Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

‘When would I have told you, Friedrich?’

‘When you walked in.’

‘I just did.’

‘You waited. You did it on purpose.’

‘You’re a grown man, now, Friedrich. That’s what you keep telling me…’

‘That’s what you won’t believe!’

‘… and so a man needs to pick and choose his words like he picks and chooses his fights…’

‘Like you? Like you?!’

‘… as otherwise he’ll be left looking like a fool.’

‘Are you calling me a fool, Father?’

‘And if you accuse your father of being a drunk…’

‘You are. You are. A bloody drunk.’

‘… don’t be surprised if the conversation takes a turn away from where it might have gone.’

There was silence. How fast they had come up against each other. Fallen into the rhythm of their assigned roles. Parry, riposte, words skirling, useless hard scrabbling against each other.

‘A fool?’ Friedrich blustered, after a moment. ‘My choices foolish? My choices are Germany’s, Father. Are Germany’s choices foolish?’ He opened his stance, inviting Kalter into the conversation.

Kalter stepped forward. ‘I would have thought a German man, a veteran, would know better than to treat his son in this manner.’

‘When you’ve got one of these, Corporal,’ he said, jerking his thumb at the black dress ribbon of his Iron Cross where it was fixed to his lapel, ‘or better yet, when you’ve lost a leg or an arm, then come back and lecture me about the duties and responsibilities of a German soldier.’ Reinhardt put Carolin’s blue cup and saucer on the table and sat there looking at her chair, his mind beginning to skirt around the understanding that she had filled not one space, but many. And he was only beginning to learn just how many, and where.

‘She died in her sleep, Friedrich. They say she felt no pain.’ shy;Reinhardt looked at him but felt nothing anymore. No connection across to the boy he had been, and still was, in so many ways.

Friedrich swallowed hard, his jaw tendon tight. ‘You just want to make me feel guilty. You always…’

‘Get out, Friedrich. Do as you said. Don’t come back.’

He sat there, the blue china pot and the blue cup and saucer in front of him, watching the steam writhe in the air as the door slammed at the end of the hall and an emptiness suddenly gaped underneath him, within him. He sat there until the tea went cold, and the night came down on that day, which had unspooled itself like a film. And as with a film, it always ended the same way, each of them playing out a role, even if one of the actors was missing now.

Reinhardt sat in his little patch of sun, his mind far away, until Padelin showed up about ten minutes later, coming heavily down the stairs with his jacket under his arm, rolling his shirtsleeves down. Reinhardt could see that he looked exhausted. His eyes were dark, his hair lank, and he had not changed his clothes. They shook hands, and Reinhardt noted the swelling and bruising across the knuckles. ‘Busy night?’

Padelin looked down. There were flecks of blood on the cuffs of his shirt. He turned those heavy eyes on Reinhardt and nodded. ‘You could say that.’

‘Anyone confessed?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Right.’

‘You have had breakfast yet?’ asked Padelin. ‘No? Then let us have something.’

Padelin took them to a place on Zrinjskoga Street, around the shy;corner from headquarters. It was obviously a policemen’s haunt. Heads came up and greetings were offered to Padelin. From the tone of voice and the laughter and shoving that ensued, not a few of the comments were on what he had been doing to get in the state he was in. To a chorus of cheers, a policeman even bigger than Putkovic raised Padelin’s arms over his head like a prizefighter. It made Reinhardt nostalgic and uncomfortable in equal measure. He remembered the party they had thrown for him and Brauer when they finally caught Dresner, the Postman. The big officer grinned, brought his head close to Padelin’s, and said something, one hand patting the back of his neck. Padelin turned and indicated Reinhardt. The huge policeman looked him up and down, then nodded and left with a final ruffle of Padelin’s hair.

‘Who is that?’ asked Reinhardt. ‘Your fan club?’

Padelin shrugged as they sat at an empty table. ‘That’s Bunda.’ He said it like that was all that needed to be said.

‘Looks like a man you wouldn’t ever want to have angry at you.’

Padelin allowed a small smile to flicker across his mouth. ‘No. You would not. Like I said, Vukic was popular. People want her killer found. I must wash. I will order something,’ he said, and left.

The atmosphere of the place was thick with smoke. Despite the warmth of the morning, no windows were opened. That, the low hum of conversation, and the glances at him over hunched shoulders and crossed arms, and Reinhardt began to feel uncomfortable. Bunda appraised him openly, staring at him through eyes sunk deep under heavy brows, a cigarette like a toothpick where it poked out between his thick fingers. It was with a surprising degree of relief that he saw Padelin coming back. He had combed his hair and found a fresh shirt somewhere. Coffee and rolls arrived as he sat down, and Padelin began to eat with that methodical, head-down attitude he had shown yesterday. Reinhardt sipped his coffee and winced, forgetting that Croats often served their coffee already sweetened, and there was too much sugar in it.

Padelin finished his breakfast and ordered a second cup of coffee. ‘I talked with our traffic police, but they have nothing for the times we’re interested in. Here.’

Reinhardt took a couple of sheets of paper, with handwritten entries between ruled columns. He flipped between the two. There were only a few entries on each page. He noticed the word for fire and pointed to it, his eyebrows raised.

Padelin leaned over, and nodded. ‘Yes, there was quite a big fire on Sunday night, in Ilijas. I heard about it.’ He scanned the entry. ‘Looks like they had to call in one of the fire engines from here to help put it out.’

‘Forensics?’

‘Still being worked on.’

‘Pathologist?’

Padelin reached into his coat and pulled out some papers and handed them over. There were two pages, folded lengthways down the middle, and then in half, in the manner they used in Yugoslavia. It was the little differences in things that always struck Reinhardt. ‘There’s the report. Nothing we don’t already know. Severely beaten. Stabbed to death. Any of three wounds in particular would have killed her. One to the heart, and two to her lungs. There were signs of sex. The pathologist does not think it was rape. Hendel, well, we know what happened to him. But the pathologist said that, given the entry and exit wounds he suffered, it was not a nine-millimetre round that killed him. Something smaller.’

‘Probably 7.62 millimetre, then,’ said Reinhardt. ‘Can’t say it narrows it down that much, but it’s something. I talked with some of our people yesterday. It seems there was a planning meeting in Ilidza over the weekend. There were a lot of senior officers in the Hotel Austria, not far from Vukic’s house.’

Padelin looked at him. ‘Your point being?’

Confronted with such apparent lack of interest, Reinhardt was at a loss. ‘Maybe something. Maybe nothing. You saw the collection of photographs at Vukic’s house? You remember what her mother said, about her being attracted to men of power and authority? It’s something to consider. No?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Padelin, his eyes looking out the window.