The Silent Death Page 4

  ‘Was it an accident or murder?’

  ‘Who has Betty Winter on their conscience?’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Rath said, ‘thank you for your understanding. We will inform you of any developments in good time.’

  ‘Do you mean during the press conference?’ asked one as he was pushed through the door. There was a final flash of light, blinding Rath for a moment, before the steel door closed and the commotion passed.

  ‘How did they get in?’ Rath asked. ‘I thought the door was being watched.’

  ‘It is,’ Gräf said. ‘They must have come through a back entrance.’

  ‘Well, why is there no one there?’

  Bellmann poked his nose in. ‘Pardon me, Inspector. Your colleagues were unaware of the back entrance. I forgot to point it out.’

  ‘Then how did the journalists know? Come to think of it, how did they know anything at all?’

  ‘You can’t keep stories like this under wraps,’ Bellmann said. ‘That’s why I called a press conference next door. I would be delighted if you and your colleagues would particip . . .’

  Rath couldn’t believe it. ‘A woman has died here, and all you can think of is getting into the papers?’

  ‘Do you mind, Inspector? Do you have any idea what has just happened? The great Betty Winter is dead! Her public has a right to know.’

  Rath looked the producer in the eye. ‘If you ever pull anything like this again, I will make a world of trouble for you, my friend!’

  ‘How and whether I choose to inform the press on my premises is up to me.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Rath smiled, ‘and whether I choose to make trouble for you or not is up to me!’

  5

  He calls the waiter and orders another Eiswein. He needs more wine. Really, he should have started eating long ago. His body is crying out for sugar.

  ‘Would the gentleman like to see the menu now?’

  ‘Give me another minute,’ he says, even if he suspects he’ll be on his own today. She’s more than an hour late.

  He doesn’t know why she’s stood him up, but he’s sure it must be something important. She wouldn’t just leave him in the lurch. He knows by now she’s swallowed the bait. No reason to change his plans, she’ll be there for filming tomorrow.

  Where has the waiter got to? He must have more wine!

  Will he ever get used to the fact that sugar can save his life?

  You’ll get used to it.

  Mother’s smile.

  You’ll have to.

  He gazes at the wine glass in disbelief. May I?

  You must.

  I must.

  He takes a careful sip and tastes the sweetness, feels it running down his throat.

  Eiswein. Sweet Eiswein.

  A dream he has dreamed for years becomes reality. He and his mother are sitting in the restaurant in honour of the occasion. The first jab. The first time he has administered it himself after days at the clinic. After all those attempts with insulin.

  Alive again. After all those years waiting for death.

  His second birth.

  The waiters arrive and place the crystal glasses on the white tablecloth.

  Mother’s smile. Eat, my child.

  He cannot eat, the tears are flowing. He sobs uncontrollably, sees her dismay through the veil of tears.

  She strokes his hand but he pulls away. He cannot bear her touch. He is wary of her love. He doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t believe it is real.

  It’s over now. I’ll make it up to you. Everything. You’re still my boy.

  He dries his tears, takes the fork and bites carefully. His tongue tastes fresh crab, dill, the sweetness of tomatoes. The sweetness overwhelms him, flows through his body.

  Mother smiles, and picks at her food without eating. She just smiles and picks and stares at him, as he lifts the second forkful to his mouth and then the third. She shouldn’t stare at him. He isn’t a funfair sensation, an elephant man, a monster, a natural wonder.

  You’ll be able to live like everyone else. Live with other people.

  Finally, she, too, takes a bite.

  They eat in silence and a waiter refills their glasses. She dabs her mouth with the serviette and raises her glass. To life!

  To life.

  They drink Eiswein, sweet Eiswein.

  What will you do now?

  I’ll study.

  That’s good.

  Study medicine.

  Again she tries to grasp his hand, but breaks off before contact, withdraws once more. Sadness in her eyes. My boy, my darling boy!

  The waiters arrive with the next course, removing the silver covers from the plates at the same time.

  He still can’t believe it. His first proper meal. His first proper meal after years of starvation.

  It’s over. Everything will be all right.

  He really believed that.

  Back then.

  He was wrong. So wrong.

  He glances at the time. No, she won’t be coming. He shouldn’t hold it against her, can’t hold it against her. It’s the price he pays for their secret meetings. If something crops up, she has no way of letting him know. It doesn’t really matter.

  What matters is that no one learns of their plans.

  What matters is that she is there for filming tomorrow.

  What matters is that her destiny be fulfilled.

  At last, the waiter brings the wine.

  6

  With little traffic on Berliner Strasse at this hour Rath put his foot down and flogged the Buick over the wet asphalt through Tempelhof and towards the north. Gräf was sitting in the passenger’s seat, discreetly holding onto the door handle, probably regretting not having gone with Plisch and Plum.

  Under different circumstances Rath might have shown more consideration, but not now. The speed soothed him and, besides, what the hell were sports cars for anyway?

  ‘Gereon, I’m in no rush.’

  ‘A car like this needs to be driven properly once in a while.’

  ‘I’m just as mad about that arsehole as you are, but that’s no reason to take your anger out on the gas pedal.’

  Rath did in fact use the brake – the lights on Flughafenstrasse were showing red. ‘He loses his lead actress and straightaway smells a business opportunity, and then all that affected grief! I’d like nothing better than to lock him up.’

  They had taken part in Bellmann’s press conference to keep things under control, answering questions about the actress’s death as evasively as possible, and keeping an eye on the producer. The reporters had made no secret of the fact that they were still angry at police for turfing them out of the studio, which made them doubly attentive to Bellmann. The film producer, who had served them coffee and biscuits, gave an unbearably unctuous speech about the great Betty Winter’s incomparable dramatic art, and how her desperately premature death had deprived German cinema of one of its biggest and brightest talents.

  ‘We will do our utmost to ensure that Liebesgewitter reaches cinemas, even if only as a fragment,’ he concluded, with a moist glint to his eyes. ‘We owe it to the great Betty Winter, and please feel free to write that. This film is her legacy. It shows what kind of future German sound films might have had, if . . .’

  When he broke off mid-sentence and turned away from journalists, a handkerchief to his eyes, Rath would have liked nothing better than to shout Bullshit. What a farce! Rath wouldn’t allow these film types to take him for another ride, that much he had sworn to himself.

  The lights changed to green and the Buick’s wheels spun for a moment before the car shot forward.

  ‘What an arsehole!’

  ‘Bellmann is an arsehole, no doubt about it,’ Gräf said, reaching for security again, ‘but that isn’t a crime. Nor is being business-savvy. We can’t lock people up for attempting to make capital out of someone’s death.’

  ‘Unless they’ve helped cause it.’

  ‘Deliberately helped cause it. The way I see
it, there are two poor wretches who have that woman on their conscience: Glaser and Meisner. A regrettable chain of unhappy circumstances. One of them has broken down and the other has fled out of guilt. Even if it was the electric shock that killed her, the person really responsible for Betty Winter’s death is the lighting technician, and he must realise that too. You can’t help feeling sorry for the guy.’

  ‘He fled the scene. That makes him a suspect.’

  ‘He’s suddenly confronted with the fact that he’s got someone’s death on his conscience,’ Gräf said. ‘Not everyone can take that. Could you?’

  Rath stared at the road ahead. A taxi pulled out in front of him, and he took his foot off the gas. The further north they went, the heavier the traffic. Time to slow down.

  ‘Fancy a beer in the Nasse Dreieck?’ Gräf asked as they turned onto Skalitzer Strasse at Hallesches Tor.

  ‘Not today. But I can drop you off if you like.’

  ‘I’m not about to start drinking on my own just yet,’ Gräf said. ‘Take me home.’

  The detective lived in a furnished room at Schlesisches Tor. No great detour for Rath, who gave Gräf a brief tip of the hat before heading back to Luisenufer. As he crossed the rear courtyard, he realised there was a light on in his first-floor flat.

  He had barely thought about Kathi in the last few hours, but now saw her red coat in the rear-view mirror again and recalled the wait in the café. He paused outside the door before opening it, and took a deep breath as if preparing for a lengthy dive.

  There was a second coat on the stand next to Kathi’s, a dark gentleman’s coat. Music blared from the living room, muffled by the closed door. It was one of Kathi’s awful pop records. Normally he could prevent her from putting that sort of thing on. Except when she was alone, of course.

  Only she wasn’t alone. Loud laughter came from the living room, Kathi’s silly giggling accompanied by a deep bass. Who the hell had she dragged back to the flat?

  Rath kept his hat and coat on, mentally raised his fists and opened the door. She had achieved at least one thing: he was in the right mood to turf her out – but the sight of her guest took his anger in a completely different direction.

  Kathi had her back to him, still laughing. Opposite her sat an older gentleman with a neat white moustache, raising a glass of cognac, a man whom he hadn’t seen for the best part of a year, and who now looked up in surprise and beamed at him expectantly.

  ‘Gereon,’ the white-haired man said, ‘there you are at last!’

  Rath didn’t respond, but turned off the record player.

  ‘Gereon,’ Kathi said, nothing more. She would have a guilty conscience. Usually, he didn’t let her near the record player.

  He still said nothing, first putting on a new record, Big Boy, with Beiderbecke on the cornet, a present from his brother, Severin. After the first few beats, he turned it up.

  Right away Kathi sensed there was trouble brewing. ‘I’ll take care of the washing-up,’ she said, and disappeared into the kitchen like the perfect housewife.

  Rath waited until the living room door had clicked shut before sitting in her still-warm chair. He gazed at the white-haired man.

  ‘Evening, Papa,’ he said. ‘Make yourself at home, why don’t you?’

  Engelbert Rath cleared his throat before speaking. ‘Can we turn the music down a little?’ he said. ‘It’s impossible to hold a conversation with that racket!’

  ‘It’s how I relax after work.’

  Engelbert Rath stood up. It took a moment for him to find the right button and turn the volume so low that the sound of running water could be heard from the kitchen. His gaze alighted on the record collection on the lower shelf and he shook his head. ‘Still listening to that Negro music?’ he asked.

  ‘Have you come all this way to ask me that?’

  ‘Records from America?’

  ‘Do you really want to talk about America?’

  Engelbert Rath didn’t take the bait. ‘You have a new case, Fräulein Preußner said?’

  The waiter in Uhlandeck must have told her. ‘A dead actress,’ Rath said, ‘in a film studio.’

  ‘Shame you can’t be there in Düsseldorf.’ Engelbert Rath rummaged in his brown briefcase. ‘Your mother sends her love. She gave me something for you. Here . . .’ He produced an item decorated with colourful ribbons and bound in wrapping paper. ‘Your birthday present.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Rath said, placing the package to one side. ‘It’s still a few days away.’

  ‘Your mother thought I might as well bring it. It’s safer than by post.’

  ‘So you’re not coming to visit me?’

  Engelbert Rath shrugged. ‘Your mother would have liked to come, but you know how she is. She won’t take the train on her own.’ He cleared his throat. ‘And I . . .well, on Ash Wednesday of all days it’s impossible to get away from Cologne. There’s the reception in the town hall after early morning mass, and the fish meal in the casino that evening is something I really can’t . . .’

  ‘You don’t have to give me your entire schedule.’

  Engelbert Rath gestured towards the package and reclaimed his place on the sofa. ‘At least you have our present.’

  The men stared at each other in silence. From the kitchen came the gurgle of water and the clinking of china.

  ‘She’s nice, your fiancée,’ Engelbert Rath said.

  ‘She’s not my fiancée.’

  Engelbert Rath only looked surprised for a moment. ‘I can never get used to these modern ways. She’s a proper lady at any rate. You might have said something! I thought I’d come to the wrong flat. But Fräulein Preußner knew who I was right away!’

  ‘Must be the photo I keep on my bedside table.’

  Engelbert Rath pulled a sour face. ‘Here I am visiting my son, and this is how he treats me!’

  ‘What did you expect? I’ve been living in this city almost a year and neither of you has visited me even once… Now you turn up, completely unannounced, and expect me to roll out the red carpet?’

  ‘People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones,’ Engelbert Rath said. He didn’t need to speak any louder to lend his words weight. ‘Have you bothered to put in a single appearance at ours since you’ve been living in Berlin? You didn’t even spend Christmas in Cologne, and you know how pleased that would have made your mother. Instead you put your name down for holiday duty – even though Karl would have given you the time off.’

  ‘Have you been spying on me?’

  ‘I don’t need to spy on anyone. I’m a policeman.’

  ‘How is it I always seem to forget?’

  Engelbert Rath looked tired as he gazed at his son. ‘We see each other so rarely, Gereon, we shouldn’t spend the time squabbling. You’re the only son I have left.’

  Because you refuse to give Severin a chance, Gereon thought. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘We have an appointment. A friend needs your help.’

  ‘I don’t recall any appointment.’

  ‘I’ve already spoken to Fräulein Preußner.’ Engelbert gestured with his head towards the kitchen. ‘She’s happy for me to borrow you for a while. It won’t take long. You’ll be back by nine, maybe half past. Keep your hat and coat on, we need to head to Kaiserhof.’

  That was precisely what he hated about his father. Engelbert Rath had to be in control of everything, had to pull the strings wherever he went, take care of things you’d never asked him to, but Gereon hated himself even more for allowing his father to monopolise him like this. Something deep inside prevented him from putting up any kind of resistance.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down, Gereon.’ Engelbert Rath rose to his feet. ‘If we hurry we can still get there on time.’

  His father’s right hand pushed him towards the door and he obeyed, just like he always did.

  As they stepped into the hallway, Kathi was standing in the kitchen door, tea towel in hand and smiling back at them, a monument to the Germa
n housewife. Gereon looked her briefly in the eye as he took his leave.

  Her gaze told him everything he needed to know.

  She knew something was up, and was refusing to accept it.

  There was a build-up of traffic at Moritzplatz, with a battered truck blocking almost the entire lane and a policeman waving vehicles through one by one. It was a tight-lipped journey.

  ‘An American car?’ was all Engelbert Rath said as he slipped into the Buick’s passenger seat. There was disapproval etched on his face, and Gereon had said nothing more out of sheer annoyance.

  It wasn’t until they were stuck at Moritzplatz that his father broke the silence. ‘We’d have been better off taking a taxi,’ he said.

  ‘It’d be sitting here just like us,’ Rath replied angrily.

  The policeman waved the Buick through, past the accident and into Oranienstrasse. Before crossing Leipziger Strasse they had to pause briefly at a red light; otherwise they made good progress. Gereon was doing his best, but obviously his best wasn’t good enough.

  ‘Late,’ Engelbert Rath said, as he climbed out of the car at Wilhelmplatz. ‘We’re almost ten minutes late.’

  Go to hell, Gereon thought, taking his time to lock up. His father was already striding towards the hotel entrance.

  The Hotel Kaiserhof and its cuisine were popular with politicians and high-ranking civil servants from nearby Wilhelmstrasse. Engelbert Rath led his son purposefully towards the restaurant on the ground floor. In its oak-panelled surrounds, the babble of voices seemed more refined than it would elsewhere, the clinking of glasses more subdued. People seemed to be talking, eating and drinking with the handbrake on.

  Engelbert Rath was a man who knew what he was about. They made their way determinedly towards a table, where a group of formally dressed men sat, looking as if they had been driven straight from a session at the Reichstag. It was immediately clear who was in charge. The man with his back to the wall had a face like an Indian chief with high cheekbones and an implacable gaze that took in both Raths straightaway. His expression remained unchanged as he mumbled something to his table companions and stood up.