Kessler stared at him, leaning back slightly. ‘But surely you do not think there is any connection…’ His voice faded away, his feet shifted. Putting distance between himself and Reinhardt. Between himself and whatever it was Reinhardt was after. Again, Reinhardt left the question hanging. Let the man draw his own conclusions, and his own implications of his own role in this. Whatever this might be, it was clear no right-minded soldier wanted any part of it, and it was clear that was what Kessler thought of himself.
‘I do not think anything, at the moment,’ Reinhardt said. ‘I am merely investigating.’
‘Of course,’ said Kessler, turning away to his vehicle. ‘Well, as Major Becker said, once you have written authorisation, any assistance we can provide will be yours. Until then, a very good day, Captain.’
‘So?’ Claussen asked, as Reinhardt slumped into the kubelwagen next to him.
‘So, nothing much,’ replied Reinhardt. ‘Did you remember that planning conference out at Ilidza?’ He glanced over at Claussen to see him narrow his eyes and shake his head. ‘Kessler just reminded me. I’m pretty sure Freilinger alluded to it this morning, but I just didn’t catch it.’
‘You think there’s a connection?’ asked Claussen.
Reinhardt pushed his chin out, pursing his lips. ‘I’ve no clue,’ he sighed. ‘Take me back to the offices. I really hope Freilinger’s back. Then we need to think about getting a look at that Ragusa place.’
Reinhardt looked at the Miljacka as Claussen drove back up Kvaternik. With the summer’s heat, the river was low; in some places it was a dry jumble of stones. A group of boys played in the flow of water that still ran down the middle of the river’s channel, jumping from rocks into the water. ‘Freilinger told me you used to be in the police,’ he said, suddenly.
Claussen twitched his eyes towards the rearview mirrors, then shot a quick look at Reinhardt. ‘Nearly twenty years. In Dusseldorf,’ he replied.
‘Why’d you come back into the army?’ asked Reinhardt.
Claussen took a moment to respond again. ‘Didn’t much like some of the changes that were… you know, that we had to go through,’ he said after the moment. ‘And the army, well, it was always sort of my first home.’
‘You mentioned Naroch. Back at Vukic’s house.’
The sergeant nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Eastern Front 1915 to 1917. I was wounded, and sent home. Joined the police when the war ended.’
Reinhardt stared ahead at the road in front and the blank facades of the buildings on the left. Claussen’s experience was close to his. Very close, but as much as it seemed they might have much in common, there was almost certainly as much, if not more, that separated them. A silence grew, and instead of welcoming it Reinhardt cursed himself at starting a conversation he did not know how to finish.
Claussen pulled up in front of HQ and Reinhardt, still feeling a prickling awkwardness, sat for a moment before turning to face the sergeant. ‘That was good work you did. At the Feldgendarmerie station, pointing me in the direction of Kessler.’ Claussen said nothing, only looked back at him. ‘That’s something I’ll need from you, Sergeant. Any time you have something like that, a feeling, something to say about this investigation, speak up.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Reinhardt could not put a finger on how, or why, but he was sure Claussen felt he had just been insulted. Or patronised, he thought, remembering a time, long ago, a similar conversation with Brauer. Claussen was not Brauer, and Reinhardt did not have the time or strength to invest in forging a relationship with him that resembled in any way what Reinhardt and Brauer had once had as soldiers, then as policemen, as friends.
‘You have the address of this nightclub you mentioned Hendel went to? Let’s pay it a visit tonight. Bring Hueber and meet me at the barracks at eight o’clock.’ Reinhardt got out of the car, turning as he closed the door. ‘Until then, you are free to do as you will.’
Back at the offices, Reinhardt was told Freilinger had returned and was expecting him. On his way up, Reinhardt stopped quickly in his office and retrieved from his desk the notebook he used to record shy;information within Abwehr. He flicked through the pages until he found what he needed, folding the top of the page to mark it. The major’s orderly ushered him into Freilinger’s spartan office, where the major was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, looking out the window. Reinhardt came to attention.
‘Sit down, Captain,’ Freilinger rasped, turning back and moving to sit down behind his desk. He shook a mint from his tin and leaned back in his chair. ‘Tell me what has happened in this case. Just the facts, for now.’
Reinhardt kept his report simple, especially as there was not much to report on. He told of the interviews with Frau Hofler and with Vukic’s mother. He told of the failed attempt to elicit information from the Feldgendarmerie. Freilinger listened in silence, his clear blue eyes rarely blinking. When Reinhardt had finished, he sat silently for a moment, then folded one hand within the other under his chin. ‘Now, tell me of your impressions, your feelings about this case.’ He twisted and flexed his hands, dry-washing them together.
‘Well, sir. I have an infamous Croatian journalist who worked hard and, apparently, partied harder. Influential. Well connected. Politically active. Who seemed to like soldiers, experienced ones. Older ones. To have some kind of fixation on them, judging by the photographs in her house.’ He paused, going over what he had just said. It seemed to make sense, to fit with the nascent feelings he had about the investigation, about her. The dull rasp of Freilinger’s hands did not change. ‘I have an unhappy and recalcitrant police officer for a partner and liaison with the local force.’ An officer steeped, he did not say, in ideology and trained in police techniques that Reinhardt despised. That assigned crime and criminal impulses to people based on social and racial background, rather than motive and opportunity. ‘The Sarajevo police’s methods seem a bit… dated’ was all he said. ‘Because of the increasing political pressure that they are coming under to find someone to take the blame for Vukic’s murder, I am concerned the Sarajevo police are not interested in finding the real culprit, only someone to blame it on. They are experiencing high-level pressure from Zagreb. Putkovic will want this wrapped up soon, I’m sure.’
‘Is it too early for a suspect of your own, Captain?’
Reinhardt looked back at Freilinger, at the shift and slither of his hands. ‘Yes, sir. Too early.’
‘The most likely, in your opinion?’
‘Sir, respectfully, I must decline to be drawn on that.’
‘Oh?’ Freilinger’s hands paused in their movements, fingers interlinking and falling still. ‘Your next steps, Captain,’ he said, dropping the subject.
‘Sir, I have an appointment with Inspector Padelin tomorrow to speak with members of Vukic’s production team. I will also speak with Major Gord. He is in the propaganda companies and was mentioned by Vukic’s mother as being friends with her daughter. I will be visiting a nightclub tonight that Hendel and Vukic apparently frequented. I also hope I may have greater success with the Feldgendarmerie in reviewing their traffic records.’
‘Yes, that you should have,’ rasped Freilinger. ‘I do not know what happened with my request, but I made it in good time and order. Becker may be playing games with you, and I’m sure not much I could say would change your mind about that. But someone over there is not treating this with the urgency I requested. If you do not have what you need tomorrow morning, I will personally intervene.’
‘Sir, in addition to their traffic records, I would like to see a list of attendees at the planning conference for Operation Schwarz.’ He did not mention he had completely forgotten about it. He opened his notebook to the page he had marked. ‘We were briefed about it last week, on Tuesday,’ he said, scanning his notes. ‘Final preparations for Operation Schwarz. All divisional commanders. Hotel Austria, in Ilidza.’