Luke McCallin - The Man from Berlin

He lit an Atikah and blew smoke at the sky, feeling Claussen’s eyes heavy on him. Isidor Rosen. Big and bluff. A shock of red hair. A real prankster who fought like the devil, who used to joke he liked fighting the English because at least with them he knew where the enemy was, and whom Reinhardt had tried to save after the war, using Becker’s illegal network. ‘After the war, Isidor became a fireman. He died, trapped in a burning house, while his fellow firemen just stood around outside. A house someone set fire to deliberately, in order to kill him. I know that, you see, because I conducted the investigation into his death.

‘Do you wonder what I mean by all this? I wonder myself, actually. A few things I know. The last war was easier than this one. Just us against them. And the Jews? Funny thing about Jews is,’ he said, inhaling deeply, ‘there’s really nothing mysterious about them, once you’ve seen one blown in two, his guts mixed up with any other German’s. Or a Tommy’s. I hear a lot of people say they’re all around. Behind all this, manipulating us.’ He shrugged with his mouth. ‘Could be the conspiracies are right. Or could be people will believe anything they want. But I know that in 1918 I knew where to find a lot of them, and that was in the trenches with me.’ He looked hard into the priest’s eyes, searching for the utter conviction that drove the man. Searching, so he could do what? Crush it?

As fast as it came, whatever drove him was gone. Perhaps what was broken inside had mended. Perhaps he had needed to say what he had just said. But whatever it was Reinhardt fancied looked out from the priest’s eyes was still there. Nothing he said or did would ever drive what motivated the priest away.

So he turned and left, motioning to Claussen, a sudden lift in his step. The lift lasted as long as it took his knee to twinge painfully as he took the steps down to the square too fast. As he got into the kubelwagen he looked back. The priest was still standing by the door looking down at him. ‘Back to the barracks, Sergeant.’ Reinhardt resisted the urge to wave a cheery goodbye as Claussen drove away from the church.

‘You heard all that?’ he asked Claussen, hooking his arm over the door and staring up at the hills. He looked over at the sergeant. ‘Well?’

‘I heard, sir,’ replied Claussen, flicking his eyes up at the mirror.

‘And?’

‘And what, sir?’

‘What do you think, Sergeant? Was I unkind to a priest? Did I say anything that shocked you?’

‘I’m sure I don’t know, sir.’

‘I’m sure you do, Claussen,’ snapped Reinhardt. ‘You were in the last lot. You were a copper. In Dusseldorf, weren’t you? We’re not so different.’ Down in the river, boys were playing on the rocks again. One of them watched him go by. Reinhardt waved, but the boy did not wave back.

Claussen was silent a moment, his lower lip moving as he chewed it. ‘I can’t say I was shocked, sir,’ he said, finally. ‘I heard what you said, about Jews and the trenches. I can’t say I ever had much use for a Jew, sir, but they were there right with us then.’ Claussen swung the car up to the main entrance to the barracks. A soldier swung the striped barrier pole up, and Claussen drove through, the tyres thumping on the cobbles of the courtyard, and parked. He turned the engine off and sat looking down, then turned to Reinhardt. ‘After the war, in Dusseldorf, there were a couple on the force. I got friendly with one of them. Walked a beat with him. Got drunk with him. In and out of scraps. Played football together. Went to his house. A couple of Passovers, things like that. Funny thing, though,’ he said, a small, tight smile on his face. ‘He would never come to mine. For Christmas, or Easter. Still,’ he continued, after a moment. ‘He was a good copper. He was kicked off the force in thirty-four, I think. He took on whatever work he could find, managed to get his family out, but he didn’t make it. He got beaten half to death by a group of SS one night. He was brought into the police station where I was watch sergeant. Died in the cells from his injuries.’ Claussen paused, looking emptily out across the parking area. ‘I suppose that was it for me, really.’

‘What was?’ asked Reinhardt.

Claussen pursed his lips as he shrugged. ‘The end of being a copper. I mean, what was the point?’ He glanced around. ‘The lunatics had taken over the asylum, hadn’t they? It must have been the same in Berlin.’

Reinhardt nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose it was.’

‘What about you, sir?’

‘The last straw?’ Claussen nodded. ‘I tried to arrest an SA man who had thrown a homosexual out of a fifth-floor window. He was known for it. Everyone knew who did it. They knew nothing would come of it. It was not as if it was the first time, but something snapped that night. It was… not long after my wife died. I got blind drunk and tried to arrest him in the bar he always went to…’ He trailed off.

‘And… ?’ prompted Claussen.

‘They laughed at me until I pulled a gun on him, and then they beat the shit out of me. Dumped me on the street. Spent the night in jail. Official reprimand for breaching the peace. Drunk on duty. Conduct unbecoming, et cetera, et cetera… The writing was on the wall for me, so I jumped before I was pushed.’

‘And now, here we both are,’ said Claussen, after a moment. He stared at his hands as he ran them up and over the steering wheel. The engine tinkled as it cooled. Reinhardt thought back over what he had said and how easy it had been to tell it to this bluff man. He listened to the tone he thought he could hear in Claussen’s voice. The one that matched his own feelings. That here was a chance to do the right thing, and that doing the right thing was not something he could do on his own. He needed someone with him, and it might as well be Claussen because there was no one else.

‘Hendel was GFP,’ Reinhardt said, after a moment. ‘So was… is… Krause. Hendel was investigating someone senior. This someone was a friend of Vukic’s, almost certainly her lover. Whoever this someone is, Vukic had something on him. Some kind of blackmail. She was working with Hendel to expose him, but it went wrong, and they both ended up dead and Krause is on the run. Krause has a film, or photographs, and the Feldgendarmerie are chasing him because someone’s told them to get that evidence back.’

Claussen puffed his cheeks and blew his breath out. ‘God,’ he muttered.

‘Quite,’ added Reinhardt. ‘And to finish it off, it seems I’ve pissed off enough people that they’ve told Freilinger to bring the investigation to a close. He’s being transferred to Italy, effective immediately.’

‘And you?’

‘Orders’ll come, for sure.’ Reinhardt got out of the car and paused with his hands on the door. ‘In the meantime, I’m working with this GFP captain. Or maybe for him. Who the hell knows with that lot?’

‘What about Krause, sir? Where is he, do you think?’

‘Sergeant, if you were Krause. If you were on the run. Where would you go?’

Claussen looked back at him, unblinking. ‘The Reds,’ he said, firmly, with barely a pause for thought.

‘The Partisans,’ nodded Reinhardt. ‘I think you’re right.’ He tapped his hands on the door frame. ‘I want you to go over to the main hospital. Ask for Dr Oster, on my behalf. Remind him he told me about a couple of soldiers he treated for burns the other day. See if he’s got records of them. Names. Units. Bring them back to me here if you get anything.’

‘Yes, sir. Captain. Just one thing, sir. I’d like to understand. About the church.’

‘It’s a guess, Sergeant. It’s the first church on the way in from Ilidza. I thought if my hunch about the killer’s remorse was true, he might have wanted to pray. That would have been the first place he came to.’