Westhafen was more or less on the way to Reinickendorf, meaning Rath could kill two birds with one stone. A metal sign on the brick façade announced that the Ford Motor Company manufactured their automobiles in a warehouse on the quayside. He parked the Buick out front by the admin building since he didn’t want to roll up in a rival product.
Large, wooden crates were being loaded by crane and stacked next to the shop, at the other end of which dozens of spotless Ford A models were lined up, all of them painted red-black. Bruno, his first boss here in Berlin, had driven one just like it. A few men were hanging around outside the shop, turning eagerly as an iron door opened and a man in grey workers’ overalls appeared on the loading platform.
‘We could use two auto locksmiths for the next shift!’ he shouted.
Four men peeled away from the group and stood next to Rath, who was already on the platform steps.
The foreman made his choice. Paying no attention to a man in a suit waving his engineering diploma, he instead gestured towards a powerfully built worker in a boiler suit and a small, nimble-looking man in a thin jacket. ‘You,’ he said. ‘And you.’
The pair climbed the steps, while the other two returned to the group of unemployed. Rath followed them up the stairs.
‘I’m sorry,’ the foreman said, ‘but we only need two.’
The two workers eyed Rath suspiciously. He flashed his badge. ‘CID,’ he said. ‘I need to have a look around your plant.’
‘What’s this about?’ the foreman asked, but before Rath could answer he shouted at the two unemployed men. ‘Are you here to work or stare? Go inside and report to Section D. You’ll be briefed there.’
The smaller man opened his mouth but his partner pulled him through the door before he could speak. Probably for the best, if they didn’t want to lose the work, Rath thought.
‘So,’ the foreman said, ‘what’s this all about?’
‘I can’t tell you anything about the background to the investigation, but I can assure you that I will respect any trade secrets. You can tell me as much as you would any journalist.’
‘It’s only management that speaks with journalists.’
‘I’m certain that you can help me, Herr…’
‘Bahlke, shift supervisor.’
‘Then, Herr Bahlke, let me have a quick look around. Explain to me roughly how everything works, and I’ll be on my way. Five minutes.’
Bahlke yielded. ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘But there isn’t much to see.’
There was a hellish din in the shop. ‘It’s best if we go up here,’ Bahlke shouted over the noise, and pointed towards a steel staircase. The stairs led up to a room with an overview of the shop. ‘The shift supervisor’s office,’ Bahlke said. ‘You get a view of everything from up here. You need it too.’
Rath gazed beneath him. A caravan of half-finished vehicles moved at a snail’s pace through the shop and workers were everywhere assembling parts. At each station the frame of the car grew: steering, seats, wheels, and finally the engine and body, which arrived from above, floating down into the chassis to make the finished product, a Ford Model A.
‘Sixty cars a day,’ Bahlke said proudly. ‘Individual parts come from overseas and we assemble them here, using the American conveyor belt system.’ He pointed to a station along the line where a red-haired man was showing the two new recruits how to fit the engines. The bodies were already approaching from above. ‘You see the site of the marriage? Section D is where the body is fitted to the chassis, just after the engine has been installed.’
The red-haired man looked up at precisely the moment Bahlke pointed at him. Even from here Rath could see the worker grow wide-eyed and set to work with renewed vigour. Standing up here was like being in a display case on the Ku’damm. Every worker could see them through the great glass window, and they all realised they were being watched. It kept the workers on the go, along with the relentless march of the conveyor belt.
‘Impressive,’ Rath said. ‘What happens if someone needs the toilet?’
‘Then he works his way forward. For longer breaks, he organises a stand-in, which is deducted from his wage. You only get paid for the work you do.’
‘Do you always recruit your workers like that?’
Bahlke shook his head. ‘Most of them applied the usual way, but there are more and more awaiting their chance outside. We pay well, and the more work you do, the more you make. No one pays as well as Ford. No sign of the financial crisis here. I’m telling you: in five years’ time the Berlin Ford plant will be as big as Siemens!’
This man has no idea what’s coming, Rath thought. The blackmailer was not only well informed about the state of Adenauer’s finances; he also had exclusive knowledge of Ford’s move to the Rhine. Knowledge is power. Rath couldn’t help thinking of his father’s motto. It sounded like an instruction manual for blackmailers. ‘Who’s to say you’re not picking up criminals when you take men straight from the streets without papers?’
‘I see how they work first. If I’m satisfied, they take their papers to Personnel. Why do you ask? You’re not looking for criminals here, are you, just because the prison’s around the corner?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not looking for anyone who’s escaped from Plötzensee. I’m interested in any possible link between your workers and Deutsche Bank. Who might have a connection?’
‘There are almost three hundred people working here. How am I supposed to know that? Your best bet would be the people in the wages office, not the workers here.’
Rath nodded. ‘Can you tell me how to get there?’
‘You see that door?’ Bahlke pointed across the hall to a steel door behind the engine assembly. ‘Go through there to Admin, and ask for Personnel. Oh, what the hell? I’ll take you myself.’
The red-haired assembly man seemed to think the shift supervisor was pointing at him again. Rath could see him getting more and more nervous, as if he thought he was about to get the sack. They descended the stairs until, suddenly, a loud horn sounded, drowning out the factory din.
‘What’s that?’ Rath shouted in the shift supervisor’s ear. ‘Fire alarm?’
‘No. It means someone hasn’t completed their work on time and is causing a hold-up.’
‘Leaving their workplace without getting a stand-in.’
Bahlke shrugged. ‘Or just dawdling.’ The horn sounded a second time and the assembly line ground to a halt. ‘Shit!’ He dashed off.
Rath tried to keep up. Stopping at the first station he reached, Bahlke snapped at a worker tightening padded seats. ‘What’s going on? Which idiot turned off the conveyor belt?’
The worker shrugged his shoulders. ‘I think there are problems on the marriage line.’
Chaos reigned in Section D. The four men, whose task it was to lower the bodies onto the chassis, were exchanging furious words with the two new recruits. There was no sign of the red-haired man who was supposed to be training them.
‘What’s going on here?’ Bahlke yelled. ‘Are you crazy? Who stopped the line?’
‘I did,’ a giant of a man said, positioning himself legs apart in front of them. ‘The engine’s crooked as a dog’s hind leg and there are umpteen screws missing. I’m not putting a body on that. Why don’t you ask the two recruits why the belt isn’t running?’
The small man in the thin jacket didn’t wait to be asked. ‘We’ve barely been here ten minutes, boss,’ he said. ‘Toni said hello, showed us two manoeuvres, then buggered off without saying where he was going. What chance do we have? On top of that, I have to deal with this gorilla tearing into me.’
‘I’ll give you gorilla, you squirt,’ the giant said.
‘Cut it out, Kurt, and leave the new boys in peace. Where’s Toni gone? He can’t just drop everything like that.’
‘He just ran off,’ the little man said.
‘Is he sick or something? It’s not like him; hardly even takes a piss to make sure he gets his piece rate.’
The new recruits shrugged.
Rath thought the time was right to take his leave. He left the assembly hall and went up to Personnel to ask for a list of all factory employees. Upon comparing it to the Cologne list he might, with luck, stumble across an identical surname or some other anomaly that would enable him to establish a connection between Ford and Deutsche Bank. Then he’d have the blackmailer hook, line and sinker.
A simple list of names; it was a modest enough request, Rath thought, but the goateed man behind the desk was of a different opinion. ‘Do you know how much work that would mean? We have almost three hundred people.’
‘Listen, I could force this, but then I’d be taking the original files with me and turning your office inside out.’
Goatee Beard swallowed. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You’ll get your list. I could have it finished by next week, I think.’
‘I’ll be back tomorrow morning to collect it.’ The man was about to protest, but Rath cut him off. ‘And if you don’t have anything for me, I’ll be back with a search warrant, and you won’t be able to use your office for the rest of the day. I’d factor in two days to tidy up, just so you’re aware of the alternatives.’
The man nodded as Rath took his leave, stopping at the doorway. ‘A little tip,’ he said. ‘Get down to it right away, and you’ll be finished quicker.’
There was still a group of jobseekers standing outside the brick building when he left. It might be better than the dole, Rath thought, but there was no future here, however tempting the wages might be. This was a stopgap, not so much an automobile factory as an assembly shop in a storage facility that no one else wanted to rent. No wonder Ford were looking elsewhere.
Three hundred people in Berlin would lose their jobs, but hundreds more would find work in Cologne; and from somewhere inside this building someone was trying to prevent it.
From Westhafen it wasn’t far to Reinickendorf. The receptionist was just about to close the practice, but Rath told her it was an emergency and showed her his police badge. ‘I’m a friend of Frank Brenner’s,’ he said.
‘In that case, please wait a moment.’
She went to the back, returning after a short while. ‘The doctor’s about to make a house call, but he’ll fit you in.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Please take a seat in the waiting room, though I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you. He hasn’t approved any overtime.’
‘What a shame,’ he said. She smiled coquettishly back and waved goodbye with her fingertips.
He looked around at pictures of battleships on the walls, a portrait of Admiral Tirpitz with his imposing, forked beard, and was pondering where Brenner might have served when the milk-glass door to the waiting room swung open. A man with a doctor’s case and a greying full beard stormed in, almost tripping over Rath’s legs. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said. ‘Roswitha didn’t give me your name. Have we met before?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘But you are a friend of Brenner’s?’
‘A colleague more than a friend,’ Rath said, and showed his badge. ‘We both work in Homicide.’
Dr Borghausen stared at Rath’s identification as it dawned on him who he might have here. Rath could see the hatches being battened down. It won’t save you from capsizing, he thought.
‘I see,’ the doctor said. His voice was quiet and decidedly frosty. ‘What can I do for you? Surgery ended some time ago.’
‘I just have a few questions.’
‘You’re the policeman who beat up Frank, aren’t you? What do you want?’
‘You ought to be a detective,’ Rath said. ‘The thing is, seeing as I was present when Herr Brenner sustained the injuries that have unfortunately led to his being declared unfit for duty, I wouldn’t mind comparing our experiences a little. You call him by his first name…’
‘Frank Brenner is an old friend. We served together.’
‘Then it must be his old war injuries that have surfaced again.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I doubt whether the certificate you issued would stand up to medical review.’ The doctor grew red. Time to check your blood pressure, Rath thought.
‘You mean to blackmail a Prussian doctor?’ Borghausen choked.
‘I’d like to give this Prussian doctor a choice regarding his future. Go to jail with licence revoked, possibly to return one day as a corpse-washer, or continue as a respected doctor who might have fallen foul of an old friend over a silly incident, but is otherwise very happy.’
Behind the doctor’s eyes the wheels were turning. ‘How do you know about the certificate?’ he asked.
‘I’m a detective, and perhaps a little harder-working than Herr Brenner.’
‘You know that you’re not authorised to see such certi-ficates?’
‘Who says I’ve seen anything?’
The doctor took a deep breath. ‘If I’m not mistaken,’ he said, at pains to remain calm, ‘Frank has decided not to pursue disciplinary proceedings – luckily for you. Which means that there will be no need for a medical review.’
‘It’s good of Herr Brenner to rely on defamation of character alone,’ Rath said. ‘But perhaps I’ll insist that disciplinary proceedings are brought against me.’
‘Why would you?’
‘To bring the truth to light. Detective Inspector Frank Brenner has been submitting bogus certificates.’
‘Are you implying that I’ve been issuing bogus certi-ficates?’ Dr Borghausen turned a glowing violet above his white collar. The man really ought to do something about his blood pressure.
‘I’m not implying anything,’ Rath said, still calm and friendly. ‘I’m merely advancing a theory, as detectives are wont to do. Perhaps Brenner submitted a forged certificate after deceiving his old friend Dr Borghausen.’ Rath now had the doctor’s undivided attention. ‘Let’s suppose that you are in the habit of placing a few blank, signed certificates in the charming Roswitha’s desk so that she can take care of such matters for you? The thing is – and you know this because you keep an exact count of these blank certificates – only today you realised that a few forms, or perhaps just one, I’ll leave that to your imagination, had been stolen. The first thing you do is report the matter to the police, and the local station sends someone round. This officer asks you for the time frame in which the theft might have taken place. You give a time during which, among other patients, Frank Brenner was seen at your practice. And things take their course without any damage resulting to you.’
Rath sensed that this was a straw Dr Borghausen might just grasp.
‘If you’ll excuse me, I have a house call to make,’ the doctor said. ‘And then I must go to the police – to report a theft.’
Rath came home to a surprise he hadn’t in the least been expecting. In the centre of a lovingly laid dining table a birthday cake stood regally on a pristine white tablecloth, flanked by two candlesticks. Kathi was standing by the table. She must have heard him in the stairwell as the candles were already lit. ‘Happy Birthday, Gereon,’ she said and smiled.
He almost felt a little sorry for her, and for a moment would have liked nothing more than to take her in his arms. At the same time, he felt angry, his anger growing the longer he stared at the cake and the flickering candles.
What was she thinking just turning up like this, after she had stood him up? After he had begun to forget about her! Why was she making it so hard? ‘Still here, I see,’ he said bluntly.
Her smile faded, and her face crumpled up like a paper bag.
‘Where have you been these last few days?’ he demanded. ‘You vanish without a word, and then reappear as if nothing has happened.’
‘You mustn’t be angry! It was nothing. I…’
‘I’m not angry. I’m just wondering what these games are about. Walking out on me, not getting in touch for days, and then turning up again out of the blue.’
‘No games, Gereon. We’re free to live our own lives. You said so yourself.’
That was true, but only to warn her not to expect too much from him. Yet those cold words hadn’t driven her away; quite the opposite. ‘Of course they’re games,’ he said. ‘Why invite me to a costume ball only to go and disappear on me?’
‘Oh Gereon! You kept saying you were coming, and then you didn’t. I thought you’d stood me up again.’
‘So that’s why you left with another man?’
‘It’s not what you think. Herbert…’
‘I don’t care what his name is!’
‘Gereon, don’t get so worked up. You mustn’t be jealous, I…’
‘I’m not jealous. You’re right: we’re free to live our own lives. This thing is over, I’ve come to realise that in the last few days.’
She gazed at him disbelievingly, her lower lip gradually starting to tremble.
‘What thing? You mean our love? Is that a thing to you?’ Tears flooded her eyes. ‘Is it something to just throw away?’
Someone has to be the arsehole, he thought. Might as well be me. ‘Did you really think I’d let myself be treated this way?’ he shouted. ‘Take your cake and scram! Go to this Herbert, go to your sister, go to hell!’
It was like a bad film: The Betrayed Lover. He was a rotten actor, truly rotten, and rotten was how he felt.
‘It’s your birthday cake, I…’
‘I don’t want your damned cake!’
Behind the tears her eyes flashed. ‘It’s your damned cake! I made it for you, whether you like it or not!’
She opened the door and made for the hallway, silently retrieving her coat from the stand. Suddenly she began shaking, and the tears started again. He could hardly bear to watch but had to resist the urge to go over and comfort her. He went to the window and looked outside.
Listening to her gathering her things from the bathroom, his heart nearly broke. It took an eternity for the front door to click shut. Her steps echoed on the stairs, and he watched her red coat glow in the murky gaslight of the courtyard before disappearing through the gate for the final time.
He had a lump in his throat. Why did she have to come back? Why hadn’t she spared him that scene? Perhaps him behaving like an arsehole had made things easier for her, but he didn’t really believe that.
His birthday candles were still lit. He blew them out and took the cake from the table, resisting the temptation to hurl it against the wall. Instead, he placed it in the cupboard, before overturning a chair and kicking the dresser. He couldn’t stand it any longer in the flat, so he fetched the bottle of cognac from the living room, threw on his hat and coat and went out into the stairwell. He didn’t meet anyone on the way up. The only people who lived here were the Liebigs but they went to bed early; the Steinrück flat still stood empty.
It was cold in the attic. Rath took a swig of cognac before opening the skylight and climbing outside. Liebig’s doves cooed quietly as he sat on the narrow ridge beside the dovecote. He hadn’t been here since October. Strangely, he experienced none of the giddiness that usually seized him when he ventured too high. Perhaps it was because the precipice was a few metres away and he couldn’t see the ground. From here he could make out the house fronts at the other end of the large playground which the city council had built in a filled harbour basin. To the left, the slender dome of Sankt Michael rose as a dark shadow into the night sky.
Up here he could breathe freely, drink and gaze out over the roofs of the city. Kathi was out there somewhere now, on the way to her sister. All roads seemed to lead away from him. In truth it had always been that way. He had never been able to hold onto anyone, nor had he ever wanted to – except for one.
Cheers, Charly, he thought, and raised the bottle. To solitude! Because that’s what it all boils down to in the end. For you, for me, for every one of us.
He drank and gazed into the night. Gereon Rath, you sentimental arsehole, he thought. Time to stop feeling sorry for yourself.