Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

‘Marija Vukic? Yes, I have. I even met her once.’

‘Sort of a cross between Leni Riefenstahl and Marika Roekk?’ Reinhardt shrugged, nodded. ‘A filmmaker. A journalist. Well connected. And with a film star’s looks?’ Reinhardt nodded again, remembering the one time he had met her, and the impression she had made on him. ‘The Croats want whoever did this to her for themselves. I’m not sure they’re too bothered about Hendel, but if they can find a way to embarrass us with his death, they’ll probably try. They already have their list of usual suspects. I don’t doubt they’ll be breaking bones down at police headquarters fairly soon.’

‘I can perfectly understand the Croats’ preoccupation with finding the killer. Are you saying we’re in competition for suspects?’

‘Possibly. Possibly not. Maybe Hendel was killed after Vukic. But on the bright side, Putkovic has agreed to have Hendel examined by the police pathologist. It’ll save us time. We’ll know more then.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Reinhardt nodded, feeling a sudden sense of trepidation. In the hollow at the base of his spine he began to sweat. ‘Sir, shouldn’t the Feldgendarmerie have this one?’

Freilinger stared at Reinhardt, his chin moving as he rolled the mint around inside his mouth. ‘I’ll make sure the military police know you are leading this investigation, and that they give you whatever assistance you require. They’ve got enough on their plate with Operation Schwarz coming up, I would think. All eyes and effort’s going to be on that, on prising the Partisans down from out of their mountains and smashing them once and for all. And, like I said, Hendel was one of ours. We’ll take care of it.’ He paused, his fingers rubbing his throat. Thumb on one side, forefinger on the other. ‘I don’t know who the police’ll give you to work with, but try to be civil, and try to be quick.’ A swallow, the mint clicking against his teeth. ‘No one’s pretending the “Independent” in NDH means anything anymore. Especially now that just about every soldier they ever had that was worth anything is dead at Stalingrad.’ If he noticed Reinhardt’s discomfort at the mention of that city, he did not show it. ‘Relations are tense. Let’s see if we can’t keep these on an even keel.’

‘I’ll do my best, sir.’ Freilinger nodded. ‘One thing, sir. You do know that I haven’t attended a crime scene in over four years?’

The major looked back at him, his blue eyes like chips of glass, and a sudden flare, like a fire, deep within them, and again there was the smell of smoke in his nose. ‘That will be all, Reinhardt. I’ve assigned Claussen to you. He’s Abwehr, so you can talk freely with him. He’s also ex-police. He’s a resourceful man, and even if he does not look that way now you’ll appreciate having a friendly face around. Report to me at the end of the day.’

‘Do I wait for Putkovic’s man before starting?’ The major walked to the window over the alley. Heated words were being exchanged out there.

‘I’m guessing Putkovic’s man is being briefed now.’ Reinhardt looked down at the big detective talking loudly with a handful of policemen, one in a suit. Putkovic emphasised whatever points he was making by slapping one fist into the palm of the other. Even from up here, Reinhardt could hear the meaty thud they made. There was a space around the man the others would not, or could not, enter. Not surprising, given the animal ferocity the man gave off. Freilinger shook his head. ‘Get going. Let them catch up.’

With that, he was gone. Standing alone, Reinhardt put his hands on the mantel and breathed deeply. He hung his head down between his arms, feeling the strain in the back of his neck. His headache was still there, heavy along the base of his skull. He looked at the portrait. A father? An uncle? A quick breath, and he stepped into the bedroom.

A middle-aged man, very thin and white, sprawled in a chair in a corner, polishing his glasses on his tie. He blinked owlishly at Reinhardt and said something in Serbo-Croat. ‘German,’ replied Reinhardt in German. The man put his glasses on, spotted shy;Reinhardt, and half raised himself from the chair.

‘Sorry,’ he said, sitting back down. ‘Dr Begovic.’ He appraised Reinhardt with an openness strangely refreshing from someone in a city where most people would not meet your eyes, and those who did always seemed to find something wrong with you. ‘Forgive me for not getting up, but I’ve been here for hours now.’ He scratched the corner of his mouth. ‘You’re the one they’ve been arguing about, eh?’

‘It would seem,’ replied Reinhardt, distantly. He mentally pushed the doctor aside and remained in the doorway. The bed was a big four-poster, directly in front of the door. A black dress made a crumpled ring on the floor at the end. There was a dresser with an oval mirror and upholstered stool against the wall to his left. Closed curtains ate the daylight along the wall to the right, but the light in the room was still very bright. There were two little tables on the end of the bed nearest him, on which rested two lamps, which were lit. Lights fitted into the wall to either side of the door were also lit, and the head of the bed was a big mirror. He saw himself reflected in the doorway and saw another big mirror hanging on the wall to his right.

His nose caught a subtle hint of fragrance, something expensive, under the heavy smell of blood, and the smell of death, which was much stronger here. The red stain on the door frame, a smear of blood across a panel of light switches, caught his eye. He saw another, a footprint, a third, a smear on the door of what he saw was the bathroom across to his left, as though a hand had reached for balance and slipped and slid. He breathed deeply, and Begovic looked from him to the body on the bed.

‘Not pretty, is it?’ he said, with an ironic twist to his mouth.

Reinhardt’s heart began beating faster. He took a couple of steps closer to the bed and looked down at what was on it. ‘No, it’s not. So. Why don’t you tell me what we have here?’ he asked, with a nonchalance he did not feel.

Begovic took off his thick-framed glasses and rubbed his watery eyes with the heel of his hand. Putting them back on, he blinked furiously, peered at Reinhardt, sniffed, then looked down at a notebook he pulled from a pocket. ‘What we have is a dead female, aged twenty-five to thirty years, deceased from approximately eighteen stab wounds to the stomach, upper chest and upper arms. In addition, there are signs of severe beating, strangulation marks around the neck, hair missing. There is blood and tissue under the fingernails, bruising on the knuckles, so she fought back. What little good it did her.’

Reinhardt nodded, listening to Begovic reel off the horror that had happened to this woman. It did not do justice to what he saw laid out on the bed in front of him. Reinhardt remembered Marija Vukic as a stunning woman, statuesque, blond, a woman of grace and elegance. She still was, despite what the beating had done to her face, and the knife to the rest of her. Her eyes still kept a clarity of blue behind the veil that death had drawn over them. Her long blond hair still retained a sheen of gold despite its lying in matted disarray across sheets sodden red with her blood. Her skin, though, was ghostly white, the wounds the knife had left crusted and raw edged. Her limbs were long and straight, her legs gorgeous in black stockings, a garter belt around her narrow waist. She lay on the bed as if at rest, head on the pillow, arms at her sides, her legs drawn straight and together. The remains of a silk negligee, shredded and soaked in blood, lay rumpled about her torso.

As he ran his eyes over her, over what had been done to her, Reinhardt felt a peculiar sensation, a sort of fulfilment of an almost- shy;forgotten imagining of what she might look like unclothed. Whatever it was, it felt wrong, but he recalled dancing with her, just the one dance, feeling her pressed lightly against him, her breast against his arm, her thigh against his.