Free Babylon Berlin by Volker Kutscher Page A

condolences and then disappeared onto the balcony.
    ‘Do you two know each other?’ Rath asked.
    Wolter waited until the widower had joined the doctor on the balcony. ‘You’ve really landed us in it there,’ he began.
    Soon Rath realised this was something of an understatement. Dr Peter Völcker was not only a doctor and head of the Neukölln public health department; he also had a seat and a vote on the local district council – as a member of the Communist Party.
    In police circles, he was infamous, a troublemaker who enjoyed calling for inquiries and threatened legal action whenever police officers and communists clashed.
    ‘Shit!’ Rath commented.
    ‘Succinctly put,’ said Wolter. ‘Nothing we can do now though.’ He patted his colleague on the shoulder. ‘Come on, we shouldn’t leave the communist doctor alone for too long. Who knows what he’ll try and foist on us?’
    When they stepped onto the balcony, the two women were lying exactly where they had been found. The doctor had obviously examined them already. He was now standing by one of the wooden privacy screens that flanked the balcony, fiddling around with the wood. The widower hunched over the corpse of his wife.
    ‘If you’re finished, Doctor, you ought to fill out the death certificates,’ Wolter said. ‘The corpses shouldn’t remain here any longer than is necessary. Have you recorded the death? In that case, don’t waste any more time here and get back to your practice. There are bound to be some proles waiting to have their chicken eyes removed.’
    ‘All in good time, my man,’ Völcker replied. ‘I’m still establishing the cause of death.’ He turned round and presented both police officers with a large, sharp projectile. ‘Here!’
    ‘What the hell is that supposed to be?’ Rath asked.
    ‘You of all people should know. A police bullet. Not the first victim your colleagues have on their conscience.’ There was something unbearably self-righteous about Völcker’s tone.
    ‘My dear doctor!’ Wolter was like a steam boiler whose safety valves had opened to release high pressure in a sharp hiss. ‘Perhaps you’re unclear about the traditional division of labour. It’s neither your job to secure evidence, nor to draw conclusions, and certainly not hasty ones!’ He snatched the projectile from the doctor’s hand. ‘Whether it’s a police bullet or not remains to be seen. We shall…’
    ‘Murderers!’ The widower had risen to his feet, his face no longer pale but red and distorted with rage. ‘Murderers!’ he cried again and hurled himself on Wolter. Rath pulled him back in an arm lock.
    ‘Calm yourself down,’ he said. At first the man tried to wriggle free, before growing quieter and finally beginning to sob. Rath gave him a consoling pat on the shoulder.
    ‘Do you see what you’ve done?’ Now Wolter was really yelling. Völcker winced inwardly.
    ‘I’m not the one who made this man a widower,’ replied the doctor.
    ‘Are you trying to suggest that I…’
    ‘Bruno!’ Rath feared he would soon have to hold Wolter back too. Uncle paused mid-sentence and turned towards him, looking as if he might go for the doctor’s throat at any moment. With a struggle he regained his composure.
    ‘My dear doctor,’ Wolter continued. ‘As a scientist you should really be approaching a task like this from an impartial standpoint. I’m not sure if you’re the right man for the job.’ He turned to Rath. ‘Call Dr Schwartz from the Charité hospital. He has more experience in this area.’
    Rath left the two squabblers to their own devices. A short time later, he was standing in Wilhelm Prokot’s shop for a second time. The butcher gave him a broad grin as he showed him to the telephone.
    ‘Was the doctor able to help?’
    Prokot had known exactly what he was doing when he pointed Rath in the direction of Dr Völcker. Rath would’ve liked to have slammed a fist into that grinning face but, instead, composed