She glanced at the headline. What was now happening had been in the air since Sunday, when bloody exchanges between Communists and Nazis claimed sixteen lives. Gunfire had erupted on the streets of Altona, a provincial town in far away Holstein, after an SA troop in full regalia had marched through a Communist district. The Prussian Police had called for assistance from neighbouring Hamburg, and the national press had questioned whether the Prussian state government and police force still had the ball at their feet. There were calls for a Reich commissioner to be appointed so that the Social Democrat minority government led by that stubborn East Prussian Otto Braun might be deposed. In short: Prussia was to be co-governed by the Reich.
It was nothing less than a call to arms.
Reich Chancellor Franz von Papen, whose major political contribution to date had been the lifting of the SA ban, without which the exchanges in Altona would never have occurred, had travelled to Hindenburg’s East Prussian estate at Neudeck to persuade the aged president of the necessity of such a measure. Papen, who had no Reichstag majority and had been appointed chancellor by the grace of Hindenburg himself, had his heart set on becoming Reich commissioner for Prussia.
The move would signal the end of Prussian democracy, one of the few remaining bastions of democracy in Germany, which was precisely what this reactionary Franz von Papen, dreaming of the Kaiser’s return or a military dictatorship – no one was quite sure which – had in mind.
Böhm and Charly watched in silence as the captain and his men halted outside Grzesinski’s door and knocked, to be admitted by the commissioner’s secretary as if they were expected.
They made their way back to A Division in silence. At length, Böhm spoke. ‘So, Papen and his barons have been so bold.’
Charly was surprised. It was rare for the Bulldog to express his political views in police circles, but a line had been crossed. Suddenly politics were an indelible part of Castle life, and Böhm was deeply unhappy. ‘Do you think Prime Minister Braun’s already been deposed?’ she asked.
‘Otto Braun won’t go without a fight.’ Böhm opened the glass door to Homicide like a gentleman of the old school. ‘I can’t imagine that Grzesinski’s about to clear his desk either. As for Dr Weiss…’ Seeing a few colleagues standing in the corridor, he started whispering again. ‘With any luck, this farce will go the same way as the Kapp Putsch.’
Charly had run into Albert Grzesinski in the stairwell only this morning. Dressed in cutaway coat and top hat, he was scheduled to attend Superintendent Mercier’s funeral at three. Now, in his mourning dress, he was obliged to receive a Reichswehr captain. She’d have given anything to know what was playing out behind those doors.
There was still no news half an hour later when they took Dietrich Assmann back to the interview room. It looked as if Grzesinski was still in office. No doubt Böhm was right, and the whole thing would just fizzle out. There was no way the police commissioner and his deputy would relinquish their roles without a fight. She looked at the man sitting opposite.
‘This is Officer Ritter,’ Böhm said, and Assmann gazed curiously. ‘It was she who spoke with Director Wengler this morning. Your boss – and alibi.’
Assmann furrowed his brow. ‘And?’
‘To cut a long story short,’ Charly said, ‘Herr Wengler denies being with you yesterday evening. He claims to have last seen you on Sunday night.’
Dietrich Assmann was temporarily lost for words. ‘It’s a trick,’ he said finally. ‘You’re trying to pull the wool over my eyes.’
‘I’d be happy to provide a copy of his written statement.’ Böhm didn’t move as he spoke. It was as if a marble statue were moving its lips. ‘If you like, I can arrange a sit-down with Herr Wengler.’
‘I want a lawyer,’ Assmann said at length.
‘Should I have someone call Dr Schröder?’ Böhm asked. ‘I understand you’re one of his clients?’
‘Not any more.’
No wonder the man wanted to switch lawyers, Charly thought. Helmut Schröder was the Berlin solicitor representing Gustav Wengler.
69
Rath opened his eyes and stared into a set of fanged jaws. An animal skull. His mind whirred, but he couldn’t remember where he was. The skull, which might have been from a fox, lay on a rack beside his bed. He looked around the inside of a wooden hut, crudely assembled. Its walls were tree trunks grouted with loam and mostly covered in animal hides, which also served as bedside rugs.
He felt cold sweat on his skin but, now that his initial confusion was past, he realised he felt as rested as he had in a long time. It was as if, after months of wakefulness, he had finally been granted a decent night’s sleep.
Where the hell are you, Gereon Rath? And how did you get here?
He searched his memory but found only fragments of dark dreams.
The man with the beard; the hellhound; the elk.
What had happened to him?
Daylight filtered in through two small windows. Sunshine. He heard birds chirping outside, saw green branches. The hut contained a small table and lone chair. In a corner of the room was a hearth, its joists capped with a thick, sooty layer of loam. An opening had been left in the roof, through which the sun now shone. On a kind of grating metal pots and pans stood covered in soot.
Already he could guess who the cabin’s architect was, and looking at the wall opposite he felt his hunch confirmed. Though likewise crudely assembled, there was something here that didn’t quite match its surroundings. Rath was gazing at a bookshelf.
He had gained the Kaubuk’s hut.
His hand reached to the side where his holster normally lay. Gone. His Walther PP was gone too, along with his jacket, trousers, shoes and socks. He lay in his underwear, covered in a heavy, red-brown pelt that hadn’t lost its animal smell. The bed was lower than most. He pulled back the pelt and tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t obey and he collapsed in a heap.
His circulation seemed back to normal, but his legs felt like rubber hoses when he tried to stand. He summoned his strength and tried again, gripping a beam. All of a sudden he felt hunger, and an insatiable thirst. Would there be anything to eat or drink here?
Like a cripple he moved through the room hand over hand, finding water in a wooden pitcher, which he smelled and found to be good. He savoured the feeling of it running down his throat. His muscles grew accustomed to carrying him once more, but movement took more out of him than anticipated. He sat on a stool next to the window and looked at the shelf.
Many of the spines were familiar: novels by Karl May and a few volumes of Leatherstocking, perhaps the same editions he’d read as a child. But here they lined the shelves of a grown man, worn and thumbed. Alongside were a few new editions: Fritz Steuben’s Der fliegende Pfeil, Gabriel Ferry’s Waldläufer, a German translation of Mayne Reid’s The Scalp Hunters, as well as a range of non-fiction books with titles such as The Indians of North America and Life on the Prairie.
He stood and tried holding his weight without the support of his hands and, to some extent, it worked. There was no immediate danger of falling over. On a tin plate near the hearth was a small, bandy leg. Meat of some kind, but it was fried to a crisp, and he was hungry.
He reached for the haunch, or whatever it might be, and bit into it, tearing away as much as he could, and nibbling at it, teeth bared, until it was gone. His craving for meat made him feel like a predator. The taste was familiar, rabbit perhaps. Although, it hadn’t looked like rabbit – nor did the gnawed bone. He replaced it on the tin plate, which reminded him of the plates they had used during the war. Carefully, he moved to the door, taking a stick as a precaution.