Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

Reinhardt felt a flush of annoyance. ‘What about your side of things?’ Padelin raised an eyebrow. ‘Has anyone had a look at the darkroom? Been able to catalogue what might be missing? What about Vukic’s movements? When she was last seen. Where she was last seen.’

‘The maid was the last person to see her.’

‘So she says,’ replied Reinhardt, willing Padelin to tell him about the Ragusa and whatever else was going on.

Padelin pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘She didn’t lie to me.’

‘No,’ replied Reinhardt. ‘She probably didn’t. But that doesn’t mean she’s right. About being the last person to see her. What about before that? We have all of Saturday to account for, at least.’

Padelin nodded ponderously and raised a placating hand next to his coffee cup. ‘Saturday, yes. Friday, she was working. I have confirmation of that from this man we’re going to see now. She worked late with her film crew, then told them she was going home.’

‘So, apart from the maid, the last time anyone saw her we know of would have been Friday evening. That’s a lot of time to account for.’

‘She was at home. The maid confirmed it.’

‘When did the maid arrive?’

‘Saturday morning.’ A frown touched Padelin’s face.

‘And she can testify Vukic was there all day, until she left?’

‘Yes.’

‘She had no visitors?’

‘No.’

‘She made or received no telephone calls?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So we still have two gaps. Friday evening to Saturday morning. And from when the maid left until she came back and found the body.’

‘Reinhardt.’ There was an edge to Padelin’s voice, people looking up from other tables. Reinhardt felt a sudden wash of fear as the big detective’s eyes sparked. ‘What point are you trying to make here?’

Reinhardt looked back at him. The fear was gone as fast as it came, replaced by something much colder and more calculating. This was the first reaction he had really elicited from Padelin. He leaned in close. He had to get close. He could not afford to show fear in front of Padelin. Especially not here, in this bar. ‘That it’s a bit too soon to be interrogating suspects,’ he said, with an edge to his own voice, ‘and celebrating closing a case, when we can’t even begin to account for something so simple as her movements.’ He stared hard at Padelin, then sat back, shaking his head slightly. ‘When were you going to tell me about the Ragusa?’

‘What?’

‘Ragusa. You arrested one of the waiters. Zoran Zigic. Last night.’

Padelin stared back at him for a long moment. ‘ Jebi ga ,’ he muttered, finally, and then belched softly for a man of his size, to which a couple of the policemen at the nearer tables offered what must have been pithy comments as it set off a new round of laughter in the bar. The ghost of a smile touched Padelin’s lips during all this, and Reinhardt could not help but smile back, but Padelin’s next words wiped it away. ‘I think I said before, I don’t need to be told how to do my job. I am satisfied in my knowledge of Vukic’s movements, and her death is my affair. That part of the investigation I take care of myself.’ He stopped and swirled his coffee before knocking the rest of it back. ‘Zigic is part Serb. We also think he’s closely related to a senior member of the Communist Party, here in Sarajevo. Someone we’ve been after for a while. And we think the Communists are involved. So, arresting him, we – how do you say? We take two birds with one stone,’ he said, sitting back in his chair. ‘Are you afraid we will solve this before you?’

Reinhardt shook his head, the skin around his eyes crinkling in frustration. ‘Padelin, it’s not a race.’ Then he thought of the Feld shy;gendarmerie. Becker’s stalling. A day ahead of him, and Padelin filled in what was suddenly racing through his mind.

‘Of course it’s a race, Reinhardt,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Maybe you just don’t know it yet, but you should.’ Reinhardt stared back at him, struck speechless. ‘You are fortunate, in a way, that this case has not attracted so much attention on your side. Still, you are hoping your investigation does not lead you into trouble with your commanders, right? That you can solve this in the proper way. The way you would like.’

‘ My investigation?’ repeated Reinhardt. It was all he could manage. Any thought of telling him about Krause was gone, at least for now.

‘My mistake,’ said Padelin, placidly, and not at all sincerely. ‘I misspoke.’

‘All right. So now, we’re going to see Vukic’s film crew, correct?’

‘Just one. Her sound recorder.’

‘Sound engineer?’ Padelin nodded, covered a yawn with his hand, and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Ready when you are, champ.’

Padelin endured a series of loud farewells as they left. Picking up Reinhardt’s car, the detective directed Reinhardt towards Bjelava, to a relatively new area of housing and businesses at the western entrance of the town, constructed between the two wars, laid out in blocks. They stopped in front of a five-storey building. Following Padelin into the foyer through a door that squealed on rusty hinges, he scanned the address boxes for what he wanted. ‘Second floor,’ he said. The door was opened to their knock by a thin young man with floppy blond hair and glasses. He was what Reinhardt took to be fashionably dressed, with a burgundy knitted waistcoat on top of a blue shirt, its top button undone over a loosened, dark blue tie.

‘ Jeste li policija? ’ he said. His eyes were red, and puffy, as if he had been crying. Padelin showed him his identification and gestured at Reinhardt as they talked. ‘ Jeste , I can speak German,’ the man said, as he let them in into a broad, open room. Filmmaking equipment was scattered all around: screens hanging from the walls, projectors, film reels, tripods and lights and other gear standing in corners. At one end of the room was a huge mirror, a tatty old couch under it covered in newspapers, magazines, and photos, like the kind of glossy prints film stars had made of themselves. On a big table in the middle of the room lay a disassembled camera, one of the big ones used for making films, surrounded by parts and tools. An overflowing ashtray and a pack of cigarettes sat next to a pile of newspapers. Beneath the smell of tobacco was a sharp chemical tang, as in Vukic’s darkroom.

The young man motioned them towards some high stools at the end of the big table. He lit himself a cigarette without offering one. He held his right forearm vertically, his elbow cupped in his left hand, and held the cigarette lightly between his fingers, wrist tilted back. It was a strangely effeminate gesture. Reinhardt wondered if Vukic had smoked, and if she had, had she held her cigarettes like that. ‘I am Dusko Jelic. What can I do for you?’

‘You were told we are investigating the murder of Marija Vukic?’ asked Padelin.

Jelic nodded, his eyes welling up again. ‘I am sorry,’ he sniffled. ‘I cannot seem to stop crying. You know? Since I heard.’

‘Yes,’ said Padelin. ‘We are sorry for your loss. Did you work with her a long time?’

‘About two years,’ said Jelic, around a deep drag of his cigarette. ‘I was the sound engineer. It was Branko took care of the cameras and films. He’s not here. He had to go back to Zagreb on Friday.’

‘And when was the last time you saw her?’

‘Friday as well. She was here.’ He motioned towards one of the doors that led off from the central space. ‘She has… had an editing studio. Just a small one. We were cutting the film we took in Visegrad. She sat just there.’ He pointed at the couch. ‘We talked, and laughed, and had coffee.’ His eyes watered over.