The Silent Death Read online

  Praise for Volker Kutscher

  ‘Gripping evocative thriller set in Berlin’s seedy underworld during the roaring Twenties. A massive hit in its native Germany, Volker Kutscher’s series, centered on Detective Inspector Gereon Rath, is currently being filmed for television.’

  The Mail on Sunday

  ‘Kutscher successfully conjures up the dangerous decadence of the Weimar years, with blood on the Berlin streets and the Nazis lurking menacingly in the wings.’

  The Sunday Times

  ‘Babylon Berlin is a stunning novel that superbly evokes Twenties Germany in its seedy splendor. An impressive new crime series.’

  Sarah Ward, author of In Bitter Chill

  ‘Gripping, skilfully plotted and rich in historical detail, Babylon Berlin introduces us to Detective Inspector Gereon Rath, who navigates the turbulent waters of Weimar Germany in a suspenseful and noirish tale. The novel is hopefully the first of many to be translated from this best-selling German crime series.’

  Mrs Peabody Investigates

  ‘The best German crime novel of the year!’

  Bücher

  ‘Kutscher’s undertaking to portray the downfall of the Weimar Republic through the medium of detective fiction is both ambitious and utterly convincing. Let’s hope it receives the attention it deserves.’

  Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung

  ‘With his detective novel Babylon Berlin, Volker Kutscher has succeeded in creating an opulent portrait of manners.’

  Der Spiegel

  ‘Has all the allure of an addictive drug: you won’t be able to put it down until you’ve read to the end.’

  Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung

  ‘A highly readable piece of crime fiction set against a politico-historical background.’

  Österreichischer Rundfunk

  Volker Kutscher was born in 1962. He studied German, Philosophy and History, and worked as a newspaper editor prior to writing his first detective novel. Babylon Berlin, the start of an award-winning series of novels to feature Gereon Rath and his exploits in late Weimar Republic Berlin, was an instant hit in Germany. A lavish television production has been commissioned and is due to air in the UK on Sky Atlantic. Since then, a further four titles have appeared, most recently Märzgefallene in 2014. The series was awarded the Berlin Krimi-Fuchs Crime Writers Prize in 2011 and has sold over one million copies worldwide. Volker Kutscher works as a full-time author and lives in Cologne.

  Niall Sellar was born in Edinburgh in 1984. He studied German and Translation Studies in Dublin, Konstanz and Edinburgh, and has worked variously as a translator, teacher and reader. Alongside his translation work, he currently teaches Modern Foreign Languages in Harrow. He lives in London.

  Also available from Sandstone Press

  Babylon Berlin (Der nasse Fisch)

  Other titles in the Gereon Rath series

  Goldstein (Goldstein)

  The Fatherland File (Die Akte Vaterland)

  The March Fallen (Märzgefallene)

  Lunapark (Lunapark)

  First published in Great Britain by

  Sandstone Press Ltd

  Dochcarty Road

  Dingwall

  Ross-shire

  IV15 9UG

  Scotland.

  www.sandstonepress.com

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  First published in the German language as “Der stumme Tod” by Volker Kutscher

  © 2009, 2010 Verlag Kiepenheuer & Witsch GmbH & Co.

  KG, Cologne/ Germany

  © 2009, Volker Kutscher

  The right of Volker Kutscher to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  Translation © Niall Sellar 2017

  English language editor: Robert Davidson

  The publisher acknowledges support from Creative Scotland towards publication of this volume.

  The translation of this work was supported by a grant from the Goethe Institut which is funded by the German Ministry of Foreign Affairs.

  Sandstone Press [Ltd] acknowledges financial assistance from XPONorth (Writing & Publishing) in the publication of this book.

  www.xponorth.co.uk

  ISBN: 978-1-910985-64-9

  ISBNe: 978-1-910985-65-6

  Cover design by Mark Swan

  Ebook compilation by Iolaire Typography Ltd.

  Contents

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  1

  Friday 28th February 1930

  The beam of light dances through the darkness, more reckless and wild than usual, it seems. Until the flickering subsides and takes form in the gentle outline of a face, sketched on the screen by light alone.

  Her face.

  Her eyes that open.

  And gaze at him.

  Sculpted in light for eternity, preserved from death for ever and all time. Whenever and as often as he desires, he can project her into this dark room, into this dark life. A life whose wretched darkness only one thing can illuminate: a dancing beam of light on the screen.

  He sees her pupils dilate. Sees because he knows precisely what she is feeling. Something that is foreign to her and so familiar to him. He feels so close to her. Almost like in that moment captured there forever on celluloid.

  She looks at him and understands, or believes she understands.

  Her hands grip her throat, as if fearing she will choke.

  She doesn’t feel any great pain, merely notes that something is different.

  That something is missing.

  Her voice.

  That unbearable false voice which doesn’t belong to her. He has freed her from the voice which suddenly took possession of her like a strange, wicked power.

  She tries to say something.

  Her eyes display more surprise than horror, she doesn’t understand that he loves her, that he has only acted out of love for her, for her true angelic nature.

  But it’s not about her understanding.

  She opens her mouth and it’s just like before. At last he hears it again, her own voice has returned! Her true voice, which is eternal and cannot be taken away by anyone, which stands outside of time and has nothing of the present day’s dirt and vulgarity.

  The voice that enchanted him when he heard it for the first time. The way it spoke to him, to him alone, despite the many others sitti
ng alongside.

  He can scarcely bear how she is looking at him. She has gazed out over the edge, has seen everything, not long now and she will lose her balance.

  The moment she goes to ground.

  Her gaze, which is suddenly so different.

  The premonition of death in her eyes.

  The knowledge that she will die.

  That she will die now.

  No going back.

  Death.

  Has come.

  To her eyes.

  2

  The man in the tuxedo smiled calmly at the woman in green silk, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of cognac. His eyelids didn’t so much as flutter as she came to a halt just centimetres in front of him.

  ‘Did I hear you right?’ she hissed, shaking and breathing heavily.

  He took a sip of cognac and smirked. ‘Looking at those delightful ears, I can hardly imagine them hearing wrong!’

  ‘You really think you can treat me like that?’

  He seemed to enjoy her anger; the angrier she became, the more insolent his smirk. He paused as if giving the question serious thought. ‘Yes, actually. If I’m not mistaken, that’s exactly how you let Herr von Kessler treat you. Well, isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s any of your concern, my dear Count Thorwald!’

  He watched with amusement as she placed her hands on her hips. There was a flash of lightning from outside the window.

  ‘That’s not an answer,’ he said, gazing into his cognac.

  ‘Well then, how’s this?’

  She’d raised her hand before even finishing the sentence. He closed his eyes in anticipation of a resounding slap that never arrived. A loud shout, which seemed to come from another world, was enough to freeze all their movements with instant effect.

  ‘Cu-u-ut!’

  For a fraction of a second, they were both so rooted to the spot that it might have been a photograph. Then she lowered her hand, he opened his eyes, and together they turned their heads and gazed into the darkness, to where the parquet on which they were standing gave way to a dirty concrete floor. Squinting into the wall of light, she could just discern the outline of a folding chair and the man who had shut everything down with a single syllable. He now hung his headphones over the chair and stepped into the light, a wiry-looking fellow, tie loosely knotted and shirtsleeves rolled up. His speaking voice was velvety soft.

  ‘You were facing the wrong way, Betty, my angel,’ he said. ‘The microphones didn’t catch you.’

  ‘The microphones, the microphones! I can’t listen to it any longer, Jo! This has nothing to do with film.’ A quick sidelong glance at the sound engineer was enough to make the man pushing the buttons go red with embarrassment. ‘Film,’ she continued, ‘film is light and shadow, surely I don’t have to explain that to the great Josef Dressler! My face on celluloid, Jo! My appeal isn’t based on…microphones!’

  She stressed the last word so that it sounded like a newly discovered and particularly revolting species of insect.

  Dressler took a deep breath before answering. ‘I know you haven’t required your voice before, Betty,’ he said, ‘but that was the past. Your future begins with this film, and the future talks!’

  ‘Nonsense! There are lots of people who haven’t taken leave of their senses still shooting real films without microphones. Do you think the great Chaplin is wrong? Who’s to say sound films aren’t just a fashion everyone’s trying to keep up with, only to be forgotten when something else comes along?’

  Dressler looked at her in astonishment, as if someone else had been speaking. ‘Me,’ he said. ‘All of us. You as well. Talkies are made for you, just as you are made for talkies. Sound films are going to make you huge. All you have to do is remember to speak in the right direction.’

  ‘Remember? It’s not about memory! When I play a role, I need to live it!’

  ‘Then live your role, but make sure you speak in Victor’s direction – and don’t raise your hand until you’ve finished your line.’

  Betty nodded.

  ‘One more thing. You only need to tap him. You’re not supposed to hear the slap, just the thunder.’

  Everyone on set laughed, Betty included. The trouble had blown over, and the atmosphere was relaxed again. Only Jo Dressler could do that, and Betty loved him for it.

  ‘Starting positions, let’s take it from the top!’

  The director returned to his place and put his headphones back on. Betty resumed her position by the door, while Victor remained by the fireplace and reset his expression. As activity continued noisily behind the scenes, Betty concentrated on her part. She was a hotel employee, grappling with the consequences of pretending to be a millionaire’s daughter for the sake of her boss, and outraged at the insinuations this conman was making. This conman whom she would still kiss at the end of the scene – and who, far from being an arrogant trickster, would turn out to be modesty incarnate.

  Sound and camera came back on, and the studio fell quiet as a church.

  The clapperboard cut the silence.

  ‘Liebesgewitter, scene fifty-three, take two!’

  ‘And, action,’ she heard Dressler say.

  Victor said his piece, and she worked herself into her film rage. She knew exactly where the camera was, as she always did, but acted as if there were no glass eye capturing her every movement.

  She assumed her position by the fireplace and laid into Victor. A heavy microphone was hanging over his head, which she ignored, just as she ignored the cameras. She just had to speak to Victor. It was quite simple, Jo was right, and she knew she was good. As long as Victor didn’t fluff his lines, which was always a possibility, they’d soon have the scene in the can. She registered the lightning; which had come at the right time, and let herself be carried by her own rhythm. She counted slowly backwards and uttered the scene’s final words.

  ‘Well then, how’s this?’

  Now . . .but she had hit him too hard! Well, Victor would live. It would make their quarrel seem all the more realistic.

  Only now did she realise something wasn’t right.

  There was no thunder.

  Just a high-pitched, metallic noise, a soft pling. A small metal part must have fallen to the floor behind her.

  She closed her eyes. No, please no! Not some stupid technical hitch! Not when she had been so good!

  ‘Shit,’ said Dressler. ‘Cu-ut!’

  Although her eyes were closed she noticed the lighting change. Then it seemed a giant hammer struck her on the shoulder, the upper arm, the neck, with irresistible force, and when she opened her eyes again she found herself on the floor. What had happened? She heard a crack and sensed it had come from her body. She must have broken something. The pain gripped her so suddenly, so brutally, that for a moment everything went black. Above her she saw the cloths and steel trusses on the roof of the studio, and Victor’s horrified face staring at her before disappearing from her field of vision.

  She tried to get up but couldn’t; something was burning her face, burning her hair, the whole of her left side. It was unbearable, but she couldn’t even turn her head. Something was pressing her to the floor, scalding her. She tried to escape the pain, but her legs wouldn’t obey, they wouldn’t move any more, no part of her body would. Like an army of mutineers, it refused every command. She smelt singed hair and scorched skin, heard someone screaming. It must be her own voice, and yet it seemed as if it was someone else, as if it couldn’t be her. Whoever was screaming and writhing and refusing to move was no longer a part of her, but a separate entity that could do nothing now but scream, scream, scream.

  Victor’s face returned, not smirking anymore, but grimacing, eyes wide open and staring at her. His mouth was strangely distorted, not the face of his screen heroes, but resolute nonetheless. Only when she saw the water heading towards her, a shapeless jellyfish that seemed to hang forever in the air before reaching her, only then, in that endless moment, did she realise
what he was doing and that this would be the last thing she ever saw.

  Then there was only a glistening light that enveloped her completely. No, more than that: she herself was light, for a fraction of a second she was part of a luminosity never before experienced. Never before had she seen so clearly, and yet in the same moment she knew it was precisely this luminosity that would plunge her into darkness, irretrievably and for ever.

  3

  Sch. defended herself stoutly. Nevertheless, ‘Baumgart’ forced her onto her back and tried to pull down her breeches. In response to her threat that she would scream if he didn’t let her alone, ‘Baumgart’ sneered that she could scream all she liked, no one would hear. In the ensuing struggle, Sch. said she would rather die than bend to his will, to which ‘Baumgart’ replied: ‘Then you shall die . . .’

  ‘Would the gentleman like anything else?’

  ‘Then you shall die,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Pardon me?’

  Rath looked up from his journal at a waiter standing at his table, a tray of dirty crockery in one hand. ‘Forget it,’ Rath said. ‘It’s not important.’

  ‘Can I bring you anything else, Sir?’

  ‘Not at the moment, thank you. I’m waiting for someone.’

  ‘Very good.’ The waiter cleared Rath’s empty coffee cup from the table and moved off, a penguin in a huff, balancing his tray through the rows of chairs.

  The café was slowly filling up. Soon he would have to defend the free chair on his table. She was unusually late. Hadn’t she understood what this was about? Or had she understood and decided to stay away as a result?