The Man from Berlin (22 page)

19

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. Putković 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 Putković'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 Putković was escorting the man out. They passed close by Reinhardt. The man looked at him uninterestedly. Putković'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 Topalović out. That is ironic,
no?'

‘Ironic?'

‘An Orthodox priest trying to get a Serb Communist out of an Ustaše 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 Topalović?'

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 Begović saying happened?'

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

Reinhardt's mouth opened, then closed. ‘Dr Begović?' he ­repeated.

‘You left together last night.'

‘That's correct,' said Reinhardt.

‘Did he say anything to you? Perhaps something out of the ­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 Vukić'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 Begović 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. ­‘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.

‘Well, perhaps you will be happy with something I have to show you. Please wait here. I must speak with someone, but I will be back.' With that, he was gone, leaving Reinhardt alone in the conference room.

Almost alone. He heard a faint scuff and turned. Again, perhaps a little too quickly. Last night's scare, too little sleep, and too much self-reflection had left him very jumpy.

‘So?' said Becker. ‘That's it, then?' Becker was standing behind him, slightly turned away, with his head tilted up. He held his glasses in his hands in front of
him.

Reinhardt leaned back and sat on the edge of the table and shook a cigarette out. ‘I don't know. Why don't you ask them whether they'll go out and try to find some other poor bastard to pin this
on?'

Becker snorted. ‘Come now, Gregor,' he teased, knowing how much Reinhardt hated it when Becker called him by his given name. ‘Don't be so uncharitable.' He smiled and cocked his head, the light catching the rims of his little steel glasses where he held them in his fingers.

Reinhardt lit his cigarette, drew on it, and exhaled, giving himself time. He hated arguing with Becker. It made him feel weak. It reminded him too much of the past, of railing pointlessly against things that could not be fought against. He looked at the Feldgendarme past the stream of smoke, considering. ‘You know, I ought to congratulate you. That little scene at your headquarters, yesterday. “I'm a policeman.” “Nothing good ever came of bending the rules.” You almost had me believing
it.'

Becker grinned. ‘But it was true, Reinhardt. Nothing
good
ever
did
. That was always the point. You never got it, though.' He shifted, his head tilting down as he altered his stance, turning the other way. It was a habit of his, to never stand facing whomever he was talking to. He faced away to his right with his head down. Away to his left, with his head up. Always fiddling with his glasses. Reinhardt hated it for the ridiculous affectation it was, although he was half sure that Becker did not even realise he did it anymore.

‘More to the point, where does this leave
you?'

‘Hmm?' asked Becker, running his finger along a fold in the baize.

‘You found Krause
yet?'

Becker was good, Reinhardt had to give him that. His finger stopped moving for a moment, no longer. He looked up at Reinhardt, shifting stance again. ‘Krause?'

Reinhardt ran his tongue over his teeth and spat a piece of tobacco off his lip. ‘Don't try to bullshit me, Becker. You know who Krause is. You've been after him since Sunday. What game are you playing?'

Becker's face hardened. ‘Just what are you accusing me of, Reinhardt?' he said, tightly. ‘And call me “sir”, damn
you.'

‘Take your pick. Sir.' Reinhardt blew smoke at the ceiling. Becker's face twitched at the insolence, as it always did. He looked back down at the Feldgendarme. ‘Obstructing my investigation. Assault on a woman. Complicity in a blatant cover up. The usual mix of what you're good
at.'

Becker's face was white now. He stepped closer to Reinhardt. He had none of the physical presence of Padelin, but Reinhardt still tightened in around himself, his hands wanting to tremble. ‘Careful, Gregor. You're clutching at straws, here.'

‘Spare me your bleating, Becker. I know you.' He blew smoke in Becker's face, feeling a sudden edge of recklessness begin to stir inside, just like yesterday in the bar, except he knew he could control this confrontation. ‘Sir.'

‘The
hell
you do!' snapped Becker. ‘I'm looking for a deserter. Reported as such. You can't prove I knew anything about Hendel's murder before the rest of us
did.'

‘That's interesting. Sir. I never said anything about you knowing Hendel was dead before the police found him and Vukić.' Becker's face went blank, but Reinhardt could see the tension in the corner of his eyes, in his neck. He shifted stance again. ‘Who is it that's called in this favour, Becker? Who has you looking for Krause? Hmm?' He raised his eyebrows. ‘What's in it for you? There's always something, isn't there? I mean, why should Sarajevo be any different from the way things used to be in Berlin?'

Becker's mouth tightened, then relaxed. He turned to the left, raising his head, grinning. Reinhardt could see the confidence flowing back, all the cocky catch-me-if-you-can arrogance Reinhardt had hated so much back in their Kripo days. ‘Gregor, Gregor.' He shook his head. ‘Always so uptight. You need to get laid more. You always did, even back in the old days,' he smirked.

Reinhardt ignored the jibe at Carolin. It was an old dig. It still hurt, but not nearly as much as it used to. ‘Is it women? Money? A transfer?' Becker's grin slipped, just a little. ‘It's a transfer, isn't it?' Becker swallowed, his grin slipping further away. ‘Figures. You always were a cowardly little weasel.'

For a moment Reinhardt wondered whether he had pushed Becker too far, then decided he no longer cared. Becker's grin came back, that shit-eating grin he wore so well. ‘Gregor the crow,' he said, but his throat was tight and his voice was hoarse. ‘Still cawing and flapping about stuff no one cares about.'

‘What are you scared of, Becker?' asked Reinhardt. ‘I know you're scared. You're shifting left and right again. Playing with your glasses. Not looking at me straight.' Becker coloured. His hands tightened on his spectacles, his arms half coming up as if he meant to put them on, then stopped, and he smiled, suddenly.

‘Captain Thallberg's quite something, isn't he? A real live, poster-grade Aryan superman.' Reinhardt forced himself to reveal nothing, say nothing. Becker must know Thallberg was GFP, but if Reinhardt was reading Becker's actions right, he did not know Hendel and Krause were. Becker could only guess what Thallberg could bring to the table. What he might know. ‘What's all that about? Finally giving up the solitary life?'

‘It's what you've always told me to do, isn't
it?'

Becker chuckled. ‘You've got to be careful with those supermen, Gregor. You remember Berlin, back in the old days. People like him stomping around in brown shirts, smashing glass and breaking bones. Beating their breasts over how German they were. They're nuts.'

‘This is you telling me this?'

‘I'm garden-variety nuts, Gregor. People like Thallberg are something else. They move and think and see the world in different ways.'

Much as it pained him, there was something in what he said, and Reinhardt had felt it himself, but he just held Becker's eyes as Padelin opened the door, looking between the two of them, frowning at the tension that must have been evident between the two Germans.

Reinhardt stubbed his cigarette out. ‘You're looking well, Becker,' he said, no pretence anymore that he was a captain and Becker a major, but then, it always ended this way between them. ‘I wish you a very pleasant day, and happy hunting.' He walked out after Padelin, not looking back.