Rosa (25 page)

The sheen on Kvatsch’s face had begun to glisten in the low light; nonetheless, he remained defiant. “Glad to see you’ve picked up where Knig left off, Detective. By the way, “ he said more insistently, “how is the widow? I never got to pass on my condolences.”

Hoffner continued to stare into the callous little eyes. With a sudden surge, he pulled Kvatsch from the boards and slammed him into a bare patch of muddied rock. Kvatsch winced as he let out a blast of tobaccoed breath. He was clearly in pain, but said nothing. Hoffner held him there for several seconds longer, then let go and stepped away. He turned his attention to the dead body. “We’re done here.” Hoffner crouched down and began to scan the dead woman’s clothes: the dog had gotten to them; her blouse was in tatters. “Make nice with the good sergeant, Kvatsch, and get out.”

Kvatsch needed a moment to pull himself together. The sergeant—perhaps out of a twisted sense of loyalty—tried to help, but Kvatsch quickly pushed him aside. With a forced ease, Kvatsch straightened his coat and smoothed back the loose strands of his hair. He then spoke, undeterred by the back of Hoffner’s head: “What you’ve never understood, Detective, is how little it matters what you do, or how you do it. What matters is how it’s perceived.” Kvatsch knew there would be no response; even so, he waited. “And all for a little photo.” He nodded to the cameraman to start back for the ladder. Kvatsch was about to follow, when he added, “How much easier your life could have been, Detective.” He let the words settle. “Shame.” He then followed the cameraman out.

Hoffner waited until the sound of footsteps had receded completely. Without looking up, he said, “You two can wait upstairs, as well.”

The sergeant bristled at being lumped in with his subordinate. He offered a clipped bow to Hoffner’s back, then motioned officiously to the patrolman. The two men started off.

“Oh,” said Hoffner, still with his back to them. “And we’ll need a Kripo photographer down here. Tell him he can catch a ride in the ambulance.” Hoffner paused a moment. “And my guess is he won’t be paying, Sergeant.”

This time there was no bow. “Yes, Herr
Kriminal-Kommissar.
”

Finally alone, Hoffner stared down at the chiseled back through the strips of cloth: the ruts were again smooth, and the little bumps from the flawed blade appeared again at perfect intervals. She had been killed like the others, strangled and etched elsewhere—two, maybe three days ago, from the smell and look of the skin—then brought here to be put on display: the drag lines in the dirt—from some sort of crate or trunk—made that clear enough. Hoffner glanced at the side of her face. This woman had been in her late fifties. Her hands told of work in a mill: there were countless wisps of threaded cloth trapped beneath the fingernails, all of which had come to resemble little calluses on her skin. These were the by-product of years on the line, not souvenirs from any recent struggle. Not that she could have put up much of a fight. Like all of the victims, she was small, even delicate, if one put aside the gnarled texture of her hands. That, too, was a common trait: hands that had known a life of labor.

Unlike the others, however, her neck was horribly distended. Hoffner jabbed the end of his pen into the swollen flesh. That was more of the dog’s handiwork. Its teeth marks were still fresh in the fleshy skin just below the chin, yet the back had gone untouched. Instinct, thought Hoffner. Even the animal had sensed the depravity there and had kept clear.

He looked up and scanned the surrounding area. He knew he would find nothing: Wouters, or Wouters’s surrogate—Fichte would have to clear that up—was always far too careful to leave anything behind. Luxemburg and Mary Koop had been diversions: the killer was now back on form.

Hoffner placed a finger on her skin. It was cold and tough and greaseless. He ran his hand along the diameter-cut. The ridges of hardened flesh bent back easily against the pressure of his thumb. There was something oddly consoling in its familiarity, in the shape and texture of a pattern that he had known so well up until a week ago. Now there was far more to it than that: jagged ruts, and gloves, and grease, and a name, and a revolutionary, and on and on and on. It was all supposed to bring him closer to a solution, and yet, with each new “discovery,” Hoffner felt himself being drawn toward something that had little to do with the deaths of his five unremarkable and unconnected Berlin women. He was beginning to wonder where the diversion really lay.

T
en minutes later, Hoffner stepped back out into the raw air of Senefelderplatz. The chill settled on his face and, for an instant, let him forget all of the pieces that were flying through his head. Sadly, the first image that made its way back in was of Kvatsch. Hoffner knew that the first explosion of articles would appear in tomorrow’s papers. A lovely sense of panic would sweep over the city as the story jumped from the
BZ
to the
Morgenpost,
and up and down the Ullstein line, until, like a brush fire, it would leap across the avenue to the Mosse and Scherl presses, and blaze across the headlines of all of their high- and low-end papers. Kvatsch had probably come up with some clever name for the murders already. It was irrelevant what he had seen: he would invent what he needed. And a million eyes would now be peering over Hoffner’s shoulder, waiting and wondering.

The ambulance was still nowhere in sight. Hoffner knew there was no reason to wait; there was nothing else he could do here tonight. He had started across the square when he heard the sound of the sergeant running up from behind him. Hoffner dug his hands into his coat pockets and continued in the other direction. He spoke over his shoulder: “The ambulance,” he said. “Make sure she gets back to the Alex.” A mumbled, “Yes, Herr
Krim         .         .         .
” faded into the distance as Hoffner picked up his pace.

It was only then that he realized how quiet the square had become. Hoffner glanced over at the lamppost. He noticed that a small, horse-drawn wagon had pulled up under the light; a rifle was propped up against its back wheel. The horse stood content with a bag of oats, while the driver struggled to untie the leash from the post. Hoffner stopped.

The leash was now heavy from the weight of the dog’s lifeless body. The man had shot it once, in the throat. Save for an occasional bob of the head from each yank on the line, the dog lay quiet in a pool of its own blood. This time there had been no Franz to save it. Hoffner waited until the man had freed the dog. He then slowly headed off.

V
an Acker checked the bottle before pouring out three more shots of whiskey.

The Bruges
Stationsplein
bar was not perhaps best known for its quality of stock, but it always kept enough of it flowing freely to satisfy the detectives of the city
Politie.
The rest of the station clientele had to be content with a Tarwebier or Chimay, tasty beers to be sure, but neither with enough of a kick to smooth over a ride out of town. Whiskey, on the other hand, always let you sleep. Mueller took his glass and raised it in a toast. Fichte was having trouble finding his.

“To your left, Detective,” said van Acker; he brought his own up to meet Mueller’s. Fichte eventually got hold of his and, spilling most of it on his pants, reached up to join them. “That’s very good, Detective,” said van Acker. He finished with the toast: “To finding one’s glass.”

Mueller and van Acker tossed theirs back. Fichte thought for a moment, let out a long breath, then placed his untasted back on the bar.

Mueller said, “Well, at least you tried.”

The last train to Berlin was set to leave Bruges in the next twenty minutes; it promised an eleven-o’clock arrival in Berlin tomorrow morning, and, with any luck, would get there by two. Still, it was quicker than waiting for first light; at best, Mueller could get Fichte to Berlin by early evening, and that was not accounting for weather or stops for fuel and oil. No, the train was the best bet. Van Acker had insisted. He had also used his pull with a certain transportation minister—a man whose wife had yet to learn about a young lady he was keeping in a lovely gabled house near the Begijnhof—to make sure that Fichte would have no trouble with any military delays at the German border.

Van Acker had come to this decision just after he and Fichte had stripped the asylum clean of every piece of paper having to do with Wouters: correspondence logs, visitor logs, psychiatric reports, staff interviews, medical files, the last of which had included details of Wouters’s eating and digestive habits—Fichte had been amazed to discover just how many varieties shit came in—all dating from the beginning of September. Plus, van Acker had taken them back via his office so as to pick up his personal case files on Wouters.

The train, though, was another matter. Fichte had wanted to send a wire to Berlin, just in case Hoffner had any other instructions. Van Acker had convinced him otherwise: better to bring all the necessary documents to Berlin by tomorrow morning than to lose valuable time to the drawn-out exchange of cables. “Don’t you agree, Detective?” Fichte had nodded quietly. The more he drank, however, the less he was looking forward to having to ask that question of Hoffner in person.

They had rounded up Mueller about an hour ago. Mueller, of course, had been disappointed to hear that he would be making the return flight solo, but once the invitation had been extended to join them for a few farewell drinks, all was forgiven.

“I still don’t see why you don’t come along,” said Fichte to van Acker. “Your case. You know the man better than anyone.” It was the first coherent thing Fichte had said in the last half-hour.

“I appreciate the offer,” van Acker said, “but not my jurisdiction. I had my chance.” He stared down at his glass. “I’m also guessing Herr Hoffner wouldn’t be that keen on the company.” Fichte tried to disagree, but van Acker continued: “I don’t want our friend back in Belgium,” he said with a sudden resolve. “And I don’t think you’ll want him in Germany, either.”

Fichte understood. Van Acker had failed to kill Wouters; he was telling Hoffner not to make the same mistake.

An amplified voice announced the train’s final boarding. Mueller tossed back Fichte’s untouched whiskey, and the three men headed out to the platform.

“They won’t wake you at the border,” van Acker said to Fichte as they walked. “I’ve seen to that.”

Fichte nodded his thanks.

Van Acker continued. “Tell Herr Hoffner—” He tried to find the words. “Tell him I would have loved the chance.”

The men stopped at the steps up to Fichte’s car, and, placing his valise on the platform, Fichte said, “My guess is, so would he, Monsieur
Le Chef Inspecteur.
” Van Acker appreciated the gesture. He said nothing.

“All right,” said Mueller impatiently. “If he’s going to be sleeping the whole way there, you and I’ll need to make up for his lack of commitment.”

Van Acker had known Mueller for less than an hour and was already a devotee. “One of us has a wife, Mueller,” said van Acker with a grin.

Mueller said, “Well, don’t look at me.”

The whistle blew, and Fichte gathered up his things. “I leave you in good hands, Chief Inspector,” he said. He shot a glance at Mueller. “Well, at least a few good fingers.”

Mueller laughed. He then turned to van Acker. “You do keep your pants on until the second course, don’t you, Inspector? Not like the Berlin boys?”

Fichte mounted the steps and van Acker said, “I’ll expect cables.” Fichte turned back and nodded. “Safe journey,” said van Acker. Another nod from Fichte. Van Acker then slapped Mueller on the back and started off. “Come on, Toby. I’ll introduce you to my wife.”

Fichte was out cold by the time the train had reached the outskirts of town.

A
t ten-thirty, Hoffner stopped by the wire room to send Sascha up to the attic for the night. It was too late for a cable now, not that he needed one to tell him what they had found. Anything other than Wouters would have caused a minor panic. Fichte, no doubt, had his hands full. Still, Hoffner would have liked to make sure that Fichte was loading them down with the right material. That, however, would have to wait for tomorrow.

It was nearly eleven, then, when Hoffner finally turned onto Kremmener Strasse.

He had long ago dispensed with the empty distinctions between character and weakness, at least when it came to decisions like these. To his mind, only men who claimed to have no choice struggled with those labels: to them, lack of choice granted a kind of freedom from consequence, or at least a softening of responsibility. Their angst, their wailing, their mea culpas of self-betrayal, all stemmed from that initial claim of powerlessness. Hoffner had never been that stupid or that impotent. He knew there was nothing inevitable about his seeing Lina. He was making the choice to venture back into the familiar of the unknown, and she was willingly inviting him in. Of course, had he seen Lina as anything more than that, he might have persuaded himself to hope for more, and that would have been dangerous. Hope fostered despair, and Hoffner had no desire for either.

The moon had broken through, and the houses melded into one another like a wide sheet of chalky gray stone. Lina’s building stood in the middle of the row, six wide steps leading up to its stoop, which boasted two flower boxes, each with a clump of frozen mud and a few gnarled twigs as reminders of some distant strains of life. Like the street itself, the boxes lay barren. Kremmener was one of the last outposts of the city’s Mitte district, a single street removed from the criminal haunts of Prenzlauer Berg. Ten years ago the gulf between the two would have been immeasurable; now it was a distinction only in name.

Lina had found a room on the top floor of Number 5, and although a woman living alone was far less of a shock these days—especially in this part of town—she had taken a roommate. Elise worked the coat-check room at the White Mouse. She was someone to know, according to Lina, a girl who was moving up. She was also rarely home before 2:00 a.m., and was infamous for forgetting her keys. A ring of the bell and the sound of scurrying feet up the stairs no longer drew the watchful eye of the landlord. He had grown fond of Elise and equally accustomed to her late-night, keyless returns.