Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

Reinhardt followed the receptionist upstairs. Ewald looked back, once or twice. Reinhardt just gestured to him to keep walking. The receptionist led him up to the second floor, then down a wide corridor before Ewald stopped at the end, in front of a wide window. Reinhardt looked at him. ‘I want to see the room General Verhein occupied.’

‘Ah. It’s on the first floor.’ Ewald showed him back downstairs to a spacious room, dark red carpet, the bed linen and drapes of creamy linen. There was a small bathroom in white marble. The cupboards and drawers were empty, and the room smelled faintly of whatever cleaning product had been used on it. ‘Has it been occupied since the general left?’ Ewald shook his head. The room gave onto the long terrace that ran the hotel’s length, with a view of the round lawn that separated the Austria from the Hungary. Vukic’s house was away around the back of the hotel, not visible from here.

Reinhardt walked back into the room, staring at Ewald where he stood calmly with the keys in his hands. He looked at him without speaking, hoping that perhaps his silence would shake something out of him. He walked back out into the corridor, then paused at the landing. Ewald stopped behind him.

‘You know, it’s interesting the way people can sometimes anticipate what others want. I imagine you do that a lot, working in a hotel.’ Ewald said nothing. ‘I asked to see around the hotel, and you took keys without being asked. You led me up to the second floor, without being asked. To the end of a corridor. It’s a funny place to bring someone. You seemed surprised that I wanted to see the general’s room.’ Ewald stayed still. ‘Was there really nothing unusual on Saturday night? Speak freely.’

‘Freely?’ Ewald repeated. There was a sudden bitter cast to his face. ‘There is no such thing anymore, Captain.’ He paused, then swallowed, looking much older. ‘You know, Captain, you may not believe me, but I once was the concierge at the finest hotel in Klagenfurt. I liked my work. I was respected. This,’ he said, looking hard at Reinhardt, ‘is not where I ever thought I would find myself.’

Reinhardt sensed this was just Ewald’s way of working himself up to speak. ‘You know, you sound much like another man I know. Kurt Manfred is the chief waiter at our barracks. He used to work at Medved’s, in Berlin, and always tries to keep his standards up.’

‘I know the feeling, sir,’ he replied, softly. ‘It is not always easy.’

‘What’s up there you thought I might want to see, Ewald?’

‘How should I say it? There was… a guest who had rather a lot to drink that night. He held court, so to speak, in the bar downstairs. There was some trouble. A fight. More than one. The Feldgendarmerie had to be called to calm things down in the end.’

‘And you thought it was his room I wanted to see?’ Ewald nodded. ‘Who was it making trouble?’

‘It was an SS Standartenfuhrer. You understand… people like that can make life impossible for someone like me.’ Reinhardt nodded, but said nothing. The old man sighed. ‘His name is Stolic. He comes here quite often when he is in town and invariably causes trouble.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Oh, his kind never need much of an excuse. He drank a lot with dinner, and more afterwards. One of the other officers was playing the piano, and he argued about that. Then he got into a fight with a Croatian Army officer. One of the other colonels managed to calm him down, but then Stolic got upset again, and the colonel told me to call the Feldgendarmerie.’

‘Who told you?’

‘Colonel Ascher. The Feldgendarmerie arrived quite quickly but were not happy about taking on a Standartenfuhrer, so they themselves called for more help. Meanwhile, Stolic got into another fight. I don’t remember what it was about. He was very drunk. Out of control. Then a Feldgendarmerie officer arrived, and he calmed things down. That was the last I heard of it.’

‘Do you know what time the Feldgendarmerie officer came?’

‘Perhaps… around midnight. No. Closer to one in the morning.’

‘The officer. Did you recognise him?’

Ewald nodded. ‘Yes. It was Major Becker.’

Reinhardt looked at him. Ewald held his eyes, and then they shifted. ‘There’s more, isn’t there? Why did you want me to see his room?’

Ewald sighed. ‘The next morning, the maid who cleaned Stolic’s room… He was still in it. Asleep. She said…’ Ewald looked up at Reinhardt. ‘She said… on the floor. On the floor… there was a knife. It was covered in blood.’

I want to go to that church. The one down at Marijin Dvor,’ said Reinhardt, as the houses began to thicken on the approach to shy;Sarajevo.

‘St. Joseph’s,’ Claussen replied. ‘Finished just before the war,’ he continued.

‘What makes you so familiar with Sarajevo’s churches?’ asked Reinhardt.

‘I attend mass,’ replied Claussen. ‘Every Sunday I can.’

Reinhardt said nothing, only thinking how far he had drifted from the religion of his youth. Church every Sunday, singing in the choir, altar service. Light through stained-glass windows. The comfort of simple truths that just seemed to unravel as you got older.

Claussen stopped the car in front of the church. The facade was all square, white stone, a rectangular steeple with a clock at the top pushing up one side. He looked up at it, thinking. He did not have all that much to go on, but the way the killer had arranged Vukic’s body would not leave him alone. He picked up the file. ‘I’m going in to see if I can speak to someone. You’re welcome to stay with the car. Or go in, say a prayer. Light a candle.’

If Claussen appreciated the irony in Reinhardt’s tone, he gave no sign of it, but he did follow Reinhardt up the steps to the tall wooden door. Inside, the church was like all churches in Reinhardt’s experience. Gloom pierced by the light from high windows, the smell of incense and beeswax, the sense of voices far away but just around the corner. Claussen stepped quietly away as they came in, moving over to a bank of votive candles.

Apart from a couple of old women kneeling over to one side, and another running a mop over the tiles under one of the Stations of the Cross, the church was empty. The red light of the host drew his eye, and he sat down on one of the front benches. The wood creaked warmly under him, soft and honeyed, awakening a whole different stream of memories. He kept his eyes on the host, letting it keep his gaze until he felt them begin to close, and tried to remember when places like this stopped being places of solace for him.

He opened them to the sound of whispered footsteps. A priest turned along the front row of benches, genuflecting to the altar as he crossed the aisle. He looked down at Reinhardt, looking like every priest one imagines. Portly, balding, grey hair cut close around the sides of his head.

‘Can I help you, my son?’ the priest asked in German, glancing at the file on Reinhardt’s lap.

Reinhardt stood up. ‘Perhaps, Father. I am investigating the murder of a young Catholic girl.’

The priest tilted his head backwards in a sign of understanding. ‘Ah,’ he said. He gestured at the bench for them both to sit. ‘You are investigating poor Marija’s death, no?’ His German was good, an accent riding along behind his native Bosnian one.

‘That’s right, Father. How did you know?’

The priest smiled, sadly, it seemed. ‘This is a small enough town, my son.’ He looked at Reinhardt’s insignia. ‘Captain?’ he asked. Rein shy;hardt nodded. ‘Word gets around easily enough. Marija was very well known to all. She was a parishioner.’

‘Did she usually attend mass here?’