‘We began to follow up with boys – now men – who were at the school. They confirmed many of the rumours, and although there were variations in the names of the suspected abusers, all of the victims were on all of the lists. Those interviews gave us three more names of teachers and staff members who had been suspected of abuse. Inquiries as to the boys who might have suffered most at their hands gave us a list of a dozen or so names. Further investigation eliminated most, leaving us with four possible suspects who had, so we thought, motive, and opportunity as they all lived in Berlin. One of them interested us a great deal, as he was a postman.’
There was a collective shuffling and straightening of postures among the assembled listeners, some of them looking puzzled, some of them starting to smile as they saw the picture coming together. Kappel peered into his beer glass and belched.
‘So, now we had someone in uniform. Someone who could reasonably expect to be welcomed into a stranger’s house. Someone normally above suspicion. That information and those suppositions led us to fasten on one Ferdinand Dresner, a postman, who worked at the central sorting office for Berlin and had easy access to addresses. And, in Dresner’s case, someone who was also a former medical student.’ More of the officers began to grin and nod. Reinhardt gave a small smile back, nodding with them, the memories coming thick and fast, almost enough to push back the desperate discomfort he felt whenever he had to relate anything to do with his career. ‘Which led me back to my suspicions about the killings, and the wounds, that they were too well placed to be coincidental. And it got us thinking, what was a former medical student doing working for the post office.’ To one side, Eichel ordered another drink and turned away to talk with one of the other colonels. Ascher, Reinhardt remembered. Ascher inclined his head to listen to Eichel but kept his eyes on Reinhardt and the story.
‘We put Dresner under surveillance and then, after interviewing them, also put the three remaining members of staff under watch as well, believing that sooner rather than later he would seek to kill them. When we talked again with some of the ex-pupils, they confirmed that Dresner had experienced quite sadistic treatment from some members of the staff, and had undergone psychiatric care as a consequence, and had dropped out of his studies. And, sure enough, he attempted to kill again, and we were able to apprehend him as he tried to commit another murder. And that was it.’
There was a round of applause and a chorus of bravos. ‘Brilliant. Brilliant work,’ enthused Lehmann. Eichel glanced at him, Ascher’s eyes glinting over his shoulders.
Reinhardt ducked his head. ‘It was merely patient detective work, following up on all leads, examining all possibilities until they could be eliminated, and keeping an open mind.’ Nothing about the political interference they had run into, the pressure to pin the murder on someone, anyone, just to end the publicity about the killings. The competition from the other squads on the case, the procession of suspects rounded up, taken down to the basements under Alexanderplatz. The resistance they had met from the Nazis who clung to the belief that the murderer was a Gypsy, or some other undesirable. Nothing about their ideological refusal to countenance the possibility of an Aryan serial killer, which led to the bungle when Dresner had actually been interviewed by one of the other squads but released because he was above racial suspicion.
‘What about the wounds? The stabbing, and the mutilations?’ called an officer.
Reinhardt nodded. ‘Yes. As we suspected, Dresner’s medical training indicated where to stab into the heart. He then said that, although he killed in cold blood, he was afterwards taken by rage. Rage at what these men had done to him with their fists, and… in other ways. So he took his revenge on them as best he could.’
‘So, tell us more about this investigation you are on now,’ asked Faber. ‘Another drink?’
‘What’s that, then?’ asked several officers.
‘Well, it’s not advisable for me to talk too much about the case. No, thank you, nothing more for me to drink,’ Reinhardt demurred.
‘Ah, come now. You can talk with us, surely?’ said Faber, clearly enjoying himself. Over by the bar, Ascher raised his hand to someone behind Reinhardt, gesturing him over.
‘Well, I am working with a detective from the Sarajevo police. He is investigating the journalist, while I am concentrating on our officer.’
‘Journalist? What’s going on?’ asked an officer.
‘Any leads, then?’ interjected Lehmann.
‘What’s this about a journalist?’ demanded a couple of officers. Lehmann turned to them, keeping an eye on Reinhardt as he briefly outlined the murders in Ilidza.
‘No leads, not really.’
‘Where were they found?’ someone called.
‘At her house.’
‘Where’s the house, then?’
Over at the bar, Reinhardt saw Standartenfuhrer Stolic join Ascher and Eichel. His throat clenched, and he swallowed. He had to get out of there, but that giddy sense of invulnerability pulled him on. The feeling he got when on the trail of good evidence that things were right, just right. ‘In Ilidza. Behind the Hotel Austria.’
‘When were they killed?’
‘Late on Saturday night.’
There was a babble of excited talk.
‘Wasn’t there a party there that night?’
‘You were there, weren’t you?’
‘Yep. The high point of that bloody planning conference.’
‘Hey, just think, boys, a murder like that happening next door!’
‘Saturday night?’ repeated one of the officers, with mock relief, clapping his hand over his heart. ‘Thank heavens, that counts me out. I was in Rogatica. Just ask the ladies at Petko’s bar!’ Several other officers joined in the laughter.
‘But that doesn’t rule you out, Ascher,’ blurted a colonel with ruddy cheeks, quite obviously some way into his cups. ‘You were there, weren’t you? You and Kappel, and… and…’ He trailed off, looking around the assembled officers with watery eyes.
‘Where what?’ asked Ascher, turning from his conversation with Stolic and Eichel. Stolic looked over his shoulder. His eyes, as Reinhardt had guessed from the dim light of the bar last night, were indeed very pale. They fastened on Reinhardt, and he saw recognition jolt through them, followed by what could only be fury.
‘Careful now,’ joked one of the officers. ‘Do we need alibis?’
Reinhardt smiled back. ‘I don’t know. Do some of you think you might?’
Conversation just died away from the men around him. At the bar, Stolic and Ascher exchanged glances. Reinhardt breathed shallowly over the awful lump that sat sodden and heavy in his chest, aghast at what he had just said.
Faber’s eyes narrowed. ‘Captain,’ said Ascher, from where he stood against the bar. ‘I am sure you cannot be insinuating anything.’
‘Nothing at all, sir,’ he replied, forcing a tone of levity into his voice.
‘Good. Then I am quite sure you are stating nothing, either.’
‘Correct, sir.’ God, what had he been thinking to say what he did? Was it the drink? Recounting the past? From a time when he was someone, when what he did counted for something? Things were just right. They were always just right, until the moment they were not.