The Killing of Emma Gross (26 page)

I finished my coffee and rose to put the empty cup in the kitchen. Flensburger went with me and took the cup.

'Let me, old man. Don't bother yourself about all that.' He went into the kitchen. 'You didn't want any more did you?'

I toyed with saying no, but who was I fooling?

'God, yes please.'

'Ah,' his grin split his face, 'I see you like it strong too. This is full Julius strength, this brew. Stuff of life to us doctors, you know, specially this time of a morning. Well, you must know how it is yourself, detective, eh?'

He handed me another cup. I rested this one on the arm of my sofa as Flensburger seated himself.

'So where was I?' he said.

'An experiment, you said. To do with the missing morphine.'

He clicked his fingers, the diamond in his wedding ring twinkling in the light. 'That's it, yes. So I consented to this crack pot scheme whereby old Koch – that was the bursar's name, silly old ass – would hide out in the stock cupboard on one of Frieda's shifts and wait for her to come and steal the stuff. And damn me if he didn't turn out to be right. There she was, red-handed, arms full of phials. Of course, silly old Koch grabs her arm so she drops all the morphine, doesn't he? So we still lost that batch even though we'd found our thief.'

He shook his head and drank his coffee. That seemed to be the end of the story for him.

'What happened next?' I said.

'Well, she was struck off, wasn't she. Cast down never to darken our door again, that sort of thing.'

'And you haven't seen her since.'

'No. Well...'

'Yes?'

'There was one time I was coming out of a nightclub in the Altstadt at about four in the morning and I fancied I saw her in the street then as I drove by in a cab with my wife. But it was only for a couple of moments, and she seemed to be arm-in-arm with some kind of...
beinl
. Streetwalker, you know? Rum thing, so it probably wasn't her after all.'

'When was this?'

'About four in the morning, I told you.'

'No, I mean how long ago. What night was it?'

'Oh, well it was a Friday. That's for certain. My wife and I only go out Friday nights. If I'm off duty, which isn't often, let me tell you. So rare is it, in fact, that you'd think I'd remember it all a bit easier, eh? Thank God for the coffee, is all I can say.' He drank some more and swished it around his mouth while he mulled. 'Only a few months ago. Before Christmas, but not that long. Let's see...was the 21
^st
December a Friday?'

'No, that Friday was the twentieth.'

'Well then, that must be it. There's your answer.'

'Which street was this?'

'Oh, but it can't have been her.'

'Just in case, sir. If I run out of leads then this might be all I have to go on.'

'But I mean, arm-in-arm with a prostitute? What in God's name would possess her to stoop so low?'

'What indeed?' I asked.

He frowned. 'I'm not sure. The nightclub was that Blue Hake place on Königsallee. I can't remember which street I thought I saw her on, but it was one of the ones just around a corner, if that's any help at all?'

'Where do you live, sir?'

'Oh, up in Golzheim.'

I jotted that down and put my notebook away. That meant the taxi would have headed northwards, which might cut the number of streets I'd need to search for Brandt if it came to that. I stood and slung coffee down my throat. That second cup was even tastier than the first.

'Tell me doctor, the hospital keeps records of the employees?'

'Oh yes.'

'And it would still have Frieda Brandt's file?'

'I believe so. I can check for you with the front desk.'

'That would be most helpful, thanks.'

Dr Flensburger was true to his word, and thirty-five minutes later I left the hospital with a photograph of Frieda Brandt taken from her employee file. In exchange, I promised to supply the good doctor with whatever information I could about the former midwife's whereabouts.

Whatever Brandt's significance to the Gross case, I was edging closer. I just had to hope that wherever this lead took me, the green man wouldn't be there with another gun-shaped piece of metal in his fist.

The St Rochus hostel was located behind the church where I'd captured Kürten. By contrast with the pretence of the church's domed neo-Byzantine architecture, the hostel was a brick building that looked its age, which was late Kaiserreich.

Drug addicts, the diseased, the widowed, the mentally ill, prostitutes trying to go straight, these hostels were their last port of call on the journey to starvation or begging on the streets, or back to walking the streets. I'd tried the St Gertrude women's hostel and come up empty. If Brandt wasn't at St Rochus then I'd have to try something else. My vision was getting grainy and sluggish, just like the last time I was in the vicinity. Maybe God was trying to tell me something.

The hostel's high arched gateway faced onto a street encircling the small public park behind the church. A few lonely pedestrians crossed the park. Auto engines rumbled from the busy square on the other side of the church. I approached the hostel gate, one door of which stood open. The brass plaque set into the brickwork next to the gate read:

You once cared for sufferers of the plague and were always ready to help others by kind service and fervent prayers. You had no home and you died in a dungeon. Please grant us the cure we seek and help us become healthier in spirit.

Some would've found that uplifting, I supposed.

I knocked on the open door. A youngish priest in his middle twenties drew near. He wore a black buttoned-up robe, or cassock, or whatever the he...heck they were called, that reached down to the ankles. He touched his white collar with thin, pale fingers. His hair was short and dark and well-combed and it shone in the morning sunlight. He angled his head and he didn't say anything.

'Oh shit, you haven't taken a vow of silence have you?'

He smiled. 'No, my son. I'm a priest, not a monk.'

My son. The guy was ten years my junior. Five, at the very least, if he was older than he looked. I held the photograph of Freida Brandt in one hand and my
Kripo
ID in the other. The priest pursed his lips, glancing at both items in turn with steady grey eyes. His lips formed a perfect, feminine cupid's bow.

'I'm looking for this woman. A former nurse named Frau Brandt, though she may be registered under another name.'

'Has she done something terrible?'

'I'm not sure.'

'Well then why did you ask if she registered under a false name?'

'Is anyone registered here by that name?'

'We don't take names here, my son. We offer refuge.' He steepled his fingers in front of his lips. 'Sometimes that may include refuge from oneself.'

That sounded more like the French Foreign Legion than anything else. 'It's a little early in the morning for theology, father,' I said.

'It's never too early for a little theology, my son. Or too late.'

'It is for me. May I ask around inside?'

He considered this for a moment and nodded. 'If the lady is unwilling to go with you then we will of course have to step in.'

'She is here, then?'

'Ah.' He smiled again. 'You misunderstand me, but then I was not clear. I meant that, in the event that she is sheltering here, and, if so, in the event that she prefers not to accompany you, we would, hypothetically, feel compelled to respect such wishes.' He cast his eyes skyward. So did I, though for different reasons, I suspect.

'You just out of seminary, by any chance?'

'Why yes my son. How did you know?'

'Divine inspiration.'

I left him and strode into the building over floorboards that had been polished to a wicked sheen. Perhaps that was how those in receipt of the hostel's charity repaid its kindness.

A sign for the dormitories pointed to the right. The sounds of bubbling liquid and hissing steam assaulted my ears. I passed an open door to the kitchens, got a flash of pots and pans and women wearing white coats beneath rose-red cheeks and sweating foreheads. I kept going.

The hallway ended at a T junction. Right to the men's dormitory, left to the women's. I turned left. Ten metres further, the hallway opened up into a large, wood-panelled room.

Narrow single beds lined the walls, the beds arranged so close together that they resembled a military barracks more than a hospital. A double row of beds, each row facing out towards the walls, ran up the centre of the room, a small metal chest nestling at the foot of each bed. Women of differing ages crowded the room while a gaggle of nuns helped the older and less physically able to dress themselves.

Voices echoed beneath the high ceiling: a whole room full of garrulous females. If I got any sense out of this lot, it'd be a miracle.

I stopped at the nearest bed. A young girl paused with her arm halfway through the sleeve of her blouse. I avoided gaping at her partially exposed breasts. Tried to, that is. I wasn't successful, but I did feel bad about that. I showed her the photo and ID in combination, as I had with the priest.

'Do you recognise this woman?' I asked.

The girl shook her head. I moved from bed to bed, first checking the occupant for any resemblance to the picture, then asking them if they knew Brandt, then looking around the room to see if I could see her. After a minute or so, the room quietened and each pair of eyes tracked my progress. None of the women, once dressed, tried to leave. Each waited her turn, no doubt eager to discover what this dumb bull might want from her.

It took me fifteen minutes to cover the whole room. None of the down-at-heel hostellers recognised Brandt from my photo, and nor did the nuns, though I had been offered a few hard luck stories and some scraps of useless gossip about feckless husbands and lovers and the like. I thanked them all through gritted teeth and left the dormitory. I walked back past the kitchen to the gate.

The young priest laid a hand on my arm as I was about to step through to the outside world.

'Will you not stay for breakfast, detective? You look as though you could do with some.'

My belly betrayed me by rumbling. I was forced to concede my hunger and it felt like a defeat. In a way it was. How was I going to track Frieda Brandt now? By asking at various post offices whether she'd left a forwarding address? By looking to see if she'd rented a post box somewhere in the city? By checking to see if she had an account at one of the city's banks? By staking out Altstadt night clubs in the hope she might perambulate past arm-in-arm with a
beinl
? This was shaping into a job that would take a whole detective squad several days to accomplish. I had to be back on my shift in a day or so. Maybe some food would help me think.

The priest took me to the dining room, another large space filled this time with rows of wooden benches and trestle tables worn smooth by the passage of time and the caresses of thousands of destitute buttocks. The room was half full of men and women both who sat in same-sex clumps under the watchful eyes of the white-haired priests at the top table.

I chose an emptier table and sat down. The young priest served me porridge, ladling the stuff from a large pot into an enamel bowl laid out on the table. I got a wedge of dark bread to go with it, then the priest floated off.

I set to, my hunger so deep that it pained me to fill my stomach. The porridge tasted of oats and smoked bacon, a strange combination that tested the boundaries of what I defined as 'food'. Although it wasn't much, I couldn't manage more than half my bowl and a couple of bites of bread before I felt full. The meal dried my mouth, though I was able to wet it again with a cup of weak coffee dispensed by another priest. The coffee had a strange nutty aroma. Nor did it taste much like coffee. Ersatz stuff, probably.

If ever a breakfast was designed to motivate one out of poverty, this was it.

I got an itch at my temple and looked up. A young woman with dark hair and acne-scarred skin was glaring at me from a nearby table. I must've spoken to her in the dormitory, but I'd spoken to so many. She certainly hadn't told me anything useful, else I'd have remembered her. I ignored her and finished my pretend coffee. When I looked again, she'd gone.

I got up, feeling sick from the porridge, or from the too-sudden abating of my hunger, and I waddled to the exit. This time the young priest wasn't there. I stepped into the street and lit one of my cigars. I was taking a puff when someone tapped my shoulder.

I jumped and swallowed a great gob-full of smoke. I choked and dropped the cigar on the cobbles. I spun around, hand clasping the Luger in my pocket, but whoever had been there had gone.

I turned back to my cigar. The acne-scarred, dark-haired girl crouched on the pavement, cradling the smoking cigar in her hand and suckling on the end. I leaned over and took it from her.

'I suppose that was you tapping me on the bloody shoulder,' I said.

'Yes sir.' Her voice sounded hoarse, like she'd been ill. Or maybe she was a drug addict of some kind too, like Brandt.