The odd thing was the vehicle was occupied by the driver alone. The coincidence was that this driver decided to leave the airport without a fare at the precise moment the Audi drove off.
Getting inside the next waiting cab, he handed the driver a ten-deutschmark note. 'That's your tip,' he said in German. `And I may add a bonus. Just follow that black Audi, please. You'll be helping the Drug Squad,' he added.
Newman kept a close eye on the Audi. This action automatically made him observe the cab which appeared to be following it. As they turned into the kerb by the hospital Newman warned his driver to stop immediately. This placed his vehicle a dozen metres behind the other cab now parked by the kerb.
He paid off his driver, stooped to pick up his case and noted the registration number of the waiting cab. Then he walked into the hospital Immediately his nostrils were assailed by the aroma of hygienic cleansing liquids. Newman detested all things medical. Still, he consoled himself as he entered the reception hall, it was in the line of duty. Damnit!
`I can have that cab driver picked up,' Kuhlmann suggested when Newman finished his brief report. 'We'll grill the hell out of him…'
`If I might make a suggestion,' Tweed intervened. 'Don't alert him. Have him followed, identified – if possible. But on no account should he be intercepted.'
`You're blown,' Kuhlmann warned: 'That driver could be our only lead to who organized the tracker – and from the airport. That is very serious. After the precautions we took. I'm telling you.'
Kuhlmann was short, broad-shouldered, had a large head and a wide mouth, his thick lips clamped on his cigar which was unlit. Dark-haired, his eyebrows were thick and his manner and speech suggested a very tough character. In his forties, Newman estimated.
`Not to worry,' Tweed said. 'And let's play it my way. Low profile. Incidentally, normally this would be a case for the local police. How was it they brought you in?' Tweed turned to Newman. 'Chief Inspector Kuhlmann is from the Federal Police in Wiesbaden.'
`Because they have a bright police chief here,' Kuhlmann told them. 'Name on the deceased's passport rang a bell. He put it through the computer at Cologne. Fergusson came up as one of your people. So, I phoned you. Which is why I'm here, why you are here. This case could have international implications…'
`Then the BND could get involved.' Tweed sounded bothered as he referred to the German counter- intelligence HQ at Pullach just south of Munich. 'Low profile,' he repeated.
`Let's go see the doctor who attended Fergusson,' Kuhlmann said impatiently. As they walked down a clinically spotless corridor he continued explaining. 'Two uniformed policemen on night patrol saw Fergusson's body floating up against the lock-gates leading from the Binnenalster to the Elbe. Hauled him out with a boat-hook, found he was still alive, rushed him to this hospital. He died an hour later..
`How did he come to get into the water?' Newman asked.
`Blow on the side of the skull. Could have slipped, caught his head on the stone wall before he hit the water, so they say. Accidental death would have been the verdict.' Kuhlmann chewed at his cigar, unhappy that he couldn't light up inside the hospital. 'Accidental death,' he repeated. 'Except your people don't have accidents. Here's the doctor's office. Schnell is his name. Speaks good English. Take your choice of language.'
Dr Schnell, a small, plump-faced man, wearing a white coat, rose from behind his desk and Kuhlmann made brief introductions, then launched straight into his interrogation.
`How did Ian Fergusson die?'
'He stopped breathing…'
`That's not funny. Tweed here was a close friend of his.'
'I had no intention of treating this tragedy humorously, Mr Tweed. But it's up to the pathologist to answer that question. Fergusson's body has been transferred to the morgue.'
'I quite understand.' Tweed paused, glancing at a dark haired nurse who stood behind Schnell, an attractive girl in her late twenties. 'Who was present when he was close to death?'
'Myself and Sister Bruns. That is why she is here.'
'He was still alive when he was brought in, I gather. Did he say anything? No matter how unimportant it might seem, I need to know everything – if he spoke.'
'Well, yes he did.' Schnell picked up a pencil and turned it slowly between sensitive fingers. 'It made little sense to either of us, I'm afraid…'
'He spoke in English or German?'
Tweed's gaze encompassed both Schnell and Sister Bruns who was watching him closely. He had the strong impression the girl wanted to speak but was inhibited by Schnell's presence.
'In English – which we both understand. He was in a bad way – the blow on the side of the head plus being half-drowned when the two policemen dragged him out. So he was pretty incoherent. I may not even have heard correctly…'
'Try and tell me,' Tweed coaxed.
`He had trouble getting the two words out which he repeated – if, I emphasize, I really did understand. First he said 'Berlin'. He repeated the name of the city twice. Then he repeated a man's name – 'Hans' – and that, I'm afraid, is all he said…'
`You agree?' Tweed turned to Bruns and stared hard at her as she shook her head. 'There was something else?'
She took a deep breath. Beneath her uniform her breasts heaved. 'He was trying to say something before 'Berlin'. I'm quite sure of it…'
`Just having trouble speaking at all,' Schnell objected.
`No!' Bruns was vehement, holding Tweed's gaze. 'He said the word three times – and three times he tried to say something before it. Then when he said 'Hans' he tried to say something else. After 'Hans'. Again it happened three times. I could not possibly be mistaken…'
`Really?' Schnell was ironic.
`I am quite sure of what I say. My hearing is very acute and I was watching him closely. Believe me, Mr Tweed, I am right.' `I believe you,' said Tweed.
At the morgue Tweed stared down at the white sheet covering the body of a man lying on the dissecting table. Kuhlmann had introduced Martin Kosel, the pathologist, an ascetic-looking man in his fifties who might have been displaying furniture for sale. Kosel pulled back the sheet and exposed the head and neck.
`That's Ian Fergusson,' said Tweed. 'He can't have been in the water long…'
`I couldn't comment before I've completed my examination,' Kosel replied, covering the corpse with the sheet again.
`But you will,' Kuhlmann growled. He produced a folder, shoved it under the pathologist's nose. 'Federal Police. We need an educated guess. Now. Assuming you are educated…'
`I resent that…'
`Noted for the record. The pathologist showed resentment. Now, let's get to it. When we checked his personal effects his passport was hardly damp…'
`It was inside the breast pocket of his jacket,' Kosel pointed out. 'And he was wearing a raincoat buttoned to the neck.. `A lightweight raincoat. His wallet, tucked inside his other breast pocket wasn't even moist. And the police patrol dragged him out when he was half-submerged under the water. I'd say he was found within five minutes of being dumped into that outlet from the Binnenalster. They came as close as that to catching the killer.'
`Killer?' Kosel protested. 'I haven't established the cause of death..
`You think he walked off the edge for an early morning swim? He was found floating by the lock-gates not five minutes' walk from the Jungfernstieg landing-stage on the Binnenalster. That whole area is well-lit by street lamps…'
`Maybe he was drunk…'
Tergusson never touched alcohol,' Tweed remarked mildly. 'So cancel that one,' Kuhlmann said.
The corpse smells strongly of alcohol – whisky I would say.'
'So, we can make some educated guesses?' Kuhlmann grasped Kosel by the arm and smiled grimly. 'You're doing fine. Keep it up. Now, let's come to the blow on the side of the head.'
`Encrusted with dried blood. He could have hit his skull on the stone wall when he went in.'
