Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

Reinhardt remembered suddenly the staff cars parked outside the hotel. ‘Of course. Yes.’ He had known of the conference. He remembered it being mentioned at the daily briefing late last week. A planning meeting, the finishing touches to Operation Schwarz. How could he have forgotten that? ‘Thank you, Captain. So there was much traffic?’ He knew he sounded inane, but he needed to keep Kessler talking.

‘Especially in the early part of the evening of Saturday. The conference ended on Saturday afternoon. Most of the attendees were returning to their units at the time.’

‘Most?’

‘Some stayed on at the hotel, I believe,’ replied Kessler. There had been staff cars parked at the hotel this morning. Maybe connected to the conference. Maybe not. ‘During an event such as the conference, we receive a copy of the list of authorised attendees. We check their arrival off against the list. On such occasions, unless the incident is egregious, normal traffic duties can be suspended or superseded. Therefore, what is listed will be only unusual incidents. Not improperly inflated tyres, or smudged or illegible registration, or overloading. That is why I can assure you no incident was reported that would seem to impact upon your investigation.’

Reinhardt looked down at the ground, at oil stains and gravel and the marks of tyres, but what he saw was the investigation withering away in a series of dead ends, or foregone conclusions. He ran his fingers around the back of his neck, where the muscles were still tight, and thought of photographs of soldiers. ‘Whom do I ask for a list of the attendees at that conference?’

There was a pause. ‘You would need to check with the commandant’s office, Captain,’ replied Kessler. ‘If you think that information would be of some use.’ The Feldgendarmerie captain kept his voice flat, but Reinhardt heard the question in his words. He had no idea if the information would be useful. It would certainly be risky to ask for it, and certainly risky to do anything with it, but it was all he had at the moment. This case was bundled tight; any loose thread was something he could hang on to, pull on, see what unravelled with it, and hope it did not unravel all over him.

Kessler stared at him, leaning back slightly. ‘But surely you do not think there is any connection…’ His voice faded away, his feet shifted. Putting distance between himself and Reinhardt. Between himself and whatever it was Reinhardt was after. Again, Reinhardt left the question hanging. Let the man draw his own conclusions, and his own implications of his own role in this. Whatever this might be, it was clear no right-minded soldier wanted any part of it, and it was clear that was what Kessler thought of himself.

‘I do not think anything, at the moment,’ Reinhardt said. ‘I am merely investigating.’

‘Of course,’ said Kessler, turning away to his vehicle. ‘Well, as Major Becker said, once you have written authorisation, any assistance we can provide will be yours. Until then, a very good day, Captain.’

‘So?’ Claussen asked, as Reinhardt slumped into the kubelwagen next to him.

‘So, nothing much,’ replied Reinhardt. ‘Did you remember that planning conference out at Ilidza?’ He glanced over at Claussen to see him narrow his eyes and shake his head. ‘Kessler just reminded me. I’m pretty sure Freilinger alluded to it this morning, but I just didn’t catch it.’

‘You think there’s a connection?’ asked Claussen.

Reinhardt pushed his chin out, pursing his lips. ‘I’ve no clue,’ he sighed. ‘Take me back to the offices. I really hope Freilinger’s back. Then we need to think about getting a look at that Ragusa place.’

Reinhardt looked at the Miljacka as Claussen drove back up Kvaternik. With the summer’s heat, the river was low; in some places it was a dry jumble of stones. A group of boys played in the flow of water that still ran down the middle of the river’s channel, jumping from rocks into the water. ‘Freilinger told me you used to be in the police,’ he said, suddenly.

Claussen twitched his eyes towards the rearview mirrors, then shot a quick look at Reinhardt. ‘Nearly twenty years. In Dusseldorf,’ he replied.

‘Why’d you come back into the army?’ asked Reinhardt.

Claussen took a moment to respond again. ‘Didn’t much like some of the changes that were… you know, that we had to go through,’ he said after the moment. ‘And the army, well, it was always sort of my first home.’

‘You mentioned Naroch. Back at Vukic’s house.’

The sergeant nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Eastern Front 1915 to 1917. I was wounded, and sent home. Joined the police when the war ended.’

Reinhardt stared ahead at the road in front and the blank facades of the buildings on the left. Claussen’s experience was close to his. Very close, but as much as it seemed they might have much in common, there was almost certainly as much, if not more, that separated them. A silence grew, and instead of welcoming it Reinhardt cursed himself at starting a conversation he did not know how to finish.

Claussen pulled up in front of HQ and Reinhardt, still feeling a prickling awkwardness, sat for a moment before turning to face the sergeant. ‘That was good work you did. At the Feldgendarmerie station, pointing me in the direction of Kessler.’ Claussen said nothing, only looked back at him. ‘That’s something I’ll need from you, Sergeant. Any time you have something like that, a feeling, something to say about this investigation, speak up.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Reinhardt could not put a finger on how, or why, but he was sure Claussen felt he had just been insulted. Or patronised, he thought, remembering a time, long ago, a similar conversation with Brauer. Claussen was not Brauer, and Reinhardt did not have the time or strength to invest in forging a relationship with him that resembled in any way what Reinhardt and Brauer had once had as soldiers, then as policemen, as friends.

‘You have the address of this nightclub you mentioned Hendel went to? Let’s pay it a visit tonight. Bring Hueber and meet me at the barracks at eight o’clock.’ Reinhardt got out of the car, turning as he closed the door. ‘Until then, you are free to do as you will.’

Back at the offices, Reinhardt was told Freilinger had returned and was expecting him. On his way up, Reinhardt stopped quickly in his office and retrieved from his desk the notebook he used to record shy;information within Abwehr. He flicked through the pages until he found what he needed, folding the top of the page to mark it. The major’s orderly ushered him into Freilinger’s spartan office, where the major was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, looking out the window. Reinhardt came to attention.

‘Sit down, Captain,’ Freilinger rasped, turning back and moving to sit down behind his desk. He shook a mint from his tin and leaned back in his chair. ‘Tell me what has happened in this case. Just the facts, for now.’

Reinhardt kept his report simple, especially as there was not much to report on. He told of the interviews with Frau Hofler and with Vukic’s mother. He told of the failed attempt to elicit information from the Feldgendarmerie. Freilinger listened in silence, his clear blue eyes rarely blinking. When Reinhardt had finished, he sat silently for a moment, then folded one hand within the other under his chin. ‘Now, tell me of your impressions, your feelings about this case.’ He twisted and flexed his hands, dry-washing them together.

‘Well, sir. I have an infamous Croatian journalist who worked hard and, apparently, partied harder. Influential. Well connected. Politically active. Who seemed to like soldiers, experienced ones. Older ones. To have some kind of fixation on them, judging by the photographs in her house.’ He paused, going over what he had just said. It seemed to make sense, to fit with the nascent feelings he had about the investigation, about her. The dull rasp of Freilinger’s hands did not change. ‘I have an unhappy and recalcitrant police officer for a partner and liaison with the local force.’ An officer steeped, he did not say, in ideology and trained in police techniques that Reinhardt despised. That assigned crime and criminal impulses to people based on social and racial background, rather than motive and opportunity. ‘The Sarajevo police’s methods seem a bit… dated’ was all he said. ‘Because of the increasing political pressure that they are coming under to find someone to take the blame for Vukic’s murder, I am concerned the Sarajevo police are not interested in finding the real culprit, only someone to blame it on. They are experiencing high-level pressure from Zagreb. Putkovic will want this wrapped up soon, I’m sure.’