The murder wagon raced westwards across Leipziger Strasse. None of the four occupants spoke a word.
Rath gazed out of the window, immersed in his thoughts, which now no longer concerned Charly. He had been expecting a quiet day at the Castle, with time to collect the list of Ford employees from Westhafen, but news came in during the morning briefing: a female corpse had been found in a disused old cinema in Wilmersdorf. Böhm quickly halted proceedings, before issuing instructions and forming a new homicide team on the spot.
Alfons Henning sat behind the wheel with Christel Temme, the stenographer, alongside him. The padded rear seat was reserved for the two most senior members of the team: Inspector Gereon Rath and its leader, Detective Chief Inspector Wilhelm Böhm.
Rath was still racking his brains over Böhm’s decision to hand the Winter case over to Gräf, a detective, rather than himself, a detective inspector. It seemed that Böhm meant to keep him off the case at all costs, perhaps as punishment for his insubordination. It was certainly true that the closer together they worked, the better Böhm could keep him in check. In the car, he had the unpleasant feeling of being watched, even though Böhm hadn’t so much as glanced at him. He had been silent the whole journey and nobody else had dared open their mouth.
The Luxor looked run-down and dirty, as if nobody had cleaned the strip lights or electric bulbs on the façade for years.
Böhm and Rath greeted the uniformed officer at the door silently as they entered, while the stenographer uttered a shy ‘good morning’. Henning took the camera from the boot of the car. A second officer led them down past rows of seats to the screen.
Despite all the lights being on, even on the artificial firmament, the auditorium was still dark and gloomy. A few people from ED were clambering between the pipes of the organ, which looked as miserable as the cinema itself. The musty smell inside the room intensified the impression of decay.
‘Up there,’ the officer said, gesturing towards a steep, wooden staircase. ‘I don’t need to see it again.’
The staircase led inside the organ where the smell was abominable, and the higher they climbed, the worse it got. Rath let Böhm lead, following with a handkerchief held to his nose. Christel Temme remained below with her writing pad.
The corpse lay on a service platform beside the battered organ pipes, which an ED man with a mask over his mouth was dusting for fingerprints. Next to the pipes were a glockenspiel, a drum, a rainstick and even a miniature version of Bellmann’s thunder machine. The body took up most of the space between the organ pipes and the back wall. There wasn’t much room left on the platform, so that the ED man, who didn’t seem to mind the smell, had to be careful where he stood.
Rath recognised her the moment he saw her face.
Shit, he thought involuntarily. Now you can tell Oppenberg what’s become of her. No Hollywood star. Vivian Franck’s dead eyes stared out of a perfectly made-up face that appeared to have been done up for a shoot; the glittering dress might have come from a film fund.
Rath remembered her lust for life and felt sick looking at what was left of her. He pulled himself together and decided to look instead at the organ pipes that rose like metallic stalagmites. The last thing he needed was to pass out in front of Böhm.
‘Doctor here yet?’ Böhm asked the ED man. Even the bulldog was having trouble breathing. The ED man gestured with his head towards the back.
They found the pathologist at a small table in an adjoining room. Dr Schwartz sat in hat and coat, making notes in his little red book. He glanced at Böhm and Rath as they entered, before reassuming his indifferent, slightly cynical expression. Two men stood behind him, and by the look on their faces neither had quite got to grips with the situation. The first, a gaunt figure, was kneading his hat in his hands nervously, blinking in embarrassment out of a pale face, while the second was mildly overweight and blushing grimly under his light-coloured felt hat.
‘Morning, Doctor,’ Böhm said. ‘Now that’s what I call hard-working. What can you say about the cause of death?’
‘Not much.’ Schwartz said. ‘The only certainty is that the woman is dead. No external agencies, at least not at first glance, but I haven’t turned the corpse yet. Didn’t want to tread on your toes.’
‘How long has she been dead?’
‘Based on the degree of decomposition, I’d say three to four weeks. But it could be longer.’
Böhm nodded. ‘Smells about right. Strange that she wasn’t found earlier.’
‘No one’s been in here for weeks,’ the gaunt man chipped in. It sounded apologetic.
‘Who are you?’ Böhm asked.
‘Riedel, the broker. We’re looking for new tenants, and today was the first visit with an interested party. I was showing Herr Strelow here the premises…we were just wondering about the smell, and then on inspecting the organ…’
‘It had to be Vivian Franck,’ said Strelow, shaking his head. ‘That was a real shock.’
‘Do you know the woman?’ Böhm asked. Which suggested that he didn’t.
‘Not personally. But I saw her in Verrucht!’
‘A film actress?’ Böhm mumbled. ‘That fits.’
‘I was going to open the Luxor with her new sound film,’ Strelow said.
‘Vom Blitz getroffen?’ The words slipped out before Rath had a chance to think.
Strelow nodded, but Böhm looked at him disapprovingly. ‘You’re well informed,’ he said. ‘No doubt you spend too much time in the cinema. Do you know the film?’
‘It doesn’t exist yet,’ Rath said. ‘They were about to film it.’
‘Her most expensive production to date,’ Strelow added. ‘Her first full-length talkie. Eagerly anticipated by the whole industry.’
‘Well, nothing will come of it now,’ Böhm said.
‘Do you still need me?’ Dr Schwartz asked in his calm, sonorous voice as he pocketed his notebook. ‘If you want to question the witnesses, perhaps I could apply myself to the remains.’
‘It’s yours, as soon as Henning has everything in the can,’ Böhm said.
No sooner had the doctor taken his leave than Böhm turned the space into an interrogation room, questioning the broker and cinema owner separately. Rath he told to stand aside, but it was unclear whether his purpose was to act as a doorman or a heavy, or something else entirely. Böhm assigned Christel Temme the remaining place at the little table.
The two men didn’t have much to say, apart from the fact that they had found the body. There were no contradictions in their statements. The broker explained that the Luxor had been out of commission since the start of the year because its former owner had taken it to the brink of ruin. Now, thanks to a progressively minded cinema enthusiast – he pointed to the door behind which Strelow was waiting – they were using an opportune moment to convert it into an ultramodern sound film cinema. As for who might have brought the body here, Riedel had no idea. There were no signs of a break-in. Böhm had then asked the broker for a list of everyone who had a key to the Luxor.
While Böhm questioned the two men, Rath immersed himself in his thoughts. The intersection where Vivian Franck had been picked up by a stranger almost four weeks ago was only a few streets away. Had she gone willingly to that ominous stranger waiting by the roadside?
‘Inspector!’ Böhm’s voice startled him. For the first time since that morning, when he had fetched him to his team with a brusque ‘Rath, you’re coming too!’ the DCI had addressed him.
‘Inspector, please check whether the woman has any relatives in the city who might be able to identify her.’
‘Now?’
‘When do you think? We’re investigating a murder.’
‘But I’d need to go back to the station…’
Böhm was unmoved. ‘And when you’ve finished that, you can deliver news of her death. Take Lange from the Winter team if you like. He’s the right man for a job like that.’
‘How am I supposed to get to Alex without a car?’
‘Do I look like your chauffeur?’
For the first time in a long while Rath was obliged to take the underground. He was annoyed: Why had Böhm brought him along, only to make him hang around for three-quarters of an hour and then send him back to the Castle? The journey from Fehrbelliner Platz to Alex took about half an hour, but at least he didn’t have to change. It was his old route, past Nürnberger Platz, and he couldn’t help thinking back to his first few weeks in Berlin, and a journey he had made with Charly. He gazed past his reflection into the darkness and tried to order his thoughts, carried as they were by the rattle and judder of the train.
Vivian Franck was dead.
His private assignment had become an official case.
It would be better if Böhm didn’t learn of his connection to Oppenberg. Somehow he had to sell the groundwork he had carried out privately as freshly acquired and, if possible, collect a few rewards for his endeavour. He had to speak to Oppenberg and the taxi driver as quickly as possible and weave them into the official investigation, but hadn’t managed to get hold of either from the underground station. Oppenberg was back in Babelsberg, while Ziehlke was out and about with his taxi. At least he had been able to keep Erika Voss busy with a few tasks.
By the time he arrived in his office, she had already discovered that Vivian Franck had no relatives in Berlin. Rath was growing to appreciate his secretary more and more. True, she didn’t display a lot of initiative, but any tasks he assigned her, she carried out with care and attention. The documents from the passport office revealed that the dead actress came from Breslau. Erika Voss had already called the local station and was waiting for further information on the Franck family.
The way things looked, the person Vivian Franck was closest to in Berlin was also the person Rath intended to see next: Manfred Oppenberg.
Before setting out on the long journey towards Babelsberg, he tried the taxi office again, but there was still no sign of Ziehlke. No sooner had he hung up than Erika Voss popped her head in. ‘Assistant Detective Lange is here for you.’
The new man from Hannover was standing behind the secretary. ‘Inspector Rath,’ he said, ‘DCI Böhm said I should place myself at your disposal.’
Böhm wasn’t leaving anything to chance. Rath liked the new man, but even if he didn’t know it himself, Lange was being used as a spy. Still, what were police hierarchies for?
‘Perfect timing, Lange,’ Rath said. ‘You can hold the fort here. I need someone to establish contact with our colleagues in Breslau, where Vivian Franck’s family lives. Fräulein Voss is waiting for them to call back but isn’t authorised to issue our colleagues with instructions.’ He gestured towards Gräf’s abandoned desk. ‘Please take a seat in the meantime – I have an appointment. And if you would like a coffee. Fräulein Voss…’
The secretary smiled. ‘Make yourself at home, Herr Lange,’ she said.
Rath took the AVUS to Babelsberg, as he didn’t have a moment to lose. Wannsee ten kilometres proclaimed big letters by the tollhouse. The fun only cost a mark. He flogged the Buick mercilessly over the arrow-straight track, but it was already almost twelve when he reached the group of studios at Neubabelsberg. This time he didn’t park on Stahnsdorfer Strasse but drove the car directly onto the site. The porter opened the gate when he saw the police badge. The oriental city in which Rath had lost his bearings scarcely a week ago had been stripped down to a shell, and he could already make out the great hall from the gatekeeper’s lodge. He drove the car up as far as the door. Security let him in straightaway.
The set looked similar to that of Liebesgewitter: a drawing room, perhaps a little more elegantly and tastefully furnished than Bellmann’s. On the parquet Rudolf Czerny was rehearsing with a woman who bore a vague resemblance to Vivian Franck. Bellmann had done a better job when he replaced Betty Winter with Eva Kröger, Rath thought. Since he couldn’t find Oppenberg anywhere, he waited dutifully until Czerny had finished rehearsing. The actor recognised him and came over.
‘Herr Rath,’ he said, shaking his hand. ‘What brings you here? Have you found a lead on Vivian?’
‘That depends,’ Rath said. ‘I’d like to discuss it with Herr Oppenberg.’
‘I’m afraid you’re too late. Our producer has just left us for a few hours.’
‘I hope he hasn’t gone to his office; they’re the ones who sent me here!’
‘No, he’s been invited to a lunch, can’t be too far away, I think. But wait…’ Czerny looked around enquiringly. ‘Silvia,’ he called. ‘Can you come here for a moment?’
A lively brunette with a clipboard under her arm hurried over. She was mid-twenties at most, with a severely knotted hairstyle that failed to disguise a pretty face.
‘Silvia, can you tell Herr Rath here where the boss is this afternoon?’
She looked Rath up and down before answering. ‘The invitation is from an important business partner.’
‘Which business partner, and what restaurant will I find them in?’
Again she hesitated a little before answering. ‘Not a restaurant,’ she said. ‘Herr Marquard likes to entertain his guests at home. He has a kitchen to rival the best in Berlin.’
‘Marquard, the cinema owner?’
She seemed surprised that he knew the name. ‘He runs his cinemas purely as a hobby. Well, that’s not quite true – he also owns a film lab and a big distribution firm. One of the largest of the independents. Important if you want to stand up to the all-powerful Ufa.’
‘Like Montana?’
‘And many other smaller firms. Marquard is fighting on our side against Ufa.’
‘And against talkies.’
‘He’s not interested in money. For him, it’s about the art. He isn’t the only one who views sound film as an attack on cinematics. He believes that smaller firms should focus on silent film, especially as Ufa is throwing everything it has behind talkies.’
‘But Herr Oppenberg sees things differently.’
‘Exactly. Everyone here at Montana sees it differently. Talkies might cost a vast amount of money – hiring the recording equipment from Tobis is expensive enough alone! But Oppenberg says if we don’t keep up we might as well pack it in, and I fear he’s right.’
Rath nodded. ‘And that’s why he’s meeting Herr Marquard today?’
‘He hopes, above all, to persuade him to open up his distribution company to talkies. We had to distribute Verrucht through another company, and even though the film did well enough, it was by no means a financial success. That has to change with our second talkie. My personal view is that at some point Herr Marquard will have to acknowledge that sound film has just as much artistic potential as silent. Only he mustn’t take too long over it. We need him to help us fight Ufa.’
Rath nodded. ‘Even so, I’m going to have to interrupt this important meeting.’
She appeared almost scandalised. ‘A meal in a private residence! I don’t think you can just go barging in. Herr Oppenberg…’
‘Leave Herr Oppenberg to me. He’ll want to see me, trust me.’
‘If you say so.’ Silvia fished out the address of a villa on the Wannsee.
Rath needed less than quarter of an hour. He parked the Buick on a quiet street lined with trees. Behind the trees was a huge building with countless nooks and crannies, oriels and turrets, crowned by an immense keep; a huge castle villa – built according to the Middle Ages model, if not always stylistically accurate. Rath hadn’t seen anything like it outside of the Middle Rhine. In this English-style park, however, the crenellated structure appeared more like a haunted castle that had been magically transported from Sussex to the sand of the Brandenburg March.
The name Marquard was all that stood on the highly polished brass plate. Rath pushed the bell. While he waited, he couldn’t help thinking of the eloquent opponent of sound film whom he had met in Pschorr Haus. So, this was how the cinema owner and film distributor Marquard lived.
He’s not interested in money. True, Rath thought, anyone who lived like this didn’t have to be interested in money, they simply had it. The heavy oak door opened and a white-haired servant surveyed the uninvited guest.
‘Can I help you?’ he asked in a scratchy voice that sounded as if it was rarely used. Must be at least eighty, Rath thought.
‘I’d like to speak to Herr Oppenberg,’ he said politely. ‘I was told…’
‘I’m afraid I cannot disturb the gentlemen while they are dining.’
Rath showed the old man his card. ‘Tell Herr Oppenberg it’s about Vivian Franck, and please ask Herr Marquard to excuse the interruption.’
The servant raised an eyebrow over Rath’s identification before turning silently away.
He returned five minutes later. ‘If you could wait in the vestibule,’ he said, stepping invitingly to the side. ‘Herr Oppenberg will be with you presently.’
Rath entered a hall that was as high as a house and seemed as if it had been built for the latest Nibelung film. At any moment he expected to see Kriemhild, princess of Burgundy, descending the stairs.
Great double-leaf doors led from the hall into another part of the massive building. Only a small, dark oak door seemed out of place and, being more like the entrance to a castle dungeon, probably led down to the cellar. Rath realised he had taken off his hat, a reflex that must have been triggered by the sacred atmosphere of the room and its immense ribbed vault. There he stood, the grey felt hat in humbly clasped hands, examining the knight’s armour and the huge oil paintings on the walls that glorified the darkest episodes from the Middle Ages. He heard steps on the stairs and turned around.
It wasn’t Kriemhild but Manfred Oppenberg, his face filled with fearful anticipation. Things couldn’t bode well if Rath had driven specially out to Wannsee to interrupt a business lunch.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you now of all times, Herr Oppenberg.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Oppenberg said. He gestured towards the front door. ‘Let’s go to the park. I think I need some fresh air.’
As they stood outside on the half landing, Oppenberg nervously patted his jacket pockets. ‘You don’t happen to have any cigarettes on you?’ he asked. ‘Mine are on the table upstairs…’
Rath took out his new case and Oppenberg helped himself. ‘Thank you,’ he said, as Rath struck a match. The cigarette in his hand was shaking slightly. Oppenberg inhaled deeply. ‘I’ll need it.’
‘Me too,’ Rath said, lighting an Overstolz. Gradually they made their away along the gravel path, down to the lake. Rath waited a moment before speaking.
‘I’m very sorry, Herr Oppenberg,’ he began at last, and watched Manfred Oppenberg stiffen in his elegant suit, ‘but we’ve found Vivian Franck.’ Oppenberg didn’t say anything, nor did he take another drag on his cigarette. Slowly the colour drained from his face. ‘Homicide are now conducting an official investigation. I wanted to come myself to tell you in person… I’m truly sorry.’
Oppenberg pointed to a bench on the side of the path.
‘I need to sit down,’ he said. ‘Even if I’ve been expecting to receive news like this since our last conversation.’ They sat and Oppenberg gazed silently towards the silver grey shimmer behind the trees. ‘Tell me what happened.’
Rath described where and how they had found Vivian Franck’s corpse.
Oppenberg listened in composed silence for a moment and then spoke so quietly that his words were scarcely audible. ‘Find the man who did this, Herr Rath. Find him and I will reward you handsomely!’
‘Catching killers is what I do,’ Rath said. ‘And it’s the Free State of Prussia that pays me, not you.’
‘Nevertheless – a little reward couldn’t hurt.’
Rath shrugged. ‘In a case like this – I don’t know. This is no ordinary crime, no ordinary murder. Perhaps it was just an accident: a drugs accident, and her companion disposed of the body. Anything’s possible.’
Oppenberg shook his head indignantly. ‘No, not an accident! Did you investigate my suspicion that Bellmann had hired someone from the underworld…?’
‘My contact is asking around,’ Rath lied. ‘Do you really think Bellmann is capable of something like that? Of ordering a murder?’
‘That scoundrel’s capable of anything. Any crime.’
‘He feels the same about you.’
‘Of course, slander is one of his specialities. I had nothing to do with Betty Winter’s death. How many times must I tell you?’ Oppenberg stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Two film producers killing each other’s actresses? Doesn’t that sound ridiculous?’
‘You’re the one who set me on that track. We’ll see how ridiculous it is. Have you any enemies apart from Bellmann? Did Vivian Franck? Enemies capable of something like this?’
Oppenberg considered for a moment. ‘For all her popularity, I’m certain she didn’t just have friends. That’s how things are in this profession. The public only sees the adulation, it sees nothing of the jealousy.’ He gazed briefly at the lake before continuing. ‘But enemies who would do something like this? Not in the industry, at any rate. Perhaps you should take a look at the local SA’s membership list, those thugs. Maybe you’ll find the killer there.’
‘You’re saying the Nazis would kill an actress because she works for a Jew?’
‘She didn’t just work for a Jew. Vivian is…was a Jew herself. Not a particularly devout one, but those idiots don’t care whether we visit the synagogue or not. For them it’s about our race. As if we were dogs or horses, not people.’
‘You think the Nazis would do something like that? At a time when they’d sooner present themselves as victims?’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ Oppenberg said, ‘except the Nazis are no victims!’
Rath tossed his cigarette into the nearest shrub and stood up. ‘Herr Oppenberg,’ he said. ‘There’s something unpleasant I still have to ask of you. I need you to identify Vivian’s corpse.’ Oppenberg nodded. ‘I don’t want to take up any more of your time. You’re in the middle of an important meeting…’
The producer stood up as if in slow motion. ‘It all seems so ridiculous now,’ he said. ‘What am I fighting for now that Vivian is dead? Talkies were her future. Marquard liked Vivian, worshipped her, even. She was my best argument to give up his outmoded resistance and finally invest in sound. And now?’
‘But you’re still shooting. I was in the studio just now.’
‘Yes, we’re shooting,’ Oppenberg sighed, ‘but the new actress is a catastrophe! At least, if you keep picturing how Vivian would have played the scene.’
The castle towers of the Marquard villa loomed threateningly over the bleak, wintry park. Behind one of the tower windows, Rath noticed a white figure watching them. At first he thought it was the old servant, but it must have been someone else – unless he had exchanged his black suit for something lighter.
Slowly they made their way back to the house.
‘Marquard isn’t just my distributor,’ Oppenberg said. ‘He’s also one of my most important donors. You can see how rich he is, but he simply doesn’t want to acknowledge that his beloved silent film is dead, and that we will die with it if we don’t change. Perhaps he can afford that, but I can’t!’
Marquard was waiting for them outside the house. Once more, Rath marvelled at the man’s warm, pleasant voice. ‘It’s you, Inspector,’ he said, proffering a hand, ‘I thought I recognised the name when Albert gave me your card.’
‘Please excuse the interruption,’ Rath said, ‘but you may now continue your meeting.’
‘Clearly you haven’t brought good news. What has happened?’
‘Let’s go inside,’ Oppenberg said, ‘I’d rather not tell you out here.’
The two men disappeared inside the house, Marquard taking Oppenberg by the arm. Rath gazed after them, until Albert, the servant, closed the door, casting him a final, contemptuous glance. Although it might have looked like friendship that bound them, in reality the two men were nothing more than business partners. If Marquard hadn’t been willing to focus on talkies when Vivian Franck was alive, what chance did Oppenberg have of persuading him now?
Rath took the AVUS for the return journey too, more on a whim than because of any time pressure. It was fun to drive the Buick at full speed, even if he had to rein himself in upon rejoining the city traffic. There was a telephone booth level with the Städtische Oper on Bismarckstrasse, where Rath tried the taxi office again. At last he got Friedhelm Ziehlke on the line. He told him whose body they had found, and summoned him to the Castle.
Just after half past one Rath stepped out of his car in the atrium feeling very pleased with himself. Fortune favours the brave! was another one of his father’s sayings. The Oppenberg problem was ticked off, and soon the Ziehlke problem would be too. After lunch, the taxi driver’s statements would officially find their way into the new Vivian Franck file. Now it was time to see what his colleagues in Breslau had found.
When Rath entered his office, however, Lange was no longer sitting at Gräf’s desk. ‘He’s with Böhm,’ Erika Voss said, ‘and they’re expecting you, I was told to say.’
Rath went over. Böhm had just returned to the Castle, with everyone gathered around his desk like it was the campfire of an Indian chief: Henning, Christel Temme and Lange, who gave Rath an apologetic shrug as he entered the room.
‘There he is, the prodigal son,’ Böhm said. ‘Why didn’t you take Herr Lange with you as I requested?’
Rath cleared his throat. Why did he always have to justify himself in front of Böhm? ‘Vivian Franck has no relatives in Berlin,’ he said. ‘Her family lives in Breslau, which is why Herr Lange…’
‘So why didn’t you go to Breslau?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Why are you and Lange not in Breslau informing the relatives of the murder victim?’
‘It seemed a little excessive, Sir. Assistant Detective Lange was to ask our colleagues in Breslau for assistance. I thought that in the wake of the Interior Ministry’s saving measures…’
‘You shouldn’t think! You should do as you’re told.’
‘As far as thinking is concerned, Sir – with respect, I must beg to differ.’
‘Don’t get fresh with me, Inspector.’
‘A trip to Breslau is unnecessary because it is highly doubtful whether any family members will come to her funeral, let alone to identify the body.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Vivian Franck had fallen out with all her relatives. Her father is a respected Breslau rabbi – and Vivian – well, she was the black sheep, so to speak, whom no one mentions at family gatherings.’
‘That may be,’ Böhm said, ‘but death changes many things.’
‘Contact with Breslau has been established, so we’ll see,’ Rath said. ‘As a precaution, however, I have asked Franck’s producer to identify the body. He was also privately involved with her. He can be at the morgue at three.’
‘All right,’ Böhm snarled. ‘Let’s leave it at that.’
‘If he identifies the actress beyond any doubt, we could arrange a press conference for this afternoon.’
‘Pardon me?’ Böhm looked as if Rath had just made an indecent proposal. ‘Get that thought out of your head, and that goes for everyone in this room. I don’t want to read anything about this case in the press for the time being! Another dead actress, the second inside a week! It’s possible that the press will uncover more connections.’
‘But the two fatalities have nothing to do with each other,’ Lange objected. ‘Nothing at all, except that they’re both actresses.’
‘The hacks aren’t interested in that,’ Böhm said, and Lange blushed. ‘No press conference, no press release, and I don’t want anyone in this room leaking anything. Not until we have closed the Franck file and can say to Berliners that there is no serial killer at large in their city.’
Everyone fell silent, examining their shoes or fingernails.
‘I’ve something to add, Sir!’ Rath ventured, despite Böhm’s ill temper.
‘What is it?’
‘I’ve been able to trace a witness, the taxi driver who picked up Vivian Franck when she left her flat with a few suitcases. That was…’ Rath leafed through his notebook even though he knew the date by heart, ‘…on the eighth of February.’
‘How did you find all that out so quickly?’ Böhm sounded suspicious.
‘Just a few calls, Sir. The concierge in Franck’s block of flats, then the taxi office. Herr Oppenberg gave me the…’
‘Who?’
‘Manfred Oppenberg. Vivian Franck’s producer, whom I visited in order to…’
‘Isn’t that the man we’ve already questioned as part of the Winter case? Felix Krempin’s former employer, who claims to know nothing?’
‘That’s him. He was kind enough to give me the telephone numbers…’
‘You shouldn’t be associating with people who are possible suspects in a murder enquiry!’ Böhm barked.
‘Oppenberg is suspected of murder?’
‘He certainly isn’t out of the woods if his former employee has committed murder. As for the Vivian Franck case, he’s a suspect just like anyone else connected to the deceased. That goes without saying, even if you have clearly made friends with him already. If you carry on like this, I’ll have you withdrawn from the case on the grounds of bias.’
‘I haven’t made friends with him, I’ve been investigating! When I have a piece of information, I pursue it, instead of wedging it between two folders and letting it go mouldy!’
Henning and Lange hunched even further over their files. Christel Temme wrote something on her pad, although no one was dictating. For a moment the only sound was the scratching of her pen. Böhm took a deep breath.
‘Don’t get ahead of yourself, young man!’ he said. ‘I’m still the one who assigns the tasks! Where would we be if everyone simply worked for themselves? Investigative work has to be co-ordinated, and that is precisely what you still have to learn. How to work with other people!’
Rath had to let a lot of air out of his lungs before continuing. ‘What task have you assigned me then, Sir?’ he asked.
‘You’re coming with me to the morgue,’ Böhm decided. ‘That way you won’t get any stupid ideas. You might as well postpone lunch. Better to see Dr Schwartz on an empty stomach.’
Damn it! ‘I can’t. I have to take care of Herr Ziehlke. He’s arriving at the station any minute.’
‘Who?’ the DCI barked.
‘Friedhelm Ziehlke. The taxi driver I was speaking about just now.’
Böhm glanced at his watch and waved him away. ‘Herr Lange can deal with that. You’re coming with me!’
Dr Schwartz had worked quickly, eager to be rid of bodies like Vivian Franck’s. It was still lying there, however, when Rath and Böhm entered the autopsy room in the cellar of the morgue. Schwartz was washing his hands when they arrived, an activity he engaged in with unusual frequency. He greeted his visitors with a brief nod in the mirror.
‘Well I never,’ he said, without turning around, ‘Messrs Böhm and Rath. You’ve been inseparable lately!’
Böhm gave an involuntary grunt.
‘Good that you could come so quickly,’ Schwarz continued, greeting the police officers with a freshly washed handshake, before leading them to the marble table. Rath couldn’t help but swallow when he saw what death had done to such a beautiful woman. Her face looked more dead than at the crime scene, not that it fazed the doctor. ‘Should we get something to eat afterwards?’ he asked.
‘No time,’ Böhm said, ‘there’s someone coming to identify the corpse at three. So, whenever you’re ready.’
‘In short, this is one of the strangest corpses you’ve ever entrusted me.’ Schwartz produced a pencil and pointed towards the dead face. ‘She was heavily made up. We had to give her a good wash. Don’t worry: ED took a few samples of the make-up beforehand. Without wishing to pre-empt Kronberg, I’d say theatre make-up, or rather, film make-up. She was done up for a shoot.’
There wasn’t much left of it now. Vivian Franck’s face looked like most four-week-old corpses, pale and blotchy, a little deformed in places, fingernails yellow and a little too long.
‘And now we come to the strangest part.’ Schwartz pointed his pencil towards her throat. ‘Her film career was finished before she died. Acting’s a tough job without vocal cords, I should think.’
‘Pardon me?’ Böhm said.
‘Someone cut out her vocal cords.’
‘And that’s how she died?’
Schwartz shook his head. ‘You don’t die from having your vocal cords cut. Though you are right about one thing: this was done to her ante-mortem. I took a look at the incision under the microscope. It must have been carried out shortly before she died.’
‘Her death having being caused by?’ Böhm asked.
‘That question isn’t always so easy to answer, my dear Böhm; and sometimes it can’t be answered at all.’ Schwartz could make even Böhm seem like an impertinent student.
‘I wonder what the meaning of it all is,’ Böhm said. ‘Why maim a person like this?’
‘Torture?’ Rath ventured, receiving two disapproving glances.
Schwartz shook his head. ‘That doesn’t fit. It’s as painful as having tonsillitis, perhaps less so. If it wasn’t an accident during an operation – and complete removal would seem to go against that – then the person who did this meant to humiliate her, I think. Or to prevent her from crying out.’
‘Did she suffer a painful death?’ Rath asked, reintroducing the subject a little more diplomatically than Böhm.
‘No idea.’
‘What do you mean, no idea?’ Böhm asked. ‘That you still don’t know?’
‘I found an injection site in her skin, probably from a hypodermic needle. It must have been administered shortly before she died.’
‘And?’
Schwartz shrugged. ‘So far we have found no sign whatsoever of poison,’ he said. ‘If that remains the case, I would say that she died a natural death. Perhaps she just couldn’t bear no longer having a voice.’
‘Don’t forget drugs,’ Rath said. ‘Perhaps that’s what she died of.’
‘For me they come under poison, no need to mention them specifically.’
Böhm shook his head thoughtfully. ‘Does that mean what we have here might not even be murder?’
Schwartz shrugged. ‘Or a very skilful one.’