‘Captain Thallberg’s quite something, isn’t he? A real live, poster-grade Aryan superman.’ Reinhardt forced himself to reveal nothing, say nothing. Becker must know Thallberg was GFP, but if Reinhardt was reading Becker’s actions right, he did not know Hendel and Krause were. Becker could only guess what Thallberg could bring to the table. What he might know. ‘What’s all that about? Finally giving up the solitary life?’
‘It’s what you’ve always told me to do, isn’t it?’
Becker chuckled. ‘You’ve got to be careful with those supermen, Gregor. You remember Berlin, back in the old days. People like him stomping around in brown shirts, smashing glass and breaking bones. Beating their breasts over how German they were. They’re nuts.’
‘This is you telling me this?’
‘I’m garden-variety nuts, Gregor. People like Thallberg are something else. They move and think and see the world in different ways.’
Much as it pained him, there was something in what he said, and Reinhardt had felt it himself, but he just held Becker’s eyes as Padelin opened the door, looking between the two of them, frowning at the tension that must have been evident between the two Germans.
Reinhardt stubbed his cigarette out. ‘You’re looking well, Becker,’ he said, no pretence anymore that he was a captain and Becker a major, but then, it always ended this way between them. ‘I wish you a very pleasant day, and happy hunting.’ He walked out after Padelin, not looking back.
Becker still managed to have the last word, though. ‘My best to Major Freilinger,’ he called. ‘And to Captain Thallberg.’
Padelin glanced in at Becker as he closed the door after Reinhardt. ‘Old history,’ said Reinhardt, shortly, willing himself to unwind. ‘Forget about it.’
Padelin shrugged. ‘This way,’ he said. He led him through the building to an office. It was a dark, dingy affair, overlooking what must have been the building’s internal courtyard. There was a desk, obviously shared by two people, covered in files and bits of paper, a ragged bit of carpet. Shelves held more files, books, folders, and shy;assorted bits of junk. Several chunks of blackened metal sat on the desk, and Padelin picked one of them up and handed it to Reinhardt. It was warped, blackened, and twisted by what must have been considerable heat, but it still retained a roundish shape, as did the other pieces.
‘You remember that fire, in Ilijas, on Sunday?’ Padelin asked. ‘You saw the entry of the fire engines in the traffic records I showed you yesterday morning. These are from that fire. They are film cases.’
Reinhardt’s eyes widened. ‘You’re sure?’
Padelin shrugged. ‘Sure as we can be. The fire brigade found them at the fire. It was a big fire. Very hard to control. I am told film burns very intensely.’
‘I think I remember hearing about that,’ Reinhardt said, quietly. He put the piece of metal back on the desk, thinking. ‘Where was the fire?’
‘In the forest, near an abandoned farm.’
Reinhardt pursed his lips. ‘Last night,’ he said, after a moment, ‘I talked with one of our doctors. He said he treated a couple of soldiers for burns…’ He trailed off, glancing at Padelin. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think these are the films from Vukic’s house. Whoever took them destroyed them.’
Reinhardt nodded again. ‘Becker. The Feldgendarme I was just talking to? He is looking for a reported deserter, called Peter Krause. A lieutenant. I think he thinks Krause has a film. The one’ – he gestured at the metal pieces – ‘these people are looking for, and perhaps thought they had. Almost certainly the one from that camera we found.’
‘Why would he think this Krause has this film?’
Reinhardt hesitated. There was only so much he could tell Padelin about the GFP. ‘It’s complicated,’ he said, finally. ‘Hendel was Abwehr. Apparently, he worked with Krause from time to time.’ It sounded weak to Reinhardt, but Padelin seemed to accept it. ‘So, where does this leave you?’
‘Leave me?’ repeated Padelin, frowning at Reinhardt.
‘Your culprit is dead. Where does that leave your investigation?’
‘Oh,’ said Padelin. He began stacking the pieces of metal. ‘Well, he confessed before dying. We’ll see if that’s enough for Zagreb. I think it will be.’
‘Padelin,’ insisted Reinhardt. ‘You know, you must, that that man did not have anything to do with Vukic’s death.’
Padelin paused in what he was doing and straightened up. Again, Reinhardt felt that sensation of something heavy bearing down on him, and again felt that irrational twitch that he had to look up into Padelin’s eyes. ‘I don’t know why this is so hard for you to understand, Reinhardt,’ said Padelin. ‘You were a policeman once, under the Nazis. You should know, better than me.’ He went back to what he was doing. ‘The man was a Serb. A Communist. People like him will commit crimes, just like Gypsies and Jews. Frau Hofler identified him from photos we showed her. If he did not kill her, he did something else. Besides,’ he continued, ‘we know he was a senior Partisan. So, at a… how do you say… at a minimum? We have given the Partisans a loss. Who knows? Maybe he was Senka. The Shadow.’
It took a moment for Reinhardt to realise Padelin had actually tried to be funny. He stared back at the detective, remembering that conversation with Begovic outside Vukic’s house. The doctor calmly smoking his cigarette, sitting contentedly on his rock. ‘And the nephew?’
Padelin narrowed his eyes at Reinhardt’s tone, then shrugged. ‘Nothing, I think. He will be set free.’
‘So what becomes of our investigation?’ he asked. He pointed at the film casings. ‘This proves there was more to the murder, no? Someone was trying to cover something up, here.’
Padelin frowned. It seemed to Reinhardt it was the frown of a man trying to be patient with a child, trying to explain something obvious and evident. ‘My part is over, I think,’ he replied. His frown deepened. ‘Yours too. Was that not what you were talking about with Major Becker?’
‘No. Are you telling me Becker has received instructions on this case?’
Padelin shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Putkovic may have talked with him. I know the police are talking with your army at higher levels.’
Higher levels, thought Reinhardt. That could mean anything, and anyone. He gave a long, slow sigh, then nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. He offered his hand, which Padelin shook after a moment, his frown deepening even further. Reinhardt turned and left, feeling the air thicken with confusion behind him. He walked back down the corridors, down into the foyer, past the press of men still waiting for shy;answers, and outside. The air was hot already, heavy with a weight of stone and concrete, but it was fresh and clean after the stale atmosphere inside.
20
He slumped into the car, staring down at the pedals, his mind empty. After the momentary high of finding out the police had lost their suspect, he could feel himself sliding back into the depression that had seized him since last night. Padelin’s complacency, Becker’s assurance of knowledge that Reinhardt did not have… He raised his head, tracked his eyes along the spartan lines of the Austrian facades without really seeing them. He had no idea what to do now, so he started the engine and began driving.
On purpose, he swung the car left and right more or less at random, taking streets he rarely, if ever, took. The few shops he passed were mostly shut, and the inhabitants of this city had long perfected ways of looking at people like him without seeming to, or avoiding him altogether. People stared ahead, bent their heads closer together in conversation, found the most interesting things in half-empty shop windows, hugged walls, pulled children closer. Like last night on Kvaternik, he thought of water. As if he moved through water, a bow wave of apprehension moving ahead of him, altering behaviour and trajectories, all of it swirling and washing back and forth in his wake, emotions and intentions coming back together.