The Man from Berlin

by Luke McCallin

  The doors to police HQ opened, and a policeman stepped out, holding the door for a woman dressed in black. She came slowly down the steps and fitted a hat to her head, placing it carefully over her ash-blond hair, and he recognised her as Vukić’s mother, whom they had interviewed yesterday. Reinhardt straightened as he watched her walk slowly away, something in her bearing, in the way she seemed to be holding herself up and together, demanding that he stand in the best way he could. She did not see him, her eyes somewhere very far ahead. He watched her, her shoulders braced as if she walked into a high wind, one only she could feel, until she turned a corner and was gone, but his eyes stayed fixed on the point where she had been.

  When he got home from the hospital the day Carolin died, Friedrich was there. The day had unspooled itself in shreds, the light wavering, people moving like marionettes, as in those old silent films. Somewhere distant he seemed to hear the sound of a piano, like the one they played in the cinema when he was a boy. A scratchy reel of notes just out of rhythm, and that tinny soundtrack to the mess his life had become had eventually led him home.

  Reinhardt saw the bags on the floor of the hallway as he opened the door, and the soldier, tall and slim in his grey uniform. His son looked at him, looked him up and down. Reinhardt flushed, twisting his hat in his hands, feeling like a supplicant. In his own home.

  ‘You’ve been drinking,’ was all Friedrich said.

  He had not. Not that day, but Friedrich would not believe that, so he said nothing, only shrugged out of his coat. Another soldier walked out of Friedrich’s room, a bag in his hand. Hans Kalter. A year older than Friedrich and the model his son followed. A corporal already, Reinhardt saw. Kalter said nothing, watching with the confident air of a man who knows the outcome of a particular fight. Reinhardt hung up his hat and coat and walked past Friedrich into the kitchen, shying away from that coldness he always seemed to feel around him. He felt Friedrich looking at him as he shifted slowly around the room, lighting the gas for water to boil.

  ‘Nothing to say, Father? Nothing about the uniform? Didn’t you say never to come back here wearing it?’ Playing to the gallery, and sure enough, Kalter straightened, seemed to swell with indignation.

  ‘What are you doing here, Friedrich?’ Reinhardt asked, finally.

  ‘I’m picking up the last of my things. What does it look like?’

  ‘That’s what it looks like,’ Reinhardt agreed, quietly. He spooned tea into a small pot. Blue china. The one Carolin always used. He almost never drank tea. He felt Friedrich watching him. He had seen it too. Their eyes met. Something sparked deep behind their flat sheen, behind the blank façade his son seemed to hold up for his father.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She died last night. Early this morning, in fact,’ he finished, as the kettle began to whistle. He poured the water slowly, as she used to, hearing it purr softly over the leaves, watching it rise up the inside of the pot, watching the steam curl up and out. ‘Would you like some tea?’

  Friedrich was white. ‘When were you going to tell me? Were you just going to leave me to guess?’

  ‘When would I have told you, Friedrich?’

  ‘When you walked in.’

  ‘I just did.’

  ‘You waited. You did it on purpose.’

  ‘You’re a grown man, now, Friedrich. That’s what you keep telling me…’

  ‘That’s what you won’t believe!’

  ‘… and so a man needs to pick and choose his words like he picks and chooses his fights…’

  ‘Like you? Like you?!’

  ‘… as otherwise he’ll be left looking like a fool.’

  ‘Are you calling me a fool, Father?’

  ‘And if you accuse your father of being a drunk…’

  ‘You are. You are. A bloody drunk.’

  ‘… don’t be surprised if the conversation takes a turn away from where it might have gone.’

  There was silence. How fast they had come up against each other. Fallen into the rhythm of their assigned roles. Parry, riposte, words skirling, useless hard scrabbling against each other.

  ‘A fool?’ Friedrich blustered, after a moment. ‘My choices foolish? My choices are Germany’s, Father. Are Germany’s choices foolish?’ He opened his stance, inviting Kalter into the conversation.

  Kalter stepped forward. ‘I would have thought a German man, a veteran, would know better than to treat his son in this manner.’

  ‘When you’ve got one of these, Corporal,’ he said, jerking his thumb at the black dress ribbon of his Iron Cross where it was fixed to his lapel, ‘or better yet, when you’ve lost a leg or an arm, then come back and lecture me about the duties and responsibilities of a German soldier.’ Reinhardt put Carolin’s blue cup and saucer on the table and sat there looking at her chair, his mind beginning to skirt around the understanding that she had filled not one space, but many. And he was only beginning to learn just how many, and where.

  ‘She died in her sleep, Friedrich. They say she felt no pain.’ ­Reinhardt looked at him but felt nothing anymore. No connection across to the boy he had been, and still was, in so many ways.

  Friedrich swallowed hard, his jaw tendon tight. ‘You just want to make me feel guilty. You always…’

  ‘Get out, Friedrich. Do as you said. Don’t come back.’

  He sat there, the blue china pot and the blue cup and saucer in front of him, watching the steam writhe in the air as the door slammed at the end of the hall and an emptiness suddenly gaped underneath him, within him. He sat there until the tea went cold, and the night came down on that day, which had unspooled itself like a film. And as with a film, it always ended the same way, each of them playing out a role, even if one of the actors was missing now.

  Reinhardt sat in his little patch of sun, his mind far away, until Padelin showed up about ten minutes later, coming heavily down the stairs with his jacket under his arm, rolling his shirtsleeves down. Reinhardt could see that he looked exhausted. His eyes were dark, his hair lank, and he had not changed his clothes. They shook hands, and Reinhardt noted the swelling and bruising across the knuckles. ‘Busy night?’

  Padelin looked down. There were flecks of blood on the cuffs of his shirt. He turned those heavy eyes on Reinhardt and nodded. ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Anyone confessed?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You have had breakfast yet?’ asked Padelin. ‘No? Then let us have something.’

  Padelin took them to a place on Zrinjskoga Street, around the ­corner from headquarters. It was obviously a policemen’s haunt. Heads came up and greetings were offered to Padelin. From the tone of voice and the laughter and shoving that ensued, not a few of the comments were on what he had been doing to get in the state he was in. To a chorus of cheers, a policeman even bigger than Putković raised Padelin’s arms over his head like a prizefighter. It made Reinhardt nostalgic and uncomfortable in equal measure. He remembered the party they had thrown for him and Brauer when they finally caught Dresner, the Postman. The big officer grinned, brought his head close to Padelin’s, and said something, one hand patting the back of his neck. Padelin turned and indicated Reinhardt. The huge policeman looked him up and down, then nodded and left with a final ruffle of Padelin’s hair.

  ‘Who is that?’ asked Reinhardt. ‘Your fan club?’

  Padelin shrugged as they sat at an empty table. ‘That’s Bunda.’ He said it like that was all that needed to be said.

  ‘Looks like a man you wouldn’t ever want to have angry at you.’

  Padelin allowed a small smile to flicker across his mouth. ‘No. You would not. Like I said, Vukić was popular. People want her killer found. I must wash. I will order something,’ he said, and left.

  The atmosphere of the place was thick with smoke. Despite the warmth of the morning, no windows wer
e opened. That, the low hum of conversation, and the glances at him over hunched shoulders and crossed arms, and Reinhardt began to feel uncomfortable. Bunda appraised him openly, staring at him through eyes sunk deep under heavy brows, a cigarette like a toothpick where it poked out between his thick fingers. It was with a surprising degree of relief that he saw Padelin coming back. He had combed his hair and found a fresh shirt somewhere. Coffee and rolls arrived as he sat down, and Padelin began to eat with that methodical, head-down attitude he had shown yesterday. Reinhardt sipped his coffee and winced, forgetting that Croats often served their coffee already sweetened, and there was too much sugar in it.

  Padelin finished his breakfast and ordered a second cup of coffee. ‘I talked with our traffic police, but they have nothing for the times we’re interested in. Here.’

  Reinhardt took a couple of sheets of paper, with handwritten entries between ruled columns. He flipped between the two. There were only a few entries on each page. He noticed the word for fire and pointed to it, his eyebrows raised.

  Padelin leaned over, and nodded. ‘Yes, there was quite a big fire on Sunday night, in Ilijaš. I heard about it.’ He scanned the entry. ‘Looks like they had to call in one of the fire engines from here to help put it out.’

  ‘Forensics?’

  ‘Still being worked on.’

  ‘Pathologist?’

  Padelin reached into his coat and pulled out some papers and handed them over. There were two pages, folded lengthways down the middle, and then in half, in the manner they used in Yugoslavia. It was the little differences in things that always struck Reinhardt. ‘There’s the report. Nothing we don’t already know. Severely beaten. Stabbed to death. Any of three wounds in particular would have killed her. One to the heart, and two to her lungs. There were signs of sex. The pathologist does not think it was rape. Hendel, well, we know what happened to him. But the pathologist said that, given the entry and exit wounds he suffered, it was not a nine-millimetre round that killed him. Something smaller.’

  ‘Probably 7.62 millimetre, then,’ said Reinhardt. ‘Can’t say it narrows it down that much, but it’s something. I talked with some of our people yesterday. It seems there was a planning meeting in Ilidža over the weekend. There were a lot of senior officers in the Hotel Austria, not far from Vukić’s house.’

  Padelin looked at him. ‘Your point being?’

  Confronted with such apparent lack of interest, Reinhardt was at a loss. ‘Maybe something. Maybe nothing. You saw the collection of photographs at Vukić’s house? You remember what her mother said, about her being attracted to men of power and authority? It’s something to consider. No?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Padelin, his eyes looking out the window.

  Reinhardt felt a flush of annoyance. ‘What about your side of things?’ Padelin raised an eyebrow. ‘Has anyone had a look at the darkroom? Been able to catalogue what might be missing? What about Vukić’s movements? When she was last seen. Where she was last seen.’

  ‘The maid was the last person to see her.’

  ‘So she says,’ replied Reinhardt, willing Padelin to tell him about the Ragusa and whatever else was going on.

  Padelin pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘She didn’t lie to me.’

  ‘No,’ replied Reinhardt. ‘She probably didn’t. But that doesn’t mean she’s right. About being the last person to see her. What about before that? We have all of Saturday to account for, at least.’

  Padelin nodded ponderously and raised a placating hand next to his coffee cup. ‘Saturday, yes. Friday, she was working. I have confirmation of that from this man we’re going to see now. She worked late with her film crew, then told them she was going home.’

  ‘So, apart from the maid, the last time anyone saw her we know of would have been Friday evening. That’s a lot of time to account for.’

  ‘She was at home. The maid confirmed it.’

  ‘When did the maid arrive?’

  ‘Saturday morning.’ A frown touched Padelin’s face.

  ‘And she can testify Vukić was there all day, until she left?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She had no visitors?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She made or received no telephone calls?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So we still have two gaps. Friday evening to Saturday morning. And from when the maid left until she came back and found the body.’

  ‘Reinhardt.’ There was an edge to Padelin’s voice, people looking up from other tables. Reinhardt felt a sudden wash of fear as the big detective’s eyes sparked. ‘What point are you trying to make here?’

  Reinhardt looked back at him. The fear was gone as fast as it came, replaced by something much colder and more calculating. This was the first reaction he had really elicited from Padelin. He leaned in close. He had to get close. He could not afford to show fear in front of Padelin. Especially not here, in this bar. ‘That it’s a bit too soon to be interrogating suspects,’ he said, with an edge to his own voice, ‘and celebrating closing a case, when we can’t even begin to account for something so simple as her movements.’ He stared hard at Padelin, then sat back, shaking his head slightly. ‘When were you going to tell me about the Ragusa?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ragusa. You arrested one of the waiters. Zoran Zigić. Last night.’

  Padelin stared back at him for a long moment. ‘Jebi ga,’ he muttered, finally, and then belched softly for a man of his size, to which a couple of the policemen at the nearer tables offered what must have been pithy comments as it set off a new round of laughter in the bar. The ghost of a smile touched Padelin’s lips during all this, and Reinhardt could not help but smile back, but Padelin’s next words wiped it away. ‘I think I said before, I don’t need to be told how to do my job. I am satisfied in my knowledge of Vukić’s movements, and her death is my affair. That part of the investigation I take care of myself.’ He stopped and swirled his coffee before knocking the rest of it back. ‘Zigić is part Serb. We also think he’s closely related to a senior member of the Communist Party, here in Sarajevo. Someone we’ve been after for a while. And we think the Communists are involved. So, arresting him, we – how do you say? We take two birds with one stone,’ he said, sitting back in his chair. ‘Are you afraid we will solve this before you?’

  Reinhardt shook his head, the skin around his eyes crinkling in frustration. ‘Padelin, it’s not a race.’ Then he thought of the Feld­gendarmerie. Becker’s stalling. A day ahead of him, and Padelin filled in what was suddenly racing through his mind.

  ‘Of course it’s a race, Reinhardt,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Maybe you just don’t know it yet, but you should.’ Reinhardt stared back at him, struck speechless. ‘You are fortunate, in a way, that this case has not attracted so much attention on your side. Still, you are hoping your investigation does not lead you into trouble with your commanders, right? That you can solve this in the proper way. The way you would like.’

  ‘My investigation?’ repeated Reinhardt. It was all he could manage. Any thought of telling him about Krause was gone, at least for now.

  ‘My mistake,’ said Padelin, placidly, and not at all sincerely. ‘I misspoke.’

  ‘All right. So now, we’re going to see Vukić’s film crew, correct?’

  ‘Just one. Her sound recorder.’

  ‘Sound engineer?’ Padelin nodded, covered a yawn with his hand, and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Ready when you are, champ.’

  Padelin endured a series of loud farewells as they left. Picking up Reinhardt’s car, the detective directed Reinhardt towards Bjelava, to a relatively new area of housing and businesses at the western entrance of the town, constructed between the two wars, laid out in blocks. They stopped in front of a five-storey building. Following Padelin into the foyer through a door that squealed on rusty hinges, he scanne
d the address boxes for what he wanted. ‘Second floor,’ he said. The door was opened to their knock by a thin young man with floppy blond hair and glasses. He was what Reinhardt took to be fashionably dressed, with a burgundy knitted waistcoat on top of a blue shirt, its top button undone over a loosened, dark blue tie.

  ‘Jeste li policija?’ he said. His eyes were red, and puffy, as if he had been crying. Padelin showed him his identification and gestured at Reinhardt as they talked. ‘Jeste, I can speak German,’ the man said, as he let them in into a broad, open room. Filmmaking equipment was scattered all around: screens hanging from the walls, projectors, film reels, tripods and lights and other gear standing in corners. At one end of the room was a huge mirror, a tatty old couch under it covered in newspapers, magazines, and photos, like the kind of glossy prints film stars had made of themselves. On a big table in the middle of the room lay a disassembled camera, one of the big ones used for making films, surrounded by parts and tools. An overflowing ashtray and a pack of cigarettes sat next to a pile of newspapers. Beneath the smell of tobacco was a sharp chemical tang, as in Vukić’s darkroom.

  The young man motioned them towards some high stools at the end of the big table. He lit himself a cigarette without offering one. He held his right forearm vertically, his elbow cupped in his left hand, and held the cigarette lightly between his fingers, wrist tilted back. It was a strangely effeminate gesture. Reinhardt wondered if Vukić had smoked, and if she had, had she held her cigarettes like that. ‘I am Duško Jelić. What can I do for you?’

  ‘You were told we are investigating the murder of Marija Vukić?’ asked Padelin.

  Jelić nodded, his eyes welling up again. ‘I am sorry,’ he sniffled. ‘I cannot seem to stop crying. You know? Since I heard.’