Devil's in a Different Dress

by Chris Barraclough

  “Captain Geddes,” he said, his voice so deep and his accent so thick that it came out more as a growl. “You know your money is no good here.” He placed a meaty hand on the bar and pushed the pile of coins away. Geddes stared down at the heap, the smile still playing across his lips.

  “You mean free drinks all round?” he ventured. The bartender shook his head slowly.

  “I mean get out of my bar.”

  “Oh, come on now, I don’t think that’s really very sporting. The damages I paid you were more than fair. I bet that shoddy old furniture wasn’t even worth half what I gave you.”

  “And my daughter?” the bartender said, pushing the book aside and leaning across the bar, the wooden frame creaking beneath him. “What is she worth, exactly?” Now Geddes’ smile faltered and he raised his hands, backing off half a step.

  “Now, I already told you, I didn’t know she was your daughter until after the…unpleasantness.”

  “Excuse me,” I cut in, desperately wishing that we’d tracked down this place alone. The bartender’s eyes shifted and his piercing gaze fell on me instead, immediately judging me for sharing the same oxygen as Captain Geddes. I cleared my throat. “My name’s Captain King, I’m investigating the murder of a local girl over in Rottstein. I just need to know if a soldier was in here drinking two nights ago.

  “We get a lot of English,” the bartender said, his glare sliding over to Geddes again. I leaned on the bar, trying my best to edge the other Captain aside.

  “His name is Lieutenant James Turner, he’s six feet tall…” I gave the full description and his expression remained as solid as stone, so I thought what the hell and I pulled out my drawing and slid it in front of him. The ink shone from the paper by the flickering candlelight.

  “Yes, I know that man,” the bartender eventually said, I think to everyone’s surprise. “But he doesn’t look like this.” He prodded the paper with a grimace. “What is this, three noses?”

  “Forget the drawing,” I said, pulling the paper aside and scrunching it up. “You know Lieutenant Turner?” My heart was thumping as the bartender nodded and rubbed his chin with those meaty fingers.

  “He comes every week, drinking with his friend.”

  “Every week?” Shaw said, confusion painting his face. “What friend?”

  “Herr Rubbnacher,” the bartender replied. “Local butcher.”

  “Was Lieutenant Turner here with a woman two nights ago?” I asked, my head suddenly bursting with about a dozen different questions. The bartender shrugged.

  “No woman. Just Herr Rubbnacher.”

  Jesus Christ, I thought, a warm bead of sweat stroking its way down my brow. Turner was lying from the start.

  “Did you notice anything a bit strange that night,” I asked.

  “Strange?” the bartender said with a curl of his lip. “Nothing more strange than a German man drinking with an English soldier.”

  “So where’s this butcher, then?” Shaw asked. “Might have a few questions for him.”

  “Well, during the day you can find him in the butcher’s shop.” The cold expression told us everything we needed to know. We’d outstayed our welcome and our witness was keen to return to his accounts. I nudged Shaw beneath the bar and stepped back.

  “Thanks for your help,” I said, then I turned and strode back across the bar, hoping to Christ that Shaw and especially Geddes were following. Thankfully they’d picked up on the bartender’s mood just as clearly and they came along, the three of us exiting the cellar without another word.

  Back on street level, I paused beneath a lamppost and tried to take in everything we’d just learned. If the bartender was telling the truth, then Turner had lied about two things. First, this wasn’t a one-off trip to a bar as he gathered supplies. This was a regular thing and he apparently returned to the same bar every time. Second, there was no beautiful local lady who seduced him and then possibly drugged him. Just some butcher called Rubbnacher. I thought back to what Jenna Lemann told me in the cells and I wondered if it was true. Just one lead to follow now, one way to know for sure.

  “Fat, sweaty bastard,” Geddes crowed, twisting around when we stepped out onto the street and flicking a v-sign back down the staircase. “Beer tastes like piss anyway. Come on, lads, let’s go back to the barracks. Might still be some booze left if we’re lucky.”

  “Does Rubbnacher own the butcher’s shop?” I asked him and he frowned back.

  “Only been there once, but he was the only bugger in there.”

  “Where can we find it?” I asked, this time hoping for directions rather than a guide.

  “You’re not going there now, are you? It’ll be closed.” Geddes shook his head and jabbed a thumb back the way we’d come, down towards the barracks. “Booze now, detective rubbish later.”

  “Tell you what,” I said, slapping Shaw on the back. “My man here will head back with you and sink a few beers and I’ll go check out the butcher’s. Deal?” Geddes’ face immediately lit up and he nodded enthusiastically. Shaw didn’t look too upset with the offer either.

  “Deal,” Geddes said. “Butcher’s is two streets along…no, wait, three streets, over that way. Can’t miss it, all the dangling meat’s a dead give-away. Don’t be long or we’ll drink your share.” He turned to Shaw with a beaming smile. “Come on then, chum, my throat’s drier than a nun’s crotch. Let’s fill our tanks, eh?”

  I watched them stomp off down the road, wondering if Shaw would still be coherent or even conscious by the time I returned, then I span on my heels and headed in the direction Geddes had pointed me. I was less than confident at his hazy directions and my concern was well-founded, as I still hadn’t found the bloody butcher’s shop twenty minutes later, despite wandering down almost every little street I came across. Finally, after half an hour had passed, I somehow stumbled across the place. Geddes had pointed me in completely the wrong direction and I wasn’t too sure it was an accident either. Bastard was probably snickering about it with Shaw right now, over a couple of warm beers. I huffed out a breath and peered in through the darkened windows at the joints and cuts that were on display. As expected, it was a pretty pathetic offering. If you joined up the meagre slabs of flesh – a cut of liver, a few slices of bacon, some fatty chops – into one whole animal, it’d maybe just about make up an anorexic cow.

  I stepped back and craned my neck, peering up at the first floor of the building. Above the shop, a plain pair of windows glowed. I was counting on the butcher living up there, to save me a return journey the following day. After checking both ways down the street, which was as eerily silent as the rest of the town, I returned to the door and pushed the tiny button built into the frame. From somewhere inside, I heard a shrill buzzing sound. While I waited for a response, my eyes wandered across the produce again, greedily savouring the salty meats. As fatty and stringy as most of it looked, I’d have happily paid good money for a steak or two. Our meals back at base had been increasingly dire, consisting mostly of cereals and mushy greens. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d had bacon, or sausage, or even gravy. The thought of it was enough to make my stomach churn in rage. I just hoped that mum was still getting a good feed back home, despite the rationing. She always complained in her letters, of course, but then my mum would always find something to grieve over. If she was Queen of England, she’d probably argue that the hat was too heavy.

  I was so lost in my thoughts that I almost jolted when a pale face appeared before me, peering out through the thick slab of glass. It was a youthful face, belonging to a man perhaps the same age as me, with hair shaved to stubble. His eyes were slits, invisible in the dark. He hovered there for a moment, then he shuffled to his side and I heard the latches being drawn back on the other side of the door. Finally it opened with an ear-gouging creak and the man appeared in the doorway.

  “Herr Rubbnacher?” I asked and he sized me up.

  “Who are you?” he asked, his suspicion all too obvious. I took it
from that response that he was indeed the butcher.

  “Captain King. I’m based over in Rottstein, here for an official investigation. I’ve heard you know a Lieutenant James Turner?” The name won an immediate reaction. Rubbnacher shuffled his feet and for a moment I thought I was about to get the door in my face. Thankfully the butcher merely pursed his lips and leaned against the frame.

  “What kind of investigation?” he asked.

  “Murder.” Again, a reaction. This time, Rubbnacher licked his lips and sucked in a breath.

  “James, is he…”

  “He’s not dead,” I told him. “But he’s tangled up in something bad and I need to speak with you.” He seemed to mull it over, before finally stepping aside and inviting me into the shop.

  The ground floor smelled of blood, salt and vinegar, but as I crept up the stairs to the top floor, the stench of raw flesh gave way to a sweeter smell, like summer flowers. At the top of the staircase, there were two doors. One led into a tiny bathroom, complete with a metal tub and sink. I cautiously shuffled through the other door and found myself in a bedroom, which seemed to double as a study with a desk pushed up beside the bed. The place was well lit by a single gas lamp, but glancing around, I couldn’t tell where that strange, sweet smell was drifting from. All I could see in the room was furniture. I stepped to the side and watched Rubbnacher intently as he stepped in behind me and strode to the desk. He plucked up a bottle of wine and held it aloft.

  “Drink?” he asked me. I shook my head, thinking of the state Turner was in that night.

  “Fine, thanks.” I waited for him to pour himself a glass and take a sip, then I started with the questions. “So, I guess the first thing is, how do you know Lieutenant Turner?”

  “I met him soon after you English kicked the Nazis out,” the butcher replied. He took a longer sip and leaned against the desk, which groaned in dismay. Now I could see that he was skinnier than I first thought, but his biceps were unusually thick. I figured that was from hauling and cutting up carcasses. His eyes were still narrowed to slits and they remained locked on me, even when he tipped his head back to drink.

  “How did you meet?” I asked. Rubbnacher blinked, swirling the wine in the glass.

  “In a bar called Das Kapitan. He was there, drinking by himself. I too was drinking alone. We caught each other’s eye and decided to start a conversation.”

  “The bartender there told me you used to meet up regularly,” I said. Not a question, of course, I just wanted to see what his response would be. At first he was silent, those dark little eyes cutting into me, making me feel rotten to the core. Then he finished his glass and slid it back across the table.

  “Please,” he said, “what is this investigation? Why are you asking me about one of your own Lieutenants?” There was a chilly edge to his tone and I was relatively certain that I’d get nothing else out of him, not without explaining a little first. I shifted my hands to my sides, making sure that my revolver was readily accessible, the holster catch peeled back. If the butcher moved, I wanted the gun out in less than a second.

  “We found a girl, murdered, on the outskirts of Rottstein. Turner is the main suspect.” His surprise at the news at least seemed genuine, his suspicion melting into obvious disbelief.

  “Why do you think it was him?” Rubbnacher asked. I decided to hit him with the full grisly details.

  “The girl was murdered two nights ago,” I told him, “around the same time Turner was driving back into town. His memory’s a little hazy, but the evidence is pretty solid. He picked up the girl somewhere, took her to the woods, raped her and strangled her.” The butcher’s brow creased and his left eyelid twitched.

  “If you’re so sure it was him,” he asked, “why are you here, talking with me?”

  “Lieutenant Turner is going to be executed. Before that happens, I’d rather know exactly what went on that night.”

  “I see,” Rubbnacher said, shifting his weight from one buttock to the other and crossing his arms. “So then you can shoot him in good conscience.” He sighed and bowed his head, the first time his gaze had dropped since we entered the room. “Well, I can tell you, I don’t think James is the man you’re after.”

  “Why not?” I demanded and he snorted.

  “Do I have to make it so obvious?” His head lifted again and I saw a bitter smile twisting his lips. “You say the murderer raped this girl. I say, James would not have it in him to rape a girl.”

  “You two…” I started to say, then I trailed off. The butcher nodded.

  “Yes, us two. I was with him that night. We drank, a lot. We took some stronger stuff. At just before midnight, he drove back to Rottstein. I told him to stay, but he wouldn’t listen. How he even managed to make it back, I’ll never know. It’s a good thing the road is just one straight line.” Rubbnacher shook his head. “That is all I can tell you.”

  “Aye,” I said. “If it comes to it, would you be willing to repeat that in a martial hearing?”

  “No,” the butcher replied. I frowned.

  “No?”

  “No, for the same reason James didn’t tell you what he was really doing the night of the murder.” Rubbnacher pushed himself away from the desk and stepped closer, that piercing glare burning into me once more. “Do you know what the Nazis did to a local boy when they found out he preferred men to girls? They took him to the square and they bound his hands and feet, then they cut the clothes from his body so he was naked. Then they set four hungry dogs on him. By the time they were done eating, he was just bones and blood.” The butcher turned his head and spat and I flinched.

  “We’re not the Nazis,” I said, my voice wavering. He just smiled, a sad little smile.

  “Someone else killed your girl,” he told me. I nodded back, then I brushed off my uniform with both hands before thanking him and descending once more into the stench of blood.

  Shaw was on stage two of drinking when I pulled him from the barracks and back into the car. Still conscious, still vaguely coherent, but all too eager to continue and a little light of foot. He slumped against the window and lifted a stolen bottle to his lips while I teased the engine into life and pulled away, swinging back in the direction of Rottstein. This time I waved to the pillbox boy without rolling down the window and he obligingly lifted the barrier and saluted as we passed.

  “So you found the butcher,” Shaw mumbled, swinging the bottle between his fingers. I nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the yellow track ahead, quickly disappearing into darkness. “Worth the trip?”

  “Well, I’m none the wiser, but that’s two people, two locals no less, who say he can’t have done it.”

  “So what do we do now?” Shaw asked. I’d been wondering the same thing and I was no closer to an answer.

  “We need to start again,” I told him. “Right at the beginning, with Schmidt. If Turner really is innocent, maybe Jurgen was too. Maybe I’m making one big fucking hash of this whole thing.” I exhaled slowly, realising how tense I was; my spine was so rigid it had already begun to ache and I tried to ease back into the seat and relax a little. It was useless. My mouth and throat were dry and my skin tingled and I needed one of my pills right now. Jesus, was this the third today, or the fourth? I never usually lost count like this. My mind crashed back through everything that had happened since I woke up in those damp sheets, but just thinking about it made my stomach buzz so I decided to hell with it. Shaw was too busy drinking and staring out at the endless black countryside, so I eased the tiny plastic case out of my pocket with one hand and thumbed the lid back, tipping one of the magic pills onto my tongue. Shaw turned to me just as the case dropped back inside my pocket and that glorious little pill slipped down my throat.

  “Oh well,” Shaw said. “Fun bunch, the Kungsbrucken lot. Captain Geddes said we’re welcome any time.”

  “He seemed a little desperate for company,” I replied. Shaw shook his head.

  “He’s a good guy.”

  “Well, he can ce
rtainly drink,” I said. Shaw glanced down at the bottle clutched in his hands and his eyes misted over.

  “You think I pound the booze a little too hard, don’t you.” Suddenly he was quiet and sorrowful, like a child who’s just been scolded. I glanced across at him and opened my mouth to reply, but then I paused and thought of the pill dissolving in my stomach and the sheet of sweat coating my forehead.

  “I think that the world’s a terrifying place,” I told him. “Life is fragile and fucking meaningless and us….humans…we never should’ve existed, not like this. Animals make it through each day because they don’t think, they just do. They eat, they shit, they sleep. Job done. But us, we have to lie awake at night, contemplating all the shite we’ve seen, all the shite we’ve done. You think a lion gets all stressed over the things it’s killed? You think it tosses and turns because it ripped out a tiger’s throat? No, course not. So sod it, have a drink. Whatever it takes to drown out those voices.” I swallowed and cleared my throat, realising that I was gripping the steering wheel almost tight enough to snap it in two. For a little while, an awkward silence hung between us. Then Shaw turned to me and smiled.

  “Lions don’t eat tigers,” he said. “They live in different continents.”

  “Fine, then. Wildebeest, or whatever else you bloody find in Africa.”

  “Mmm.” Shaw raised the bottle and peered through the dark glass at the liquid sloshing inside. “The funny thing is, it’s not the killing that makes me so bloody depressed. It’s the thought of her back home.” He gulped back some more and smacked his lips. “I just know I’ve lost her.”

  “You’re just paranoid,” I said, my tone soft. “She’ll be waiting for you when you get home, same as always.”