‘I’d just met a British officer outside the Garrison Theatre next to the station, and sold him an oil painting. A piece of colourful kitsch, German pine trees, treetop view, you know the sort of thing. But he liked it. I was on the way home when I got caught up in your raid. It was pure chance.’
Stave made a note; MacDonald needed to look into it. ‘So on the evening of the twentieth of January you were looking for kitsch paintings and old pocket watches in the ruins off Lappenbergs Allee?’
‘You have to survive somehow. It was the first time I had been there. It’s a long way from the Elbe canal, but I hoped to find something that would make the trip worthwhile.’
‘And did you?’
‘Didn’t have time. As soon as I got there I saw this shadow move on a wall.’
‘Shadow?’
‘A shape. It was dusk already. I’d underestimated the distance and got there later than I intended. It wasn’t exactly a person I saw, more a movement. Do you know what I mean? Something threatening, glimpsed out of the corner of my eye. I hid behind a pile of rubble.’
‘Why?’
‘I was new to the area. I was looting. That’s reason enough, don’t you think?’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I waited for a bit until I thought there was no more sign of movement. Then I got to my feet, walked on and came across the naked corpse. You know the rest.’
‘Can you remember anything about this shape you saw? What it was wearing? Was it big, small, fat, thin? A man? A child?’
‘It wasn’t a child, that’s for sure. Not especially big, not tiny either. More like large and thin. At the time I thought it was a man. But it might also have been a woman. Whoever it was had a coat on.’
‘A wool overcoat? A man’s coat? A Wehrmacht greatcoat?’
‘A long, dark coat. Black or dark brown.’
‘Or dark blue?’
‘Possibly. There was a scarf around the face, or a headscarf. Or maybe even a cap with cloth wrapped around it.’
‘Do you remember anything else? Shoes for example? Hands? Was the person wearing gloves?’
‘I didn’t notice.’
‘Did you hear anything? Any sound at all?’
‘Sound?’
‘Like someone calling out or being beaten, cries for help. Perhaps muffled?’
Anna von Veckinhausen shook her head. ‘On the contrary, now that you mention it. It was quiet, unnaturally quiet. I think it was this weird silence that made me nervous. That was why I was scared, even though I could hardly see the figure.’
Stave closed his eyes and thought hard. Anna von Veckinhausen had arrived at the ruins relatively late. It was getting dark already, the light would have been bad, visibility poor. Perhaps that was the best time of day for looters, just light enough for a trained eye to spot something in the rubble, but dark enough for people not to notice you.’
She sees the murderer, at least in outline. Then she finds the body. She doesn’t report it to the police – maybe because she’s afraid to, like she said. Also because she doesn’t want to invite awkward questions that would reveal her to be a looter.
Stave believed her story. It all fitted together. If the shape she had seen was the murderer, then Anna von Veckinhausen must have happened along just after the crime had been committed. The old man was already dead, and probably had already been stripped. That meant it had still been daylight when the old man set out, maybe indeed crossing the ruins on the footpath. Or he had been killed somewhere else and carried there by the killer. But would the murderer try something like that before it was dark?’
‘Did this unknown figure see you?’
She hesitated, put her arm across her body again. ‘I had hidden quickly. I moved into cover, as a soldier would say. I had the impression that the figure did the same. But I can’t be sure.’
Shit, Stave thought. If that’s true, not only was Anna von Veckinhausen the only witness to the murder, but the murderer knew there had been a witness.
‘Anything else come back to you?’
She thought for a minute. ‘There was a smell in the air,’ she said eventually. ‘In this cold air, it doesn’t pay to breathe in too deeply, but even so I got the impression that there was a smell of tobacco in the ruins.’
‘The unknown figure was a smoker?’
‘Not necessarily, I mean, I didn’t see a cigarette, no glow, but there was just this smell of tobacco. And then it went away.’
A carton of cigarettes, Stave pondered. Maybe the old man had a load of cigarettes and that’s why he was killed. Maybe it was a mugging, for goods to sell on the black market.’
‘I’m going to type up your statement. If you would wait and read it through and then sign it for me, unless you have anything more to add or changes to make.’
She nodded, then said, hesitantly, ‘What about my looting? Will you have to mention that?’
Stave managed a smile. ‘I think we can just say you were walking along the path.’
He took her to the door and pointed to a seat in the anteroom, ignoring Erna Berg’s inquisitive look. Then he typed up the statement with one hand, pulled the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and read through the text. It wasn’t much, not the type of witness statement that could send someone to the gallows. But then the murderer didn’t know that.
She’s bait, Stave thought to himself, realising as he did that it weighed on his conscience. Nonetheless, he would ring the journalist and tell him this new development. No names, obviously. No details about her age, or where and what she had seen. Simply that the police had a witness. That would be enough to make the killer nervous. And then he might make a mistake.
He lifted the receiver and asked to be connected to the editorial section of Die Zeit. He asked the operator at the other end to put him through to Kleensch. There was a click on the line. Seconds ticked by. Hurry up, Stave thought.
Eventually Kleensch came to the phone.
‘There’s been a new development in the rubble murderer case.’
‘I see you’re not one for small talk, are you, Chief Inspector,’ the journalist said, laughing so loud that the line echoed.
But Stave could hear in his voice something that he wanted to hear: the call of the hunt. He could imagine the man reaching for his notebook and pencil, hungry for a news story.
‘We are now certain that there is just one killer. A witness saw a figure near one of the crime scenes. A figure in a long coat with its head covered. More details may follow.’
‘At which of the crime scenes was this?’
Stave hesitated. Would he be putting Anna von Veckinhausen in danger if he told him? On the other hand, there was always the possibility that the killer would return to the scene of the crime to eradicate any traces. Hardly a good idea, but sometimes murderers did so. He didn’t have enough men to have all three crime scenes watched, but he could manage one.
‘The ruins near Lappenbergs Allee. Where the old man was found.’
‘So who is your mysterious witness?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t release any further details.’
‘I understand.’ Silence, save for the crackling of the telephone line.
Was there somebody else on the line, Stave suddenly wondered. Then he pulled himself together. Nonsense.
‘I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you for now.’
‘Can I rely on you to keep me posted?’
‘Yes.’
Stave put the receiver down. Let’s wait and see what happens, he thought. Then he looked up at the closed door to his office, and called Anna von Veckinhausen in. His only witness. His bait.
She read through the statement carefully, the corner of her lip twitching once or twice.
‘You’re not exactly a poet, but it’s surprisingly good prose for a policeman.’
‘The public prosecutor says the same thing,’ Stave grumbled. ‘Do you recognise your own words?’
Her answer was a fluid signature at the bottom of the page, followed by the date.
‘Can I go now?’ she asked.