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 German 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.
‘Please excuse our being late, Konrad,’ Engelbert Rath began, ‘but the police service…even in Berlin…my son…!’
‘It’s fine, Engelbert, it’s fine!’ The Indian pronounced it ‘Engelbäät’. He had a Cologne accent. ‘My train isn’t leaving for two hours anyway,’ he said, those unknowable Indian eyes seeming almost friendly. ‘So? How is the young Rath? Settled into the imperial capital?’
Gereon shook his hand. ‘Thank you for asking, Mayor Adenauer.’
‘Let’s forget about the titles, shall we? Here I’m not the Mayor, or the President of the Prussian State Council. We’re meeting on a purely private basis. Three Cologners in Berlin.’
Gereon gave a deliberate smile.
‘Let’s go to the bar,’ Adenauer said. ‘I’ve a table booked.’
A bottle of Zeltinger Kirchenpfad awaited them next to the reserved sign. Their host had left nothing to chance, which was perhaps why Police Director Engelbert Rath got on so well with him, their status as fellow party members notwithstanding. The truth was that Rath’s father had always kept in with those whose acquaintance could benefit his career. Successfully too: he had been the youngest chief inspector in Cologne in his day, and was now police director.
‘We can speak freely here,’ Adenauer said, showing them to their places. The waiter filled the two wine glasses and he began.
‘Good that your son has found the time, Engelbäät,’ he said. ‘Have you told him what it’s about?’
‘It’s too delicate. I thought it would be best if you…’
‘Let’s have a toast first!’ Adenauer had a glass of water in front of him, and drank their health.
The Raths raised their glasses and drank. The wine was far too sweet for Gereon’s liking, but his father’s lips curved appreciatively. ‘A really nice drop, this, Konrad.’
‘I know what you like, Engelbäät!’ Their host placed his water in front of him and cleared his throat. ‘So, let’s get to the point… It’s an unpleasant business… most unpleasant…’
‘The police deal almost exclusively with unpleasant business,’ said Rath.
‘Please, young Rath! Let’s forget about the police. As I said, this is a private meeting.’
‘Let the mayor explain, Gereon!’
It hadn’t taken five minutes for his father to catapult him back to the bad old days. Gereon, the cheeky young fool who’d be better off keeping his mouth shut when the adults had important matters to discuss.
‘Your father, Herr Rath, is helping me in a particularly delicate matter, and I must say it’s rather handy that the Rath family is also represented here in Berlin…’ That’s how easy it was for the Cologne crowd to catch up with you, even in the middle of the imperial capital. ‘To cut a long story short, I am being blackmailed.’
‘Our lord mayor is receiving anonymous letters,’ Engelbert Rath whispered.
The Indian nodded. ‘Someone is threatening – how shall I put it? – to make certain information public that the public has no business knowing. And which could drag the good name of Adenauer through the mud.’
‘What kind of information?’
‘Information that could spell the end of my political existence if the Nazis get their hands on it, or the Communists.’
‘I’d need to know a little more than that. If you want me to help you, you’ll have to tell me what it’s about.’
‘Glanzstoff shares,’ Adenauer said.
‘Shares in American Glanzstoff, the rayon plant,’ Engelbert Rath explained.
‘I’ve got loads of them,’ Adenauer said. ‘Absolutely loads. Worth millions… At least, they were worth millions when I bought them two years ago. My entire fortune’s invested in them, and more besides. A loan from Deutsche Bank…’
‘I see,’ said Rath, ‘and the share price has been falling through the floor since October.’
‘It went through the floor some time ago. I’d never have thought it could slip so far, had always hoped things would pick up again. But these last few months… In short, my debts with the bank are now greater than the market value of my shares. Significantly greater…’
‘In other words, you’re ruined,’ Rath said, pleased to register the look of displeasure on his father’s face. ‘How do they mean to blackmail you when you’ve already hit rock bottom?’
‘I’ve got friends at the bank who are willing to help me. I just don’t want it to be shouted from the rooftops.’
‘And that’s precisely what these anonymous letters are threatening to do…’
‘My opponents have been waiting for an opportunity just like this, both the left and the right, and it’s been handed to them on a plate. What a time for it to happen!’
‘Why haven’t you passed the case on to the police?’
‘You know yourself that not all officers can be trusted. Something like this needs to be dealt with discreetly. By experienced police officers, but not by the police.’
Rath nodded. ‘What makes you think I can help you? My father is far more experienced when it comes to police work.’
‘The letters are from Berlin, I’m certain of it. And not just because up till now they’ve only been sent to my Berlin office. The blackmailer is in the city somewhere. Take a look yourself…’ He fetched a small bundle of papers from the inside pocket of his jacket and passed one of the pages to Rath.
Red-coloured pencil. Big block capitals. Crooked letters but legible nonetheless. It looked almost like a little home-made placard.
FORD STAYS IN BERLIN, it said, OR ADENAUER GOES TO JAIL!
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked.
‘That’s the fee,’ the mayor said. ‘The blackmailer doesn’t want money, it’s something else he’s after. He wants to save the Ford plant at Westhafen.’
‘The car factory?’
‘Only I’m afraid its days are already numbered. There’s nothing more to be done.’
‘I don’t know much about that, you’re going to have to explain.’
‘Ford is relocating to Cologne,’ Adenauer said. ‘Everything’s signed, and we’ll be laying the groundwork in Riehl later this year. Europe’s most state-of-the-art car factory will make Berlin’s seem old in comparison. Then it’ll be goodnight, Westhafen.’
‘And that’s what the blackmailer’s hoping to avoid?’
Adenauer nodded. ‘It would appear so. Only he’s picked the wrong man. No Adenauer allows himself to be blackmailed! Besides, even if I wanted to, there’s nothing I can do. The same goes for the Mayor of Berlin.’
‘Herr Böß has his own problems at the moment,’ Gereon said.
‘Tell me about it! The only person who can do anything is Henry Ford, who won’t let a single car roll off the production line in Berlin once things are up and running in Riehl. I can say that much for certain.’
‘There’ll be even more unemployed people in Berlin.’
Adenauer shrugged his shoulders. ‘What do you want me to do? Hundreds of jobs will be created in Cologne instead. That’s how it goes sometimes, it’s the way of the world, and blackmailing people isn’t about to change that!’
‘Even so, that doesn’t mean whoever’s blackmailing you can’t still do some damage, and that’s what you’d like me to prevent.’
‘Quick on the uptake, your son,’ Adenauer said to Engelbert Rath.
Rath felt as he had when his mother praised her son’s school grades to assorted friends over coffee. ‘How do you know the blackmailer really has the information he’s threatening you with?’ he asked.
‘See for yourself.’ Adenauer passed him another sheet of paper. ‘This is the second page from the first letter.’
This letter didn’t look like a placard; there was a lot more text too. Typewritten, again in red. Wouldn’t it be unfortunate if the world were to hear what was discussed in passing at the Deutsche Bank’s supervisory board meeting by board members Adenauer and Blüthgen, as well as Bank Director Brüning?
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means somebody knows exactly what’s going on,’ Adenauer said. ‘I want you to find out who it is, and make it clear that it’s him rather than me who will be facing jail time, if so much as a single word of these confidential discussions is leaked!’
‘How do you suppose I do that? I’m a police officer…’
‘Precisely, you know the best way to handle a thing like this. You won’t regret it, young man. I still have a good relationship with your commissioner. My word counts for something with Zörgiebel, believe me. Your father had already made chief inspector by your age. It’s time you followed in his footsteps.’
‘The interior ministry has issued a moratorium on promotions…’
‘Because Prussia must save, but there are always exceptions. Even in times like these, outstanding candidates can be rewarded.’
Engelbert Rath nodded in agreement. ‘Chief Inspector Gereon Rath – it has a nice ring to it,’ he said, and raised his wine glass. ‘To the next chief inspector in the Rath family!’
Gereon raised his glass and smiled, but only sipped at the sweet liquid. Chief Inspector didn’t sound too bad at all, and he wouldn’t have that twit Böhm telling him what to do.
‘Inspector Rath?’
The waiter’s voice only served to remind him of his current rank. The man’s gaze surveyed the group briefly before ruling out its two older members and alighting on Gereon. ‘Telephone for you, Herr Rath.’
It was Czerwinski. They had finally caught Glaser. The lighting technician had come home that evening. All they’d had to do was pick him up.
‘He’s all nicely wrapped up and waiting for you at Alex,’ the detective said. ‘Thought you might like to have a little chat with him tonight. Your girlfriend was kind enough to tell us where you were. I hope we’re not interrupting anything.’
Rath was about to have a go at the fat lump for his lack of respect, but chose to hold back. Czerwinski had done a good job, and it wasn’t often you could say that. ‘I’ll be with you shortly,’ he said.
‘I’m afraid duty calls,’ he said as he returned to the table with his hat and coat.
He offered Adenauer his hand. ‘Many thanks for inviting me here, Herr Mayor,’ he said.
‘Take the letters with you.’ Adenauer passed him the bundle across the table.
‘Well, my boy,’ said Engelbert Rath, standing to say goodbye to his son. The police director attempted something approaching a hug but was forced to admit defeat. Otherwise so commanding, Engelbert Rath could only offer his son an awkward handshake. ‘Take care. Can you find your own way out? I still have matters to discuss with the mayor.’
‘It’s OK, Father.’ Rath cleared his throat. ‘Will we see each other tomorrow?’
The police director’s face froze. ‘Mother…we…’ he stammered. ‘Well…I promised your mother I wouldn’t leave her too long. I’m taking the night train.’
‘Not staying in Berlin a moment longer than necessary – is that right, gents?’
The remark was supposed to disguise his disappointment, but somehow he didn’t get it quite right. As much as his father’s unannounced visit had angered him, he was equally hurt that Engelbert Rath – in the middle of Carnival – had only come to Berlin to do his old friend Konrad a favour. But then, he knew his father, what else should he expect?
‘Well, safe trip home then,’ he said and made for the exit without looking round, descending the steps into the rain. Outside, he took a deep breath before returning to the car. He spent the next few minutes sitting behind the wheel observing Wilhelmplatz at night. Apart from a few pedestrians emerging from the underground, and the two uniformed officers in front of the hotel, the square was completely empty. The city’s nightlife was happening elsewhere.
Rath couldn’t remember having made any promises to Adenauer, but he felt the weight of the letters in his inside pocket, and knew he had an assignment that could help him make Chief Inspector.
His mind turned to Kathi, waiting for him at Luisenufer, and he was glad he could still head out to Alex. Hopefully she’d be asleep when he got home. He started the engine and drove off. It would do him good to spend a little time focusing on someone else’s life. What kind of man was this Glaser? he wondered.
In the meantime he must have realised that running wasn’t a solution, especially now, awaiting interrogation in the Castle. You couldn’t escape guilt like that, someone’s death. No matter how far you ran, no matter how quickly; nobody knew that better than Gereon Rath. It was a burden you carried with you for the rest of your life.
Behind the construction fences at Alexanderplatz, the police headquarters rose dark into the night sky. Red Castle was the name Berliners gave to the mighty brick building, which had turned out bigger than the City Palace. Unlike the palace, however, it still had a function. His colleagues simply called their workplace Castle, a name that was reassuring somehow, and fitting too, even if Rath’s former stamping ground in Cologne appeared far more medieval than its Berlin counterpart. The façade actually invoked the Florentine Renaissance, but somehow the Prussians even managed to turn the building’s delicate motifs into a forbidding stronghold.
Rath parked the Buick in the atrium, where a riot squad was just getting into a car. Once in the stairwell, however, he was on his own again. The endless corridors on the first floor were deserted, but brought to life now and again by the faint echoes of steps, voices or slamming doors. In Homicide, only the late shift was still present, an inspector and an assistant detective: Brenner, one of Böhm’s bootlickers, and Lange, the new man from Hannover, who had been transferred to the Castle a few weeks back.
‘Evening,’ Rath greeted his colleagues. ‘Where are Czerwinski and Henning?’
‘I sent them home,’ Brenner said.
‘What makes you think you can give orders to my people?’ Rath snapped.
‘What do you mean, your people? I’m in charge of the late shift, and as far as I know neither of them are on it. We’re to avoid unnecessary overtime. Orders from above.’
‘They’re both part of my team, and they’ve just brought in a suspect. I hope you haven’t sent him home too.’
‘Don’t panic, Inspector,’ Brenner grinned. ‘Your package is sitting all nicely wrapped in custody.’
‘Then what are you waiting for, Detective?’
‘Waiting for?’
‘Get your arse in gear and make sure my man is ready for questioning in five minutes at the most!’
Brenner reached for the receiver.
At the door Rath turned round once more. ‘And another thing, Detective,’ he said, friendly once more, ‘if you ever give orders to my people again I will kick up such a fuss that not even Chief Inspector Böhm will be able to help you. Clear?’
‘I wouldn’t talk so big if I were you,’ Brenner grumbled, before putting the call through.
Rath had to walk a few paces along the corridor to get to his office. Somewhat removed from the other rooms in A Division, it had been the only one available when he first joined Homicide. It was pretty cold. The heating was on low, so he kept his coat on for the time being. Taking a seat in the outer office, at his secretary’s desk, he leafed through the personal file on Glaser, which Czerwinski had left alongside the man’s papers. The dates tallied with those from his passport.
Barely ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door and a guard pushed a pale, intimidated-looking man into the room. ‘Here he is, Inspector.’
Rath posted the guard outside and examined the suspect. Glaser had halted by the door and was looking about him uncertainly. Perhaps it was no bad thing that he’d been left to stew in custody. He smelled ripe.
‘Take a seat,’ Rath said, leafing through the papers. Glaser shuffled forward and sat down. Rath said suddenly and without looking up, ‘Your name is Peter Glaser…’
‘Yes.’
‘Born 25th September 1902.’
‘Yes.’
‘Resident at Röntgenstrasse 10 in Charlottenburg.’
‘Yes.’
‘Since November 1st 1929 you’ve been working as a lighting technician at La Belle Film Production in Marien…’
‘Pardon me?’ All of a sudden the man, who up until now had been hunched in his chair like a limp dishrag, sat up straight.
‘Nothing about you being hard of hearing in the file.’
‘That’s because I’m not.’
‘I asked where you work.’
‘No, you didn’t.’ His voice sounded as if he had just woken up. ‘You read the file and told me where I’m supposed to work. Something to do with film, but it isn’t true.’
‘Then why is your name in this file?’
Glaser shrugged his shoulders and gave Rath a belligerent look. ‘You’ll have to ask whoever drew it up. My personal file is with Siemens & Halske. I’m an electrician at the Elmowerk.’
‘The what?’
‘Can’t you keep up?’ Glaser was beginning to get the upper hand. He had even stopped shivering, despite the cold. ‘I work for Siemens! At the Elektromotorenwerk, the electric motor plant. I’d just got back from my shift when your colleagues grabbed me right outside the door to my flat, handcuffs, pistol, the lot. I just hope my neighbours didn’t see. That Knauf next door is a nosy bat.’
Rath looked at Glaser’s passport. The man in the photo and the man in front of him were the same, no doubt about it.
‘Got the wrong man?’ Glaser asked.
Rath snapped the document shut. ‘We’ll soon have this sorted.’
That soon turned out to be optimistic. Rath offered the increasingly unruly Glaser hot tea until, finally, after three-quarters of an hour that dragged interminably, the guard pushed a thoroughly dishevelled-looking Heinrich Bellmann through the door. On the telephone, Bellmann hadn’t given an entirely sober impression, and now brought the smell of alcohol with him.
‘Good evening, Inspector,’ he said. ‘I didn’t realise you work in the middle of the night too.’
‘Please, have a seat.’ Rath offered him a chair by the desk.
‘Please excuse my condition, I had a little too much…it’s not normally my way…but Betty’s death… I’m only human after all!’
‘Don’t you want to say hello to my guest?’
‘A pleasure.’ Bellmann stretched his right hand across the desk towards Glaser. ‘Bellmann.’
‘Glaser,’ said the other as he shook the producer’s hand.
‘You don’t know this man?’ Rath asked.
‘Should I?’ Bellmann asked.
‘This is Peter Glaser.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Your lighting technician.’
‘Nonsense!’
‘Did you bring the photo I asked for?’
Bellmann reached inside his jacket. ‘It’s from the Christmas party,’ he said, hunching his heavy shoulders apologetically.
The photo showed a good-looking man holding a punch glass, smiling cheerfully into the camera with his arm around a woman. Rath had never seen the man before, but the woman was Betty Winter. Alarm bells started to ring quietly, but insistently.
‘Here,’ Bellmann said, tapping the photo, ‘that’s Glaser. He got on well with Betty, especially that night.’ He shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe it. That she’s no longer with us, I mean.’
The whole time Peter Glaser had been eyeing the photo curiously. By now he was craning his neck, eyes almost popping out of his head. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘That’s bloody Felix! What’s he doing next to Betty Winter?’
The matter was soon resolved. Bellmann’s missing lighting technician was called Felix Krempin, and he had obviously used the identity of his unsuspecting friend, Peter Glaser, to sign up with La Belle Film Production. In reality, Krempin worked as a production manager at Montana Film.
No sooner had Glaser mentioned the name Montana than Bellmann hit the roof, going on about espionage, sabotage and worse. ‘Those criminals! I should have known! They’ll stop at nothing! Not even murder!’
Rath called for the guard to accompany Bellmann outside. They could still hear him through the closed door as Rath began a quick-fire interview of Peter Glaser about his friend, Felix Krempin.
‘Thanks for your help,’ Rath said, by way of goodbye. ‘It seems your friend has played a nasty trick on you – and on us too.’
A trick wasn’t how Bellmann saw it. He had calmed down by the time he re-entered the office, but wasn’t about to retract his accusations. At least his suspicions could now be substantiated. He claimed that La Belle had frequently had trouble with Montana, with some disputes even going to court. Plagiarism was the least of it; it was a question of poaching artists, sabotaging premieres and all kinds of other dirty tricks. Similar accusations, ‘all of them rather far-fetched’, as the producer would have it, had also been made against Bellmann by Montana, resulting in the La Belle owner being ‘hauled in front of a judge’ on several occasions. A long list, therefore, to which could now be added sabotage of filming and the murder of the incensed Heinrich Bellmann’s most important actress.
Murder as the ultimate means of sabotage seemed unlikely to Rath, but he could understand the film producer’s rage. There had to be a reason why Krempin had signed on at La Belle under a false name.
Rath was deathly tired but his hunter’s instinct had been wakened. He would sound Montana out first thing tomorrow before Böhm could call him off.
The search for Krempin had already begun by the time Rath returned to Homicide, though Brenner and Lange had since departed. Instead there was a fat man sitting at the desk, engrossed in the files.
‘Superintendent Gennat!’
The fat man looked up. ‘Rath! What are you still doing here? Don’t get your hopes up! You’re not getting my bed. I need it myself!’
Buddha kept a bed in the box room next to his office, which in truth was more like a living room.
‘Nice to see you again, Sir,’ Rath said. ‘Just back from Düsseldorf?’
Gennat nodded. ‘Somehow the way from the station always leads straight to Alex. Funny, isn’t it? I should have got married, then this wouldn’t happen.’
‘Perhaps it would. Are you making any progress?’
‘Don’t ask! You wouldn’t believe how much information we’ve gathered, or how many tip-offs we’ve received from the Düsseldorf public. We now have a pretty clear idea how each murder was committed, but even that hasn’t brought us any closer.’
Gennat took a B.Z. from his leather bag and unfolded the paper. ‘I see you’ve been busy too,’ he said and placed the newspaper on the table in front of Rath. ‘I bought it in the station just now. Can you explain this to me?’
Rath stared at the paper. A special edition of B.Z. am Mittag with a headline in bold on the front page.
Death in film studio! Betty Winter struck dead by spotlight! Sabotage?
Alongside the story were two photos, a perfect portrait of Betty Winter and a slightly blurred image which showed Gereon Rath against the backdrop of a film studio. In the background you could even make out part of the covered corpse – assuming you knew it was there in the first place.
‘There isn’t much to explain,’ he said. ‘An actress died and her producer wanted to make the headlines. The body wasn’t even cold before he called a press conference.’
‘And you helped him. Or is there some other reason you’re quoted here?’
‘The pack had already smelt blood. I had all journalists removed from the crime scene immediately, but the police can’t prevent anyone from holding a press conference. Detective Gräf and I took part to maintain control, and to ensure speculation didn’t run wild.’
‘Well, you did a great job, I must say.’
Rath skimmed the text and saw that Bellmann’s sabotage theory had been reported at length, yet he had said nothing about it at the press conference. Clearly the journalist was aware of the running battle with Montana – even if there was no mention of the studio by name. Rath swallowed hard when he realised that his own pronouncements had been so skilfully woven into the text that it appeared as if police officially supported the sabotage theory.
‘I didn’t authorise any of this,’ he said.
Gennat nodded. ‘That’s OK, Rath, no one’s saying you did. You have to be damn careful when dealing with the big city press. Their reporters can be very useful, but don’t harbour any illusions about keeping them under control.’
‘I’d be happy just to keep them off my back.’
‘Don’t take it so hard,’ Gennat said. ‘Tell me in your own words what happened in that film studio. Betty Winter isn’t just anybody, you know. Böhm only jotted something down about a fatal accident he’d entrusted to you.’
Rath gave a concise report, right up to the bogus lighting technician. ‘The false name, allied to his flight, makes the man highly suspicious,’ he said. ‘In the meantime everything points to sabotage. Perhaps Betty Winter wasn’t meant to die, but it looks as if someone intended to cause her serious harm, and whoever it was, they were at least willing to entertain the possibility of her death. Right now it looks as if Felix Krempin is our man.’
Gennat nodded. ‘Highly plausible, but be sure you don’t draw any hasty conclusions. You’ve come a cropper like that before.’
‘Mistakes are there to be learned from, Sir.’
‘Where did you get that from? Is that what they teach you at police academy these days?’
‘My father, Sir.’
‘A shrewd man, your father. Policeman, isn’t he?’
Rath nodded. ‘Police director.’
‘Then heed his advice and don’t give too much away to the press. Better to share your knowledge with us at A Division.’
Gennat gazed at him sternly. Rath knew that Buddha respected him, but that he had no truck with high-handedness.
‘How long are you staying in Berlin, Sir?’
‘Until Wednesday. Düsseldorf is unbearable at the moment anyway. Carnival. Zörgiebel might see the attraction in cheering Helau, but it’s not my thing at all.’
‘The commissioner is from Mainz,’ Rath said.
‘And you? You’re a Rhinelander too, aren’t you?’
‘Cologner,’ Rath said. ‘We say Alaaf instead of Helau, but I’m more than happy to do without all the fuss this year. It’s more civilised in these parts.’
‘There are plenty of Fasching balls in Berlin this weekend, if you should feel homesick.’
The telephone rang and, before Rath could respond, Gennat picked up.
‘Yes,’ Buddha nodded. ‘Inspector Rath is still here. Just a moment.’ He handed him the receiver. ‘The search unit,’ he said. ‘It looks as if your suspect really has gone to ground.’