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 Begovic saying happened?’
Padelin looked blankly at Reinhardt. ‘I did not say it was Begovic who made that determination. Do you know where he went last night?’
Reinhardt’s mouth opened, then closed. ‘Dr Begovic?’ he shy;repeated.
‘You left together last night.’
‘That’s correct,’ said Reinhardt.
‘Did he say anything to you? Perhaps something out of the shy;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 Vukic’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 Begovic 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. shy;‘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 Vukic.’ 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.