Wengler might have something similar in mind now. Perhaps Schröder would pay him a visit tomorrow with an offer. Time would tell, but the figure would need to be substantial. Assmann knew the locations of all the moonshine stills, knew the men who worked in them, the transport routes and more. More than Lamkau had ever known, and information like that had to be worth something.
Requesting his own lawyer couldn’t hurt. He might even get more out of it. Since ’24 business had grown exponentially. He wouldn’t let himself be fobbed off like those two stiffs. He’d ask for more than Lamkau, and could do so with a clear conscience.
He couldn’t help remembering the last thing the brawny inspector had said before returning him to his stinking cell. ‘You should be mindful, Herr Assmann, that the murders of your former colleagues are linked to moonshining. If you’re in any way involved, it’s best you let us know. That way we can protect you. You could be next.’
The man had no idea. He’d washed his hands of old lady Radlewski’s death back in ’24, just like Gustav Wengler, which was how he’d been able to take on the role of manager. He was in about as much danger as Wengler himself.
Despite the darkness sleep refused to come. Perhaps that was part of prison life. You had all the time in the world, you just couldn’t use it, not even for sleeping.
In the pitch black everything seemed impossibly loud; every door that slammed, every squeak, cough, slurp, sob, whine and snore. The jerky melody of church bells penetrated the gloom of his cell.
Üb immer Treue und Redlichkeit. Always practise Truth and Honesty.
Despite his infinite fatigue, sleep continued to elude him, and darkness deadened his sense of time. Suddenly, there was movement and a light came on in the corridor outside.
He heard steps, then saw two men halt outside his cell, a uniformed guard and a plain-clothes officer in a rumpled suit. The guard jangled a set of keys. ‘Here’s your man,’ he said, pointing to the cell.
A loud echo came back from the bare walls as the key rattled in the lock. ‘You’ve got company,’ the guard said.
Assmann sat up. ‘I thought it was lights out.’
‘Take it up with reception in the morning. If CID want to see you, it’s lights on.’
‘CID?’
‘I’m sorry to disturb your sleep, Herr Assmann, but there are a few things I’d like to get straight,’ the plain-clothes man said, stepping inside. Assmann sat up when he showed his badge, suddenly wide awake, and nervous. What did they want from him now?
The guard locked the cell door from the outside. ‘Inspector, Sir!’
‘I’ll call when I’m done.’ The inspector sat next to Assmann on the plank bed.
‘What do you want from me? Don’t you think your colleagues upstairs have done enough?’
‘That was the day shift,’ the man said. ‘I’m nights.’
So they were working him over in shifts now? Fucking cops. ‘Can I smoke?’
‘Feel free.’ The cop made an inviting gesture with his hand. Assmann fingered the last cigarette out of his case, the one he had been saving for the morning. The inspector said nothing.
Night shift! They could question him until they were blue in the face. Dietrich Assmann wouldn’t say a thing until he knew where he stood. Once he’d spoken with his lawyer, and Gustav Wengler.
All of a sudden it was pitch black as before. The embers of the cigarette shone like a glow-worm and threw reddish light on this strange inspector who still hadn’t asked a question. Was he trying to intimidate him with silence? Assmann shook his head and took a long drag, knowing it was his one cigarette for the night. Looking to the side, he was surprised to see that the face of the man, who moments before had sat beside him on the plank bed, was gone.
73
It smelled of damp grass. A chill on the skin.
Letters carved in stone.
In the wan light a snail that appeared almost black.
Rath looked up at a gravestone.
For a moment he thought he was in a nightmare, but the ache in his neck told him it was real.
The gravestone bore a different name than his own.
Gefr. Szudarsky, Res. Inf. R 49.
He was familiar with such abbreviations. The 49th Reserve Infantry Regiment. A dead private who had fought for Kaiser and Fatherland in ’14.
He looked around. More graves, arranged in file. Even in death the Prussians kept to march formation. Moonlight shone on the stones.
Suddenly, he knew where he was: the military cemetery near Markowsken.
He read more names. All had died in the same year, 1914. Many sounded Polish, but it wasn’t just Prussian war graves, Russian soldiers were buried here too – some of whom also had Polish-sounding names.
The Masurians had given their lives for Prussia and the Kaiser; the Masovians for Russian-Poland and the Tsar.
What a difference a simple border made, but then again perhaps not. Everyone here was dead, irrespective of which side they had fought on.
Standing up he was obliged to support himself on Prussian Private Szudarsky’s grave. Radlewski must have doped him. He could vaguely remember stumbling through the forest, more or less out of his mind, urged on by the Kaubuk and his dog. After a while he felt the strength in his legs begin to return.
He looked down at himself. His grey suit was for the garbage. He felt his left side, detecting his shoulder holster and service pistol. Even his wallet was there. He looked inside: not a penny missing, identification present and correct. Artur Radlewski and his accursed moor had spat him out just as they had found him. The only thing he didn’t have was cigarettes.
He made for the road. It was seven or eight kilometres to Treuburg if he went right via Krupinnen, but he had a different destination in mind, and bore left instead. The moon lit the way. Gazing above him he knew he must have been gone longer than a night or two, much longer in fact. The crescent moon that had looked on as he lay dying was already on the wane.
The spire of the village church rose dark and forbidding in the night sky. He walked the final metres to the main road, hoping not to meet anyone, his suit utterly soiled, his hair matted and, feeling his chin and cheeks, he knew that a shave was long overdue. A light was on in the schoolhouse. He knocked and, at length, Karl Rammoser opened the door.
The teacher’s eyes opened wide at the sight of him. Perhaps he took him for the Kaubuk. ‘Inspector,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here so late? I thought you’d returned to Berlin long ago.’
‘Can I come in? I’ll tell you everything.’
‘Of course.’
On the dining table in the teacher’s apartment stood a bottle of homebrew and a glass, alongside an open book. Rammoser fetched a second glass from the cupboard. ‘Drink? You look as if you could use one.’
‘Do you think I could have a cigarette too? I need the nicotine more.’ Rath looked around. ‘Where’s your housekeeper?’
‘Erna? Finished for the night.’
The wall clock showed just before midnight.
‘What day is it today?’
‘Wednesday.’
‘I mean, what’s the date?’
‘20th July. Do you need the year too?’ Rath shook his head. He had been missing for over a week. Why hadn’t anyone come looking for him? Rammoser gave him a cigarette and a light. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Inspector, but you look appalling.’
‘Thank you very much.’ Rath took a deep drag and felt the nicotine course through his veins. At last. ‘How about you? Where have you been?’ He gestured towards the teacher’s black suit. Rammoser had loosened his tie.
‘You really don’t know?’ Rammoser furrowed his brow.