway like little temples, pedalling hard into the chaos.
Siegbert Wengler was looking forward to finishing his shift, and stretching his legs. Perhaps he’d take a woman tonight. Only, not at Jette’s on Potsdamer Strasse; he had to make sure he didn’t fall into old habits while the killer was still at large. Thanks to his brother, he could afford one of Jette’s girls more or less whenever the fancy took him. Good food, good drink, a woman every now and then, it was more than most fifty-two-year-olds could manage in this city. More than most people his age could hope for from life.
Soon he’d be retiring. Perhaps he’d return home. The hardest thing would be the girls: there wouldn’t be too many places like Jette’s in Treuburg, or in Masuria – period. He’d have to head out to Königsberg, Danzig, even.
At last a man in blue uniform and white sleeves crossed the intersection. He couldn’t make out the face under the shako but, by the leather case, it had to be Scholz. Only a greenhorn would transport his sandwiches in a huge thing like that. Still, you needed your sandwiches up here, and a thermos full of coffee went a long way too. It could be draining work in the traffic tower.
The uniform cop had disappeared underneath the tower, his steps already audible on the ladder. Siegbert Wengler noted the change of shift, accurate to the minute, in the notebook that hung by a string from the control panel, packed his lunchbox and thermos, and stood, legs apart, ready to give that slowpoke Scholz the welcome he deserved. To his disappointment, it was a different face that emerged in the hatch door.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, in the tone he had reserved to read the greenhorn the riot act.
The uniformed officer put down his bag, stood up straight and saluted. ‘Beg to report: the relief. Standing in for Constable Scholz!’
‘Standing in? First I’ve heard of it.’
‘Constable Scholz sends his apologies. He was taken ill.’
Siegbert Wengler shook his head. So, Scholz was a malingerer too. ‘That doesn’t excuse your tardiness, Constable!’
‘Of course not, Sir. My apologies.’
‘Do you know your way round the control panel?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
Wengler leaned over the notebook to erase the name Scholz and replace it with that of his stand-in. ‘Name and rank?’ he barked.
Behind him there was no response, and suddenly Wengler realised what it was about this new colleague that had thrown him. The huge leather briefcase on the floor was Constable Scholz’s, no doubt about it. Still wondering what it could all mean, he felt the man embrace him from behind, and then a stabbing pain in his neck.
He tried to defend himself but the man was too strong, and when, finally, he was released, his legs gave way underneath him. He sank to the floor as if the strength had been drained from his body. He could barely move, his muscles refused to obey.
The uniform cop opened the large case, which really did belong to Scholz, and pulled out a red cloth. ‘Recognise me?’ he asked, unfolding the cloth and placing it over Wengler’s nose and mouth. Wengler tried to shake it off, but couldn’t move, he had no choice but to submit, as if paralysed. He couldn’t speak, his tongue felt alien in his mouth, like a wet rag. ‘You ought to. Because my face is the last thing you’ll ever see.’
Wengler gazed into the face, but it was no good, he couldn’t place it.
The face disappeared, and when it returned the man held a large bottle of water which he had apparently fetched from the case. Siegbert Wengler started to shake; those muscles, it seemed, functioned still.
Then came the water. At first all he felt was the cloth grow damp and clammy, but then the water penetrated the fabric, into his mouth and nose. It spread everywhere, into his jaws, deeper and deeper. He couldn’t breathe, it was everywhere. He lay motionless, unable to put up a fight. Only the muscles he had no control over seemed still to function: his heart pounded, reflexes stirred in his throat, he was choking; he tried to throw up, to spew out the water, but couldn’t. He thought he was drowning, no, he didn’t just think it, he knew, he was drowning. Now, at this very moment, as his whole body quivered in the throes of death, he had only seconds to live and didn’t know why.
Then the dripping wet towel was removed, and he could breathe again, despite feeling as if he had just died. Breathe, breathe, breathe, was all he could think of.
‘That’s how she felt too,’ the man said, ‘and I couldn’t save her. I want you to know how she died.’ Wengler stared at the dark, dripping wet cloth. ‘Remember now?’ his tormentor asked, replacing the dank cloth over his nose and mouth. ‘You ought to. You helped lock me up. Back in Marggrabowa.’
Siegbert Wengler felt the damp cold of the fabric on his skin, saw the man lift the bottle, and the thought of the water alone filled him with mortal terror. He’d have screamed in panic if he could, but the screams sounded only in his head, piercing as a siren. The eyes of the man glinted under the shako, as the bottle tilted, and then, just before it reached the cloth and drowned him a second time, he remembered. Siegbert Wengler knew why he must die.
49
Just another half-hour in Haus Vaterland. Never before had Charly so looked forward to finishing a shift; she could hardly wait. Any kind of police drudgery would be preferable to this. Just a few hours overtime… it had ruined her day, her whole weekend in fact. She had been hoping to rummage through Unger’s papers undisturbed, but Sundays were the busiest time.
At least she wasn’t peeling vegetables. A dishwasher had cancelled at short notice and they had been unable to find a replacement. She wasn’t sure why they had asked her, perhaps her onion peeling wasn’t up to scratch. She couldn’t say if she was any better at washing-up, but had suffered no breakages so far.
She observed Manfred Unger carefully. There was no sign that he’d been intimidated by the two goons from last night, and certainly not that he’d spied his new kitchen maid-cum-office assistant in the same dive. He treated her as he always did, with relative kindness, being less concerned with chiding her than he was the rest of his staff. So far, they hadn’t exchanged a word, though she felt his eyes on her the whole time. Whenever she turned around, he was looking at her through the glass window.
Washing dishes might have been kinder on her eyes, but it wasn’t a promotion, and she still had her work cut out. The machine had to be fed like a hungry wolf, and, when the dishes emerged, more often than not you had to wash half again by hand. Her apron was soaked through, and in some places the water had penetrated to the skin, where her clothes clung damp to her body.
She’d promised Greta that they’d head out to the Wannsee for a girls’ afternoon, a much-needed distraction after her perfunctory exchange with Gereon yesterday. A few hours in the afternoon sun, swimming and browsing a detective novel would be just the ticket. No doubt they’d have to fob off the advances of the odd man, but Greta was a past master, and the more puffed up, the better.
She felt as if she were being watched again, and squinted to the left, only to find that Unger was gone. The office was empty. Suddenly she heard his voice from the other side of the conveyor belt. ‘Fräulein Ritter, you’ve stood there long enough.’ She turned round and saw the head chef and a stick-thin boy clad in an apron. Unger pointed at the boy. ‘Franzeken here will relieve you.’