The dial tone was already buzzing by the time Rath realised he’d left Gräf in the lurch. Too late.
‘Nice of you to get in touch,’ the detective said. ‘Weren’t you going to help us with some paperwork today?’
‘Sorry, change of plan, you have to…’
‘Have you gone mad?’ Gräf hissed into the receiver. ‘All hell’s breaking loose here.’
Rath could picture the atmosphere at Alex. ‘I had an idea this morning,’ he said, ‘and drove out to Marienfelde, to the studio.’
‘You didn’t have time to come by and share your ideas first? Böhm is beside himself. There’s a briefing scheduled on the Winter case, and you’re nowhere to be found. The case isn’t yours anymore, Böhm’s taken it over. We’re part of his team now. “Fall in” is the command – only it doesn’t seem to have reached you yet.’
‘What I don’t know won’t hurt me.’
‘You buttered your bread, now lie in it. Let’s leave the proverbs.’
‘We’ve come this far, and Böhm’s just going to take every-thing away. Do you think that’s right?’
‘It doesn’t matter whether I think it’s right. I’m a detective, and Böhm’s detective chief inspector. You’re a detective inspector, without the chief.’
‘Thank you, I’m familiar with the hierarchies.’
‘Then start acting like it.’
‘A detective issuing orders to a detective inspector? What were you saying about hierarchies?’
‘This is serious, Gereon. You don’t have many friends in the Castle as it is, and beating up a colleague doesn’t exactly help your cause. It’s high time you put in an appearance.’
‘Is that story doing the rounds already?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Beating up is a bit strong. I clouted him a couple of times, that was all. He was asking for it.’
‘I don’t like that arsehole any more than you do, but hitting him is going too far. Especially in front of witnesses! You should hear what people are saying.’
‘Is it Czerwinski? To think, I did him and Henning a favour yesterday.’
‘No, old Fatso’s actually standing up for you, even though he’s a good friend of Brenner’s.’
‘He’s just cosying up to people ranked higher than him, and there are a lot of those.’
‘Don’t make fun of him, you’ve put him in a lousy position! Why leave Brenner an open goal? The arsehole’s been plotting against us from day one. Now he can tell everyone how violent you are.’
Rath couldn’t think of an answer, at least not one he could share with Gräf.
‘Gereon, you need to put in an appearance here. It doesn’t look good.’
‘I’m investigating a case.’
‘You’re not a private detective. We’re a department. CID. Each one of us is just a little cog in the machine. We all work together, and those with the highest rank have the most authority.’
‘Is that right?’
‘If you’re not here soon, Böhm will eat you alive. The briefing starts in ten minutes. What should I say?’
‘Just tell him you have no idea where I am. But you can let him know we’ll need ED out in Marienfelde again.’
‘If I alert ED, I won’t be able to stop Böhm coming out.’
‘Let him. The main thing is you’re there too. Then at least you’ll know what’s at stake.’
‘Victor Meisner’s coming here at eleven. He just rang to confirm. Actually, he wanted to get out of it, but I dug in my heels.’
‘That’s still two hours away. Leave him to me.’
‘You’re not going to wait for me at the studio?’
‘I thought you wanted me back at the station.’
‘I’m beginning to think you’re trying to avoid me.’
‘Don’t take it personally.’ Rath explained what he had found on the lighting bridge, but didn’t say anything about Krempin’s telephone call. Instead, he made his way back to the studio.
Heinrich Bellmann pulled a wry face when he heard that police were about to bring his studio to a standstill again.
‘You’ll manage,’ Rath said. ‘You’re a quick worker, and I need to borrow your cameraman for an hour anyway.’
Twenty minutes later Rath stood beside Harald Winkler and Jo Dressler in front of a low counter in the film laboratory at Tempelhof. The director had joined them to ‘look at the remaining rushes’. Both the cameraman and the director seemed glad to escape Bellmann’s ill temper for a while.
They had hardly spoken on the short journey to Tempelhof, and now they stared silently at the door through which a frantic man in a white coat had disappeared with Dressler’s order slip. No one was in the mood for small talk; everyone knew they were about to watch the final minutes of an actress’s life, the first time Rath would see someone die on-screen for real.
The lab technician returned with ten film cans under his arm. Winkler had a quick look and pulled one from the pile. ‘Must be this one,’ he said.
‘We need a projection room,’ Dresser said, and a little later they were sitting in a small, completely darkened room together.
Rath took his seat next to the director and was lighting an Overstolz when he noticed the ashtray built in to the armrest. He was smoking almost as many cigarettes as he had before giving up. Winkler operated the projector after sending the lab assistant away. They didn’t want any witnesses. The projector hummed and a beam of light shot through the dark, making the cigarette smoke seem to dance. The reel started, and a clapperboard appeared on-screen. Winkler focused the image, the board was taken away and Rath recognised Betty Winter in her silk dress. She was breathing heavily, while Victor Meisner leaned against the mantelpiece in his tux. His mouth was moving, but there was no sound.
‘I thought this was a talkie,’ Rath said.
‘The soundtrack is on another reel,’ Dressler explained. ‘Light and sound are filmed and developed separately, and put together in the final cut. If you want, Harry can run them parallel.’
Rath nodded and Winkler rewound to the point where the clapperboard sounded. Then he fetched a second reel, which he loaded into a device emblazoned with the Klangfilm logo.
‘Should be more or less in sync,’ he said, before starting the film again.
‘You need to turn it up,’ Dressler said.
There was a scratch as Winkler turned a knob, then they heard Dressler’s voice seemingly from a distance: ‘And…action!’
Betty Winter’s breathing became heavier. ‘Did I hear you right?’ she hissed.
Rath followed a moderately entertaining exchange between the pair, until Betty Winter said something that was too quiet for him to understand. Suddenly – Winter had already raised her hand in preparation for the slap – Rath heard Dressler shout. All movements froze, the picture went black and the clapperboard was back on-screen.
‘That was the first attempt,’ Dressler whispered, slouching nervously in his folding chair. ‘This must be it now.’
Rath watched the same scene replayed, only this time Betty Winter portrayed her anger much more convincingly, to the extent that Rath could almost believe it was real.
The camera followed the angry Betty as she approached Victor Meisner, who stood smiling by the fireplace the whole time. Everything she said was so clear it was as if she were standing in the room.
She raised her hand again, but this time followed through. There was an audible slap and, as Meisner’s head jerked back, Rath thought he heard a soft pling. Betty Winter closed her eyes and made a desperate face, then there was a loud crash. The shadows on her face seemed to shift and something black knocked her out of shot. There were shouts, shrill, somehow unreal, and the camera panned to a screaming Betty Winter. She was lying on the floor, the spotlight still burning bright, clouds of smoke rising where blazing glass and steel met skin, hair or silk. Then a great torrent of water struck the screaming woman. There was a sizzling noise, before everything went black.
Kept on running, my arse, Rath thought, as he turned to Winkler, who was standing by the projector. He had captured the moment as if he worked for the newsreel company.
Rath gazed at Dressler, who appeared to be thinking the same thing. At any rate the director was slumped dejectedly in his chair, looking genuinely upset.
‘End of the show,’ Winkler said into the room, in which there was no noise save for the hum of the projector and the scratch of the loudspeaker. ‘Do you want to watch it again?’
Rath nodded. ‘Can you play it a little slower this time? From the slap, I mean.’
Winkler rewound the reel until the camera panned to Betty Winter moving towards the fireplace. Then he allowed the picture and sound to run at reduced speed. Her voice sounded strangely deep and her movements appeared stiff; indeed, it all looked faintly comical, although all three knew there was nothing comical about it.
Then came the slap but, before the hand struck Meisner’s face, Rath heard the metallic noise, this time more of a plong than a pling. At this register, the slap sounded like someone’s boot squelching in the mud. Betty Winter closed her eyes.
‘She realises there’s no thunder,’ Dressler whispered. ‘She does everything right and the thunder doesn’t come. That’s why she’s looking so peeved.’
‘She isn’t looking at all,’ Rath said, ‘that’s why she doesn’t realise what’s happening.’
The spotlight came into shot, still very fast despite the reduced speed, and Rath saw Betty Winter’s face as it struck her. She couldn’t even open her eyes before her face was knocked from the camera’s field of view.
It took quite a while for the camera to locate her again, eyes wide open, lying on the floor screaming in a diabolical voice that was far too deep. It was unbearable. Rath was on the verge of covering his ears; Dressler had already done so. ‘Turn it off, Harry!’ he shouted. ‘I can’t take it anymore!’
Winkler shrugged. ‘The inspector wants to see it.’
‘It’s all right, you can turn it off,’ Rath said. ‘I’ve seen enough for the time being. Shame that we can’t see what Meisner’s doing. The way he reacts, the way he fetches the bucket of water, and so on.’
‘The reel with the countershot must be here somewhere,’ Dressler said.
‘Countershot?’
‘Another perspective. For Meisner’s dialogue. You’ll see more of him on it.’
‘I don’t know how long Hermann left the camera running,’ Winkler said.
‘Let’s have a look,’ Rath said.
Winkler changed the reel and moments later they were watching the scene for a third time from a different perspective. This time Winkler didn’t play the audio track. Victor Meisner moved his lips but remained silent, the camera on his face in a frontal close-up. A hand struck his cheek, and Meisner took a step back in shock. Then something black tore through the frame, and the actor’s face contorted in horror. His upper body leaned forward and he disappeared. The camera kept filming but didn’t shift focus. After a moment, the actor reappeared with a grave expression, and Rath knew he was about to tip the pail. Part of the metal bucket hove into view, then the film went black again.
‘You want to see that in slow motion as well?’ Winkler asked.
‘Pardon me?’
‘That’s what we call it when the film’s played slower,’ Dressler explained.
Rath nodded. ‘In slow motion then, please.’
The film started again and Rath tried to read Meisner’s expression, the look in his eyes. What was going through his mind as he watched his wife being struck by a heavy spotlight from close quarters? After the slap, he wore an expression of surprise, probably simulated, but possibly genuine, since Winter had actually struck his cheek. Or perhaps he had recoiled instinctively after catching sight of the falling spotlight out of the corner of his eye? And his wife hadn’t seen it because her eyes had been closed? If that was the case, no wonder Meisner blamed himself. Could he have saved his wife by reacting differently, removed her from harm’s way with one courageous leap?
‘One more time at normal speed,’ Rath said.
He looked at the seconds hand on his wristwatch, waiting for the moment that Meisner disappeared to fetch the bucket. It took him barely five seconds, short-circuit decision-making in every sense.
‘Good,’ Rath said. ‘Then if you could give me both reels, I won’t take up any more of your time.’
Dressler looked at him as if he had just asked for the lead role in his next film. ‘Pardon me?’
‘I’ll take these with me. We have projectors at Alex too.’
‘But… I need the material,’ Dressler protested. ‘I need as much of Betty as I can get, even with Eva doubling for her. Despite everything, Bellmann still wants to bring the film out as soon as possible. We were hoping to start editing this afternoon.’
‘Then have a copy made for yourself,’ Rath said. ‘This is a film lab, isn’t it?’
‘And who’s paying?’
‘The taxpayer. The Free State of Prussia will bear the costs.’
‘Fine,’ Dressler said. ‘Can you take care of that, Harry? Tell them to be quick; it’s for the police.’
The cameraman nodded, packed the two reels back in the tin and disappeared.
‘Do you mind if I use the time to look at the remaining rushes?’ Dressler asked.
He was just as proficient with the equipment as the cameraman. Soon more scenes flickered across the screen, all with sound. Dressler made notes, sometimes on the sound, sometimes on the picture, as Rath looked on. More scenes played out in the fireplace room. Betty Winter was very good as far as he could judge, much better than her husband, whom Rath had found equally unconvincing as a plucky detective on a previous visit to the cinema. If Meisner and Winter were a dream couple, then it was Betty Winter alone who was responsible for the ‘dream’.
Suddenly Rath hesitated. The camera was filming a scene by the door. Meisner had just opened it for his wife, and they had started arguing in the door frame. Something else was puzzling Rath, though: the perspective.
The camera must have been positioned exactly where he had just seen Betty Winter hit the deck, right by the fireplace.
‘What the hell is it doing there?’ he asked, and for the second time that morning Dressler looked at him as though he had lost his mind. ‘I mean: what’s the camera doing there? Isn’t that the spot where Betty Winter died? Right in front of the fireplace?’
At that moment, there was a loud peal of thunder from the loudspeakers.