Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

Screwing his eyes tight shut against their gritty feel, he knocked back the last of his coffee and then walked up to his room. From a trunk under his bed he took a policeman’s extendable baton, spring-loaded, a lead ball at the tip. He checked the action, flicking his wrist and watching the baton snicking out smoothly. He looked at it, wondering why he had come back up for it. Maybe it was the memories, he thought, of times gone by when he was a respectable man doing well in a respectable profession. He collapsed the baton and slid it down into the pocket of his trousers.

A fair number of cars were parked outside police headquarters, including an official-looking one with a government pennant on the front bumper. Inside, the foyer was crowded with policemen, most of them in uniform, and a couple of men who could only be journalists, one of them wearing a little red fez. Heads turned to him as he came in, then away, and straight off Reinhardt could feel something was wrong.

He wormed his way through the crowd over to the receptionist and asked for Padelin. Thankfully, the officer on duty spoke a little German, and he dialled a number, waited, talked a moment, and then nodded as he put the receiver down.

‘Please. Are waiting here,’ he said, indicating the stairs. ‘Is coming, Padelin.’

Reinhardt waited on the bottom step, scanning his eyes over the crowd. There was a lot of muttered conversation beneath a grey fogbank of cigarette smoke. Some of the cops looked back at him. Reinhardt recognised Bunda, the giant policeman from the bar where he and Padelin had had breakfast yesterday. The journalist in the fez looked hard at him, but then all eyes were drawn upward and conversation died away. Reinhardt craned his neck around and saw Padelin coming down the stairs. As the detective saw Reinhardt looking up at him, he paused and gestured for him to come up.

The stairs had a tatty strip of green carpet fixed by brass runners down the middle. It deadened his footfalls as he climbed up. Padelin shook his hand, looking grave as he gazed out on the crowd below. Neither of them said anything as they climbed to the top and through a heavy wooden door into a dim corridor. They walked down to another set of big doors, which Padelin opened quietly, ushering Reinhardt into a large conference room, with a big baize-covered table. Large chairs stood around it, about half of them occupied. Putkovic sat at the top of the table, next to a short, fat man in a suit, himself listening to what seemed to be a report being given by a uniformed police officer. Somewhat incongruous in this gathering of uniforms and suits, two priests – one an Orthodox with a silver beard – and an imam with a white cap sat listening attentively. And there was Becker, sitting partway down the opposite side. He looked away as Reinhardt came in. Reinhardt did not recognise anyone else as he took the seat Padelin pointed to.

The report came to an end, and the uniformed officer sat back. A line of sweat ran down the back of his uniform, and crescents had darkened under his arms. The short, fat man fixed him with a hard gaze for a moment, then looked around the table. The uniformed officer took the opportunity to wipe a sheen of sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. As he put it away, his eyes raced around the room, holding Reinhardt’s a moment before passing on.

The short, fat man began talking. It was a harangue, if ever Reinhardt had heard one. It did not last long but made up in apparent viciousness what it lacked in length. Reinhardt watched the tips of Putkovic’s ears go white, even as most of the rest of him went red. At one point the Orthodox priest tried to say something, but the envoy cut him off, then cut off both the imam and Catholic as they tried as well. The man spoke fast, and although Reinhardt caught quite a few words, the sense of it passed him by. Then it was over. The man was on his feet, straightening his suit, and the others were standing up. A last few words, and Putkovic was escorting the man out. They passed close by Reinhardt. The man looked at him uninterestedly. Putkovic’s eyes were flat, and Reinhardt had no idea what the man was thinking. Others began filing out after them.

‘What’s going on?’ asked Reinhardt, quietly.

Padelin looked at the faces of the men going past, nodding to a couple. ‘Our suspect is dead,’ he replied, without looking at Reinhardt.

Reinhardt frowned up at him. ‘Dead?’

‘He was found this morning. Dead in his cell.’

‘What’s with those three?’ Reinhardt asked, watching the priests and imam walk out, their faces blank.

‘Them?’ A strange look came over Padelin’s normally blank features. ‘These Sarajevans. They stick together. The Orthodox have been trying to get Topalovic out. That is ironic, no?’

‘Ironic?’

‘An Orthodox priest trying to get a Serb Communist out of an Ustase prison, helped by a Muslim and a Catholic? But that’s this city for you. There is the world, and there is Sarajevo. A world of itself. Rules you never understand. A community you will never be part of.’

Reinhardt thought of the way the city’s people would often come together, the way he would skirt the edge of that community, and the pressure of eyes that watched him and pushed him away. ‘Dare I ask what killed Topalovic?’

If Padelin caught the sarcasm he made no sign of it. ‘The doctor thinks it was an overdose of morphine.’

Reinhardt’s frown deepened. ‘Not accidental?’

‘No.’

‘What is Dr Begovic saying happened?’

Padelin looked blankly at Reinhardt. ‘I did not say it was Begovic who made that determination. Do you know where he went last night?’

Reinhardt’s mouth opened, then closed. ‘Dr Begovic?’ he shy;repeated.

‘You left together last night.’

‘That’s correct,’ said Reinhardt.

‘Did he say anything to you? Perhaps something out of the shy;ordinary?’

‘No,’ said Reinhardt, perhaps a little too quickly.

‘Captain,’ said Padelin. Had he heard it, thought Reinhardt? He felt a moment of panic. The detective took a step closer. Just a small step, but all of a sudden he was there, that bit closer, that bit bigger. Reinhardt’s skin crawled. He resisted the urge to take a step back and hated that he had to lift his eyes, not so much, but enough, to look Padelin in his. ‘You came on foot. You left on foot. That is unusual for a German to do in this town. Your behaviour last night was, apparently, also unusual.’

Reinhardt swallowed in a throat gone dry. He had to try to regain some control over this. ‘Padelin,’ he said, quietly. ‘Are you accusing me of something?’

Padelin blinked, that slow, feline blink, then shook his head. ‘No. I am not.’ Reinhardt did not miss the emphasis on I . Others, apparently, were.

‘I did come here last night, looking for you. I was upset, shall we say, over the revelation that you had your culprit for Vukic’s murder. I left with the doctor, who said he was going in my direction, and that a German should not walk unescorted at night.’

‘He said nothing?’

Reinhardt shook his head, all the while running the doctor’s words over and over in his mind. He would not suffer long , he had said. ‘Nothing,’ he replied. ‘He said nothing to me last night that would indicate to me now he had a part in this.’ But Begovic not only knew, he had done it, Reinhardt realised. ‘Why can’t you ask him?’

‘Because he has vanished,’ said Padelin. ‘Why were you upset with me last night?’ he asked.

‘Why?’ repeated Reinhardt. He blinked once or twice. shy;‘Because…’ He paused. What was the point of trying to explain? He had tried before and not made any impression he could tell. ‘Because I was unhappy with the way events were playing out,’ was all he said.