‘Perhaps she still is.’
‘Perhaps.’ Rammoser glanced at the table of dignitaries where Gustav Wengler now took centre stage; planets orbiting his sun. ‘How did you like the speech?’
‘Impressive.’ Rath couldn’t think of a more diplomatic response.
‘Many think Wengler should go into politics.’
‘If politics is about making yourself popular by telling people what they want to hear, there’s no doubt he’d be a success.’
‘The way it looks, he sets greater store by his distillery than his political career.’
‘At least that way he can’t do any damage.’
‘Folks here like what he says.’
‘So much the worse. Shouldn’t you be trying to make peace with Poland? They’re your neighbours.’
‘You’re preaching to the converted but, given Wengler’s story, his hatred is understandable.’
‘Maybe. I just find it pretty tasteless, the way he…’
‘Exploits his personal history for effect?’
‘Something like that,’ Rath agreed. ‘He infects the whole town with his hatred. I think it’s dangerous. It isn’t just the acclaim. It’s the people who acclaim him.’
‘You have to understand they’re afraid of being forgotten, over in the Reich.’
‘People rail against the Corridor in the Reich too. Only in Berlin, the Nazis aren’t part of the village community.’
‘Well, maybe that’s because Berlin’s no village.’
54
Constable Erwin Scholz lay on his sickbed, wan-faced, skin colour scarcely distinguishable from his bed linen, but he didn’t seem to have sustained lasting damage. That was something, at least.
Next step was to discover what had put the poor man out of commission, even if Gräf was certain the blood analysis would point to curare, or some other form of Indian poison. In the meantime he and Lange had become experts in all things South American, though they still hadn’t traced the source of the poison that had killed Lamkau and his fellow East Prussians. This despite the industrious Lange borrowing various academic texts to aid them in their inquiry. Perhaps the mysterious killer had cooked up the poison himself, a would-be Indian prowling noiselessly through Berlin murdering its citizens: a gruesome image.
Erwin Scholz knew nothing about that, but then he knew just as little about what had befallen him at Potsdamer Bahnhof, where a member of cleaning staff had found him slouched in the gentlemen’s toilets in the middle of the night.
‘His body was heavily sedated for hours, and his circulation still hasn’t returned to normal,’ the doctor had said. ‘You need to be patient with him.’
Sadly, patience was the one thing they couldn’t afford. The crazy Indian had struck again, and this time the victim was one of their own. As a result, Gennat had chosen to strengthen the Vaterland team’s reserves. Almost all homicide detectives were now at Böhm’s disposal with the exception of the Phantom troop, which had been left untouched. For whatever reason, Buddha seemed to dote on Dettmann.
Böhm wanted to recall Rath from East Prussia, but so far his efforts to reach him had proved in vain. Gräf could imagine why. Gereon had never been especially good at keeping Böhm in the loop. In fact, he was a past master at avoiding him, mostly because he couldn’t stand the man, but sometimes because he had a lead he didn’t want to share.
Well, yesterday he had shared – and, goddamn it, he had been right. Already the Berlin press had wind of it. A dead man in the middle of Potsdamer Platz couldn’t be kept secret. Too many people had witnessed the gridlock, and the murder wagon parked at the foot of the traffic tower.
The pale constable looked wretched, but this was no time for sympathy. Gräf took out his notepad, ready to begin. ‘How well did you know Sergeant Major Wengler?’
There was a shrug from the bed. ‘He was a colleague. Taught me how to use the controls.’
‘Is there much teaching involved?’
‘Not really. But you know how it is… the older generation aren’t always so good with technology. Knowing how to operate all the buttons and switches was a source of pride.’
‘Were you ever at Wengler’s home?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know where he lives?’
‘In Schöneberg, I think.’
‘He moved. A few weeks ago.’
‘Moved? Where?’
‘I was hoping he might have said something to you.’
Yesterday evening, Gräf had called at Wengler’s registered home address in Feurigstrasse with a team of forensic technicians. The landlady peered suspiciously through the crack in the door. No wonder. Gone nine, and here were five men whose rumpled suits and tired, sullen faces did not inspire confidence. They looked as if they’d spent most of the afternoon crawling on the floor, which, of course, they had.
‘Police? What do you want from me?’
‘From you, nothing. We’re here for one of your tenants. Siegbert Wengler. We need to take a look at his flat.’
‘You have the wrong address. He doesn’t live here any more.’
Siegbert Wengler had moved four weeks before, though no one knew where, neither the landlady, with whom he had lived for almost eight years, nor Wengler’s Traffic Police colleagues. He had no close friends on the force, at least none that Gräf had spoken to, including Constable Scholz.
‘Is it possible he felt threatened?’ Gräf asked. ‘Did he ever hint at something like that? I mean, was there a reason he lived such a secluded life?’
‘I’m sorry, Sir, but Sergeant Major Wengler wasn’t much of a talker. Do you have any idea who might’ve killed him?’
‘The way it looks, the same man who stole your uniform.’ The constable’s face grew paler still. Gräf showed him a sketch commissioned by Lange following a witness statement. It had come out pretty generic; the most eye-catching thing was the shako. ‘Could it have been this man? Perhaps you noticed him at the station beforehand? Someone behaving suspiciously?’
Constable Scholz gave the sketch a good look before shaking his head. ‘I don’t recognise the face.’
‘Pity. We could’ve been onto something there.’
Scholz gestured towards the shako. ‘The uniform he’s wearing is mine, I assume? I’d like to help, but I didn’t see the man. I felt him grip me from behind, there was a sting in my neck, and then everything went black.’
‘But you’re certain it was a man…’
‘Of course… You think a woman would be capable of overpowering me?’ Gräf said nothing. ‘In the men’s toilets, I’d have noticed a woman straightaway.’
‘Do you have any explanation as to why no one realised you’d been attacked?’
‘There was no one else around.’
‘In the station toilets?’
‘It’s where I always go before my shift starts. There are no washing facilities in the traffic tower, no toilet either. You have to plan ahead. No way you can work up there with a weak bladder.’
‘Plan ahead, understood.’ Gräf made a note. ‘And you always use the same washroom…’
Scholz nodded. ‘I take the Wannsee line to work. Seems only natural.’
‘Just so there are no misunderstandings. You use the same washroom facilities at Potsdamer Bahnhof every day?’
‘Yes, for God’s sake. Why’s it so important?’
‘We’ll see,’ Gräf said. He didn’t want to put the man under any more strain, but it looked as if this stranger had spent days, perhaps even weeks, waiting for the opportunity to steal his uniform and gain access to the traffic tower.