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Jakob Arjouni

• Herausgeber: No Exit Press
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Kemal Kayankaya Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Seitenzahl: 211

Beschreibung

A Kemal Kayankaya Mystery Four members of a radical ecological group are accused of the murder of the director of a chemical plant near Frankfurt. While admitting to material damage of the plant they deny any involvement with the murder. According to witnesses, five people participated in the sabotage but where is the fifth man? The defendant's lawyer hires Kemal Kayankaya to find him. Born in Turkey but raised in Germany, Kayankaya encounters many obstacles in his search to unravel the complex riddle at the heart of this mystery, not only because he is a Turk but also because his acidic wit spares no one, not even the political and judicial powers who seem will stop at nothing to try and silence him...

Leseprobe

A Kemal Kayankaya Mystery

Four members of a radical ecological group are accused of the murder of the director of a chemical plant near Frankfurt. While admitting to material damage of the plant they deny any involvement with the murder. According to witnesses, five people participated in the sabotage but where is the fifth man? The defendant's lawyer hires Kemal Kayankaya to find him.

Born in Turkey but raised in Germany, Kayankaya encounters many obstacles in his search to unravel the complex riddle at the heart of this mystery, not only because he is a Turk but also because his acidic wit spares no one, not even the political and judicial powers who will stop at nothing to try and silence him...

Jakob Arjouni was only 20 when his first bestselling crime novel was published in Germany and was such a literary prodigy that he had managed to create a substantial and durable body of work by the time of his death in January 2013 at the age of 48. This output includes the five pioneering novels featuring Kemal Kayankaya, a Turkish-German private eye, which began with Happy Birthday, Türke! in 1985. An immediate success, it was filmed by the director Doris Dörrie in 1992 and subsequently published by No Exit in 1995.

The final Kayankaya novel, Brother Kemal, which Arjouni wrote against the terrible knowledge of a diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, will be published this summer by No Exit alongside reissues of the earlier books in the series.

Arjouni’s fascination with detective fiction was shaped by external influences. Two of his literary heroes were Raymond Chandler and Georges Simenon. From the American, he took the figure of the private eye as a flawed but honest outsider; from the Belgian, he learned the importance of psychological characterisation.

But while these mentors clearly informed the creation of Kayankaya, with the detective’s status as the son of Turkish immigrants giving a fresh twist to the tradition of the investigator as an odd one out, Arjouni brought to the form an eye for social and historical detail that was entirely his own. Kismet (2001) deals with the consequences in Europe of the Balkan wars, while One Man, One Murder (1992), which won the German Crime Fiction prize, has a background of sex trafficking. Characteristically, the final Kayankaya book explores the limits of free speech and religious tolerance as the private eye protects an author under death threat from Islamists at the Frankfurt Book Fair.

Born in Frankfurt as Jakob Michelsen (Arjouni was a pseudonym), he had an early literary role model: his father, Hans Günter Michelsen, was a successful dramatist and Jakob wrote a number of early plays before settling on the novel as his preferred form. His father gave him inadvertent but invaluable research for his future crime stories because of a fondness for taking his family to restaurants in an area of the city that was in the process of transition from red-light district to international quarter. Pungently seedy details of the rougher parts of Frankfurt are a particular feature of the Kayankaya books.

While the Kayankaya novels were the basis of his initial reputation and income, they appeared at very wide intervals. Arjouni was prolific between them. Magic Hoffmann (1996) was a story of bohemians in Berlin planning a bank robbery. Chez Max (2009) was generally considered one of the most original and thoughtful fictional responses to 9/11: it was set in a dystopian Europe in 2064, where a fenced-off community hides from terrorism and unrest. The powerful English translation was by his regular interpreter in the UK, Anthea Bell.

Modest, blazingly intelligent and thoughtful, his work both inside the crime genre and beyond it makes Jakob Arjouni a formidable figure in modern German literature

Mark Lawson

noexit.co.uk/jakobarjouni/

Jakob Arjouni: 1964-2013

Praise for Jakob Arjouni

‘It takes an outsider to be a great detective, and Kemal Kayankaya is just that’ – Independent

‘A worthy grandson of Marlowe and Spade’ – Stern

‘Jakob Arjouni writes the best urban thrillers since Raymond Chandler’- Tempo

‘There is hardly another German-speaking writer who is as sure of his milieu as Arjouni is. He draws incredibly vivid pictures of people and their fates in just a few words. He is a master of the sketch – and the caricature – who operates with the most economic of means’ – Die Welt, Berlin

‘Kemal Kayankaya is the ultimate outsider among hard-boiled private eyes’ – Marilyn Stasio, New York Times

‘Arjouni is a master of authentic background descriptions and an original story teller’ – Frankfurter Allgemeine Sonntagszeitung

‘Arjouni tells real-life stories, and they virtually never have a happy ending. He tells them so well, with such flexible dialogue and cleverly maintained tension, that it is impossible to put his books down’ – El País, Madrid

‘His virtuosity, humour and feeling for tension are a ray of hope in literature on the other side of the Rhine’ – Actuel, Paris

‘Jakob Arjouni is good at virtually everything: gripping stories, situational comedy, loving character sketches and apparently coincidental polemic commentary’ – Süddeutsche Zeitung, Munich

‘A genuine storyteller who beguiles his readers without the need of tricks’ – L’Unità, Milan

www.noexit.co.uk

Table of Contents

Prologue

Day One

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

Day Two

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

Day Three

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

Epilogue

Copyright

April 1986

RHEIN MAIN FARBEN TO OPEN PLANT IN VOGELSBERG

TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND DEMONSTRATORS EXPECTED IN VOGELSBERG

May 1986

POISON GAS SCANDAL

According to today’s edition of Le Monde, the German concern Rhein Main Farben has sold basic ingredients for the manufacture of mustard gas to Iraq.

DUTCH SHIP OWNER BLOWS WHISTLE

Mr. Zoetemelk, a Dutch shipowner, has confirmed to journalists that his firm shipped several hundred barrels of chemicals produced by Rhein Main Farben to Iraq. He claims to have had no knowledge of the contents of these barrels. A spokesman for Rhein Main Farben disclaims any wrongdoing on the factory’s part: "We were told the chemicals would be used purely for civilian purposes."

DEMONSTRATORS OCCUPY PLANT SITE

RHEIN MAIN FARBEN COMPLIES WITH HESSE GOVERNMENT'S REQUEST TO HALT PRODUCTION UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE

MAYOR OF FRANKFURT ON RHEIN MAIN FARBEN PAYROLL AS LEGAL CONSULTANT

June 1986

GREEN TERROR! CHEMICALS MANUFACTURER MURDERED!

DEATH OF A GREAT MAN

"Friedrich Böllig was not only an outstanding comrade-in-arms in the struggle for a clean future; he was a friend. All who knew him will remember his consideration, kindness, and fairness. As the head of one of the last family-owned concerns in our field, he worked indefatigably for the development of new remedies, particularly those used in the treatment of childhood diseases. Friedrich Böllig’s premature and tragic death is cause for universal grief."

FRANKFURT MAYOR'S WIFE CONFIRMS SHE IS RHEIN MAIN FARBEN SHAREHOLDER

DOES "RED ARMY FACTION" HAVE "GREEN" SUCCESSOR?

RHEIN MAIN FARBEN URGES PROMPT DECISION

Maximilian Funke, President of the Board of Directors: “If the Hesse Government does not grant us a permit for our projected plant in Vogelsberg, we must assume that the murderers of Friedrich Böllig acted in the spirit of that government. It would make me very happy if such a suspicion proved unfounded.”

November 1986

NO INCIDENTS AT LAYING OF FOUNDATION STONE OF RHEIN MAIN FARBEN PLANT IN VOGELSBERG

FORMER MAYOR OF FRANKFURT APPOINTED PRESIDENT OF UNITED NATIONS ENVIRONMENTAL SECURITY COUNCIL

DAY ONE

1

The coffee was weak and the soft, moist cheese sandwich must have spent many days in the refrigerator. I tore chunks off it and washed them down with coffee. The sticky counter smelled of beer. Two metres to one side, a rumpled man dozed over his corn schnapps. From time to time he blew his nose, then wiped his mouth and forehead with the same handkerchief. He was staring at the framed verses above the sink: A FEW BEERS A NIGHT, THAT’S QUITE ALL RIGHT—A SCHNAPPS AT DAWN, YOUR HANGOVER’S GONE. I glanced at the sports pages next to his elbow.

“How did Gladbach do?”

“Lost, two to zero,” he mumbled, without raising his eyes.

I rapped on the counter.

“More coffee. A little stronger.”

The proprietress pushed through the brown bead curtain, took my cup away, and brought it back with a refill. Her ample bosom was swathed in a ball gown from which her arms, neck and head protruded like sausages. Her rear was adorned with a purple satin bow, her wrists with fake gold bracelets. Her hair had been dipped in liquid silver. Hertha was the owner of Hertha’s Corner—open twenty-four hours. The place was large, dark and empty. The dusty bottles behind the bar were lit up by fluorescence. Raindrops rattled against the dirty windowpanes. In one corner stood the table reserved for regulars, with its wrought-iron emblem, a wild sow waving a beer stein. Hertha was rinsing glasses. A fly landed on my mutilated sandwich. I lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings around the fly.

Time passes slowly in these early morning hours. It was eight thirty. My court date was at nine. I went to the john. The latch was broken, and the flushing mechanism leaked water onto the floor. When I came out again, the radio was playing “Oh Schnucki, oh Schnucki, let’s travel to Kentucky …” Hertha swayed in rhythm with the tune. The guy at the bar used his snot rag again. Then he grabbed his glass with both hands and knocked back the schnapps in one go. He slammed the glass back onto the counter.

“Hertha! One more.”

“Now, now, Karl. You’ve had enough.”

Karl pulled a wrinkled fifty-mark bill out of his pocket. “You think I can’t pay? Is that what you think?”

“Put your money back.”

Hertha arranged the rinsed glasses on the shelf. Karl lit a cigarette. After a while he glanced at me.

“Gladbach, eh?”

I nodded. He scrutinised me from head to toe. Then he turned away, growling, “Well, this is Frankfurt.”

The radio was playing “When Heidi and her Hans, tah-rah, tah-rah …” I picked the newspaper off the rack. FRANKFURT TRIAL BEGINS WITH EXTENSIVE SECURITY MEASURES. The trial of four members of the Ecological Front begins behind closed doors.” It was a quarter to nine. I paid and left Hertha’s Corner.

Outside, the wind was driving the rain diagonally across the street. Autumn. I pulled the brim of my hat down, dug my hands into my coat pockets, and stayed close to the wall. At the intersection, the furious rain whipped my face, and water began to slosh in my shoes. Everything looked grey. Only a few neon signs interrupted the dreariness of the concrete wasteland. Empty cans, milk cartons, cigarette butts, garbage floated down the gutters and got stuck in the drains. There were streaks of dog shit on the pavement. People with umbrellas charged past me. Women stood chatting in the doorways, waiting for the rain to let up. I could feel my coat getting drenched. A taxicab splashed puddles onto my pants. I kept going, slipping on cartons and vegetable refuse, until I reached the courthouse steps. The door fell shut behind me. Like a leaking bucket, I left a wet track on the stone floor.

“Halt!”

Two cops barred my way. I pulled out my private investigator’s licence.

“I have an appointment with Dr. Anastas.”

“We don’t know him.”

“He’s the defendants’ attorney.”

“Unh-hunh.”

A squad was pacing up and down the hall, submachine guns at the ready. The cop looked up from my licence.

“Your ID.”

I showed it to him. His companion scratched his chin, raised his walkie-talkie, and recited my ID number into it. After he received the all clear, I had to spread my legs. They didn’t find anything. “Upstairs, second door on the left,” they told me. A bunch of journalists were lounging in the waiting room, which smelled of cold tobacco smoke and wet clothes. They were all chattering away with supreme self-importance. A pretty thing with long dark hair sat down next to me.

“Cold, isn’t it?”

She sniffled.

“Sure is.”

She snuggled down into her fur coat.

“What paper you with?”

“My Wife and Your Car.”

“I see.” Pause. “Don’t know that one.”

I lit a cigarette.

“May I have one?”

I lit it for her. We smoked for a while. What did that attorney want from me? Why had he asked me to be here so early? She was studying my profile. I leaned back and closed my eyes.

“You’re not a journalist.”

“Right you are.”

“I can tell.”

“I see. How?”

“Well, you have no camera, you don’t talk, you don’t know anybody, and now you’re taking a nap.”

She smelled nice. Something heavy, from France.

“Nonsense. I’m a Turk. That’s how you can tell.”

She ground out the cigarette under her heel.

“Maybe.” Pause. “So—why are you here?”

“I’m a private investigator. Don’t ask me why, I just am. And I’m waiting for someone.”

Now there was a commotion by the door. Cameras were focused, notepads raised.

“A private investigator—and a Turk? I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Take it or leave it.”

The noise level rose. The pack was straining at the leash. My avenging angel moved closer.

“Have you been living in Germany for a long time?”

“My father was one of the first Turkish garbage collectors of this republic. He brought me here when I was a year old. Soon after that, he was run over by a car. I was adopted by a German family.”

“And your mother?”

“She died when I was born.”

She mimed compassion.

“Oh, how terrible.”

I pointed at the door.

At that moment, the double doors to the courtroom swung open and the reporters charged. She took her leave and dived into the melee. There was a lot of noise in the hallway. I stayed put and contemplated my soaked shoes. Then I too entered the courtroom. The attorney was answering questions from a group of newspaper people. Cameras flashed incessantly, camcorders jockeyed for position. Off in a corner, a guy was broadcasting live, manically yelling into his mike. Policemen were posted by doors and windows. I sat down on a bench. My clothes were wet and stuck to my skin. The place was drafty, and I was cold. I lit a cigarette and watched the court clerk, who was waving his arms at me from a distance, presumably to indicate that smoking was prohibited. Ten o’clock. Five minutes later, the attorney walked over and sat down next to me.

“Please forgive me, Mr. Kayankaya. You know, in a trial of this importance … One has to humour the press. I’m sure you understand.”

Dr. Anastas was small and sturdy. Everything about him was brown: the curls around his balding pate, the frame of the eyeglasses resting on the bridge of his snub nose, his suit, his fingernails. His tie drooped like a wet towel.

“Why did you ask me to come here at nine o’clock?”

He frowned.

“I did? I thought we agreed on ten. I’m sorry.”

He stared pensively into the courtroom, which was emptying out. Even the cops were picking up their things and leaving.

“You wanted to see me.”

He gave a start.

“Forgive me, I have to keep track of so many things. Maybe …”

“Why don’t we go and have a cup of coffee?”

He deliberated, then raised a hand to his forehead.

“Excellent idea. Let’s. I agreed to meet someone in a restaurant just around the corner. What’s it called? Something with an O in it. I’m sure we can find it. After all, you’re a detective.”

He laughed and patted my shoulder, bounded to his feet and trotted off. I pulled my damp coat around my shoulders and followed.

2

“That’s it, over there! Chez Jules. No O in that. Doesn’t matter. We found it.”

He parked, and we went inside. It was one of those nouveau joints where you’re afraid the table might collapse if you set down a decent glass of beer on it. You sit on tiny chairs, munch on tidbits, drink out of little glasses. Everything has dainty legs—the furniture, the ladies, the candlesticks. You say “pardon” when you sit down at a table and “ciao” when you get up again. The habitués call out things like, “Jules, are the crabs fresh today?”

The place was packed with a lunchtime crowd. Anastas hurried through it, his neck stretched like a chicken’s, looking for his date. Sipping white wine and nibbling on slices of roasted garlic, the stylish ladies and gentlemen cast pitying glances at the little lawyer. I could hear them whispering to each other. Anastas waved to me and shouted, “Over here, Mr. Kayankaya!” It wouldn’t have surprised me to see the patrons fall off their chairs. As I joined Anastas, I recognised my pretty inquisitor from the courthouse. She looked at me and laughed.

“Oh, it’s the private eye. Now I understand.”

“You do?”

Anastas looked astounded.

“You’ve met before?”

“Just briefly. Not long enough to exchange names.”

“Carla Reedermann of the Rundhlick. Kemal Kayankaya.”

We nodded and slid onto chairs. Carla Reedermann smiled.

“What a coincidence.”

“Yes. Indeed.”

I lit a cigarette and hid behind the menu. Anastas slid his eyeglasses to the tip of his nose and perused the offerings three times over. A waiter, bouncy in white tennis shoes, ambled over, stopped casually by our table, and asked for our orders. Anastas ordered two cheese baguettes and two tomato salads. Then he removed his glasses, folded his hands and smiled at me.

“So here we are, Mr. Kayankaya.”

“Here we are.”

Contentedly, he stroked his balding pate. I stared at his round head and pondered why I had been up and about since eight o’ clock. The waiter returned with our plates. With a broad grin, Anastas wished us bon appetit and attacked his first baguette.

I stirred milk and sugar into my coffee, poured my shot of Scotch into it, and took a long sip. My egg on toast was lukewarm and tasted like a fried egg wrapped in brown paper, but the little lawyer was really enjoying his food. His tongue was angling for the threads of cheese that had strayed onto his face, his teeth mashing the greasy white bread. He washed it all down with black coffee. A thick slice of tomato slid off his fork—he sucked it right off his tie. When he asked me if my toast was all right, I pushed it aside and lit a cigarette. Carla Reedermann was working on her order of mussels. I wondered about her connection to this gluttonous little fellow. Her brown eyes kept glancing provocatively at me. I ordered another coffee and Scotch. The two of them chewed their food in silence. I constructed houses out of beer coasters. Five minutes later, the waiter brought my coffee. Anastas reached for the menu to place another order. I slammed the beer coasters onto the table. “Now, wait a minute! I didn’t get up at that ungodly hour just to watch you have lunch.”

The waiter made himself scarce. Anastas put the menu down, wiped his lips, and put his glasses back on.

“I’m sorry.”

“And I don’t want any reporters.”

I pointed at the newspaper woman. After a moment’s silence, she pushed the plate of mussels aside, put a twenty-mark note on the table, and went to get her coat.

Anastas followed her with his eyes.

“Mr. Kayankaya, Miss Reedermann is on my side. I’m sure she won’t write anything that …”

“You can do as you please. I prefer working alone.”

She returned, picked up her purse, and left. She was furious.

“So. What’s the story?”

Anastas adjusted his glasses and murmured, “You must have read about the Ecological Front’s act of sabotage?”

“Not a whole lot.”

“As you know, I am defending the four people involved. I have been working on the case for months. I still haven’t found a concept that would enable me to mount a successful defence. My clients pretty much refuse to make statements. They treat me kindly, but they won’t tell me more than they’re willing to tell the prosecutor. They openly admit that they did blow up the waste pipe of the Böllig chemical plant in Doddelbach. The firm is about forty years old, a medium-sized family enterprise. Twenty years ago, Friedrich Böllig inherited it from his father, who died relatively young. Six months ago, at the time of the explosion, Friedrich Böllig was killed. His body was found with four bullets in his chest and head, on the grounds of the plant, not far from the detonated waste pipe. My clients deny that they even set eyes on him, much less shot him. I believe them. First of all, they had no motive, and second, these four are as far removed from killer commandos as a delegation of allotment holders would be.”

“You don’t know those allotment holders …”

“They only wanted to destroy one of Böllig’s waste pipes. Material damage, nothing else.”

“What kind of waste did the pipes dispose of?”

“Chemical waste products, just like everywhere else. But some kids in the region developed strange skin problems, and the matter had been taken up with the Böllig firm. These children had been bathing in the lake into which those waste products were discharged. There were all kinds of initiatives, but none of them led to any change. My clients wanted to do something to get the debate going again.”

“And they were successful.”

“Yes … But it seems like they themselves don’t really know what to think about the whole thing.” He chewed pensively on a tomato slice. “It must be a strange feeling. You go and blow up a concrete pipe, and the next day’s papers tell you that someone has been shot and killed.”

“Did they find the gun?”

“No.”

“Let me see if I got this straight. In the middle of the night, four people detonate a waste pipe belonging to the Böllig plant, and a few steps away, and at the same time, the head of that enterprise is shot and killed. And just because your clients look so pitiful when you visit them in their cells, you can’t see a connection … But how to convince the court of that? Good luck, is all I can say. What do you need me for?”

“The fifth man is missing. According to witnesses, five people participated in the action.”

“Witnesses?”

“A fellow was camping by the lakeshore, not far from the plant. With his girlfriend. The explosion woke him up, and as he rushed out of his tent, he saw five people running away.”

“What do your clients have to say about that?”

“Nothing. They don’t want to betray their comrade. But I believe that he is the key to this case, and that is why I want to hire you. Today I asked for a postponement of the trial date, to give you time to find the man. One week, exactly.”

I ground my cigarette into the ashtray.

“So you need a private investigator. Why me? I’m a Turk.”

His stubby fingers scratched the back of his other hand. “I read about your last case. I think you’re pretty incorruptible.”

“Depends on the size of the bribe …”

“What I mean is that you’re not easily swayed by public opinion. If you take this on, you have to be incorruptible in that sense.”

Pause. It took him at least three minutes to come out with his next question.

“How did you end up in this profession? Being a Turk, I mean …”

“I’m a citizen of the Federal Republic.”

“Oh, I see.”

He nodded, and as he leaned forward, there was a glint of solidarity in his eyes.

“Not so easy to acquire, that damned citizenship, is it?”

“No problem. I mow my lawn, I laugh a lot during the carnival season, and I manage to drink beer and play skat at the same time. Somewhere past Munich lies Africa, that’s where the Negroes live. I hate interruptions during sportscasts. My living-room set has been paid for. And I’m really a dancing Silesian at heart.”

For a moment he seemed on the verge of the inevitable “You must be kidding,” but he restrained himself and only gave an affected laugh.

“Seriously, Mr. Kayankaya—how long have you been living in Germany?”

“My mother died after she gave birth to me. My father took me to Germany. He didn’t last very long, and I was adopted by a German family. I’ve lived in this country for as long as I can remember.”

He nodded.

“Forgive me. That’s quite a story.”

I lit a cigarette.

“It is?”

I took a drag.

“You should have heard the one I told my last client.”

I blew smoke rings.

“How did they find your defendants?”

“That is one of many dubious aspects in the case.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that the police simply stormed their apartment three days after the explosion. There had been no search to speak of.”

“Maybe someone squealed.”

“Yes …”

“Could have been that fifth man.”

“Maybe …”

“The police didn’t say how they managed to find the suspects so quickly?”

“The man in charge, Detective Superintendent Kessler, was quite reticent about it. He merely said that the suspects had been arrested at the end of a quickly organised investigation.”

“Not a word about the fifth man?”

“Not a word.”

“Are they looking for him now?”

“I assume they are.”

“On what grounds?”

“Well, he’s just as suspect as my clients are.”

“What if he made a little deal with the cops? His freedom for the address of your clients?”