‘You thought I shouldn’t see it until tomorrow morning?’ Böhm spoke quietly, but sounded no less threatening than before; quite the opposite, in fact.
‘I thought…’ Steinke broke off. He was starting to realise just how badly he had dropped the ball.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ Böhm continued, ‘is when I would have been back on duty. Were it not for the fatality.’
‘Which is precisely why I didn’t want to disturb you, Sir,’ Steinke stammered, falling silent when he saw Böhm’s face.
‘A fatality that might have been prevented had you relayed the message to me on time.’
‘But, Sir, I thought that since you were back on duty tomorrow…’
‘If that’s the case, then perhaps it’s best you don’t think at all!’ Böhm was shouting again.
The man cut a pitiful figure, but Charly could understand why Böhm had been so harsh. The DCI took the words out of her mouth: ‘If you had managed to relay the message to me, or any one of my team, there is every chance that Sergeant Wengler might still be alive. We might have been able to set a trap for his killer.’
Steinke slumped to his chair and gazed at the floor, as if hoping it would swallow him up. ‘I’m sorry, Sir,’ he said, almost inaudible.
The situation was becoming unbearable. Despite having treated her as though she didn’t exist, Charly felt an urge to comfort the man. Goddamn maternal instinct, she thought, there’s no way the bastard would be helping you in the same situation. She was glad when the door opened and Andreas Lange entered the embarrassed silence, gazing in confusion from one person to the next.
‘What are you doing here,’ Böhm growled. ‘Finished questioning witnesses already?’
‘Not yet, Sir. We have around two dozen uniform cops still out searching. We’ve had most success in Café Josty. The ringside seats, if you like.’
‘Go on.’
‘I think we can more or less reconstruct the sequence of events. It appears that the shift change occurred as normal, at around two o’clock…’
‘How do you know that?’
Lange held a black notebook aloft. ‘The traffic tower duty log,’ he said. ‘One of Sergeant Major Wengler’s final acts was to enter and sign the shift change at seven minutes past two. Constable Scholz’s signature is missing, despite his name being given under relieving officer. In Sergeant Major Wengler’s handwriting.’
‘Which means,’ Böhm said, ‘that Wengler wrote the name when he saw the relief approaching.’
‘But Scholz never signed,’ Charly said. ‘The question is, why?’
Lange nodded. ‘We have a witness in Josty who is certain a uniform cop entered the traffic tower at around two o’clock.’
‘At two?’ Böhm looked at his wristwatch. ‘And the man’s still there now, at nearly seven?’
‘We questioned him around half past five. He’s a writer or something. People like that spend half their lives in cafés. Anyway, the man was clearly watching closely.’
Böhm was sceptical. ‘He was, was he? Then tell us what he saw.’
‘He saw a traffic cop crossing the intersection shortly after two and climbing the ladder. Everything as normal, he says. Only he didn’t see anyone come down. At least not at two, in fact not until…’ Lange referred to his notebook. ‘…around twenty past three. A few minutes before the chorus of horns began on Stresemannstrasse.’
Böhm was still sceptical. ‘Does your witness have nothing better to do than spend the day staring at the traffic tower?’
‘He watches, and he writes, is what he told me. It looks like he watches very closely. According to his statement, the man who left the tower at twenty past three was the same man who entered at two.’
‘You’re saying this man wasn’t Constable Scholz?’
‘We’ll see. My witness is currently waiting on the sketch artist in Interview Room A.’
‘Good.’ Böhm nodded. ‘Let’s get a warrant out for this Scholz all the same. Something here doesn’t add up.’
‘You’re right there.’ Lange nodded. ‘There’s something else. Dr Karthaus is now assuming that Sergeant Major Wengler didn’t die until at least three…’
‘So late!’ Böhm was disbelieving. ‘That can’t be right.’
‘It could be,’ Charly said. The three men looked at her. ‘But it would mean that all the while Wengler was dying, his killer was up there directing traffic.’
52
The night shift was the worst. The urinals and toilet bowls looked as if every passenger at Potsdamer Bahnhof had availed of them – with varying degrees of accuracy – before boarding. It was as if the whole world had conspired against him, knowing it was his task to get this disgusting piss-soaked room clean again. He hated it, hated it. This was no job for a man, but what could he do? At times like these you were lucky to have work at all.
He wasn’t quite finished with the washroom, but wanted to take advantage of the urinals being free. He hated mopping while men peed at the wall, throwing him contemptuous glances if they deigned to look at all. He was about to get started again with his scrubber and bucket when a groan from a cubicle stopped him. No one had entered in the ten minutes or so since he’d begun.
There was another groan. A couple of queers? The thought revolted him. Maybe he should call the police and have Vice lock the dirty bastards up.
Now there was a crash. He crouched; a man was kneeling on the floor. It looked as if he were alone, which was something, at least.
‘Hello?’ he said tentatively. ‘Can I help?’ There was another groan. The man in the cubicle tried to stand up, but his legs gave way underneath him. ‘Hello? What’s the matter? Are you unwell?’ He gave the door a shake. Bolted, of course. ‘Please open up! Otherwise I can’t help you!’ The man could be having a heart attack – but how could he help if he couldn’t open the door?
The man tried to free the bolt but lacked the strength even for that. There was a helpless jerking sound; the slide must have snagged. Suddenly there was a loud scrape and the door swung open. The man collapsed forward, slamming against the floor tiles. He was clad in underwear and socks.
‘What’s wrong with you? Should I call the police?’
‘Bollisse,’ the man slurred. ‘I bollisse!’
‘What happened? Are you hurt?’
The man managed to prop himself up a little. He seemed pretty dazed, but it wasn’t drunkenness. It was almost as if something were paralysing his arm and leg muscles, perhaps even his tongue. He shook his head. ‘Not buurtt.’ With that, his arms gave way once more.
There was something on the floor of the cubicle, next to the toilet bowl. He went over and picked it up gingerly. A Berlin Police identification with a photo of the unconscious man, though here he smiled and wore a shako. Erwin Scholz, it said under the smile, Police Constable. Diagonally above was a stamp bearing the Prussian eagle.
53
In bygone times they’d have called it Kaiserwetter. The sky was almost indecently blue, the breeze gentle, and the air afizz with the excitement of special days. The town was in festive mood. Flags, pennants and garlands quivered on the fronts around the marketplace, the pavement glistened as after a fresh shower, and the flagpoles fluttered black, white and red, billowing like washing on the line.
Rath had been awakened by the brass band and rose late, having failed to set his alarm. He stood in his dressing gown, gazing out on Germany’s largest marketplace. The Treuburgers in their holiday finery lined the square, standing to attention as they listened to the patriotic songs and Prussian marches. A group of youths in brown shirts stood especially straight in their freshly ironed uniforms, resolved to show themselves at their best. Their swastika brassards gleamed as if fresh from the line.