Free The Man from Berlin by Luke McCallin Page A

a mother roused to automatic defence of a child. If that was what it was, it faded fast, the sudden show of spirit falling back into the increasing emptiness in her eyes. ‘She knew how to separate business from pleasure. Another thing my husband taught her. No, no addictions. Her work, perhaps. And the Party.’ She sipped from her cup, and the silence grew. The two policemen exchanged looks, and Padelin put his hands on the arms of his chair but stopped, again. ‘You know, if I’m honest, I should say I don’t know. I don’t know anything about the details of her life. I know she worked hard. And she liked to have a good time when she was not working.’
    Reinhardt felt an echo of her grief deep inside, the memories of Carolin and Friedrich stirring and shifting. One dead, one as good as dead. He watched her, this woman struggling with herself, her feelings. He felt a stir of admiration for her, for her elegance and composure in the face of her grief. He knew what awaited her, what awaited those left behind by their loved ones, but he showed nothing. It was not difficult anymore, to show little or nothing in the face of another’s pain, but there was still a little part of him that reminded him it was not always that way, and he was not always like this.
    Reinhardt nodded at Padelin that he was finished. For all his imposing appearance, the inspector could be, it seemed, a gentle man. He put his card down on the table. ‘Mrs Vukić, you will need to identify the body. When you are feeling better, please call me at that number, and we will arrange for you to come in.’ Padelin nodded to Reinhardt that he had finished his questions, and the two of them rose to their feet. Vukić stayed sitting, looking small and fallen in on herself. ‘Please accept our condolences. Do not get up. We will see ourselves out.’ They left her there in the middle of her perfumed living room with its ticking clock and the old dog wheezing at her feet.

6
    R einhardt left Padelin in front of police headquarters, the big detective tight-lipped and taciturn on the drive back down from Vukić’s mother’s house. Getting out, Padelin suggested they meet the next morning, giving him enough time to track down any members of Vukić’s production team in the city, and Reinhardt time to start following up on the German side of the investigation. He barely gave Reinhardt time to agree before he was turning away, walking stiffly up into the building.
    It was going on three o’clock anyway and those of the city’s inhabitants who had jobs mostly worked a seven-to-three-o’clock shift. ­Reinhardt could feel Sarajevo entering that early-evening phase of relaxation when people downed their tools and came out to visit friends or went for coffee in the old town. He drove the kübelwagen back around Kvaternik Street for what seemed the umpteenth time that day. As he had said to Padelin, you often had that feeling with this city, of going around and around in circles.
    Sarajevo was a grim place, sometimes. Crammed in between its mountains, hemmed in between the UstaÅ¡e on one side and the Germans on the other, it always seemed to find a way to push the weight of the war to one side, at least once a day. More and more with each passing day, Reinhardt found himself waiting for that time, when even someone like himself, even someone who wore the uniform he wore, could simply sit and watch and listen and be around people who made an effort to put their cares aside.
    Turning left off Kvaternik, he drove up a narrow street that dead-ended in a guard post. Showing his identification to the soldiers on duty, he parked the car in front of the building the Abwehr used in Sarajevo. Inside, he asked the duty officer for an appointment with Freilinger, only to be told the major was out and not expected back that day, but instructions had been left for Reinhardt to prepare him a report on the