song and quite oblivious of the German warrior’s true fate that was to be found in the not-so-glorious charnel house nearby. For a moment I stood and watched these boys with a kind of horror. It was all too easy to think of them as carrying the infection of Nazism — the brown-shirted bacilli of death and destruction and the typhus of tomorrow.
Feeling more sombre than before, I tapped on the window of the Horch-built Audi. It’s a useful courtesy to observe with a man sleeping in his own car when he happens to be carrying a loaded automatic.
Sachse sat up straight, lifted the tip of his black felt hat, and opened the passenger door.
‘Any luck?’
‘Yes. If you can call it that. The Dutchman was stabbed by the Czech all right. Franz Koci’s knife fitted those stab wounds like they’d been cut for it by a good tailor.’
‘Well, you’re the expert.’
‘The question is, why? Why would a Czech spy stab and kill a Dutch railway worker?’
Chapter 8
After this ‘breakthrough’ — that’s what Sachse called it, anyway — the investigation stalled again, the way investigations usually do. I wasn’t too worried about that. Detective work is almost always a long game, unless the newspapers get involved, and then it’s still a long game only you have to pretend that it’s not. This job isn’t only a matter of paying attention to detail, it’s also about knowing what to ignore and who, as well. It’s about reading the newspapers and staring into space and learning to be patient and to put your trust in your experience, which tells you that something nearly always turns up. Yes sir, the investigation is going very well. No sir, there’s nothing we could be doing that we haven’t done already. Good morning, anything new on the Franz Koci case? No new leads as yet. Good night. Collect your pay, go home, and do your best to forget all about it, if you can. A lot of police work is police idle, police baffled, police at breakfast, police at lunch, police drinking coffee — if there is any coffee — and always police staring out of the window, assuming there is one. And it all adds up to the same thing: that mostly, being a detective is about coping with boredom and the huge frustration of knowing that it isn’t ever like it is in books and movies. Other things have to take place before something else can happen. Sometimes these are other crimes. Sometimes they’re things other than crimes. And sometimes it’s hard to know the difference — for instance, when a new law is passed, or when a top policeman is promoted. That’s jurisprudence for you, Nazi style.
The new law was the yellow star, which made a big difference when it finally came into practice on 19 September. The day before, there were just people on the streets of Berlin. Ordinary people. You might say they were my fellow Berliners. The next day, there were all these people wearing yellow stars, which made me realize just how many Jews were living in Berlin and, at the same time, what a terrible thing it was to treat our fellow citizens in this way. Now and again there were even small demonstrations against the wearing of the yellow star. Not by Jews but by gentile Germans in favour of the Jews. People talked about ‘the yellow badge of honour’, and the stoic way the Jews endured their fate did not fail to impress even the most fanatical of Nazis. Except of course the fanatical Nazi who had signed this new police law into being; and he was in my mind a great deal after Saturday 27 September when he was promoted Reichsprotector of Bohemia and Moravia. There was no way that the man who was my boss, Reinhard Heydrich, would ever have been impressed with the way Jewish-Germans conducted themselves.
When I heard that Heydrich was on his way to Prague, I was glad — although not, of course, for him. I was glad he was to be gone from Berlin where there always existed the possibility that he might hand me some special task, as had happened at least twice before. And, for a day or two, I even managed to relax. I took Arianne to the Lido at Muggelsee and then to a show at the Schlosspark Theatre, in Steglitz. Somewhere in the day I even managed to ask her about Geert Vranken.
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He was a foreign worker from Dordrecht, in the Netherlands.’
‘Dordreck? No wonder he came to Berlin.’
‘Not Dordreck. Dordrecht.’
‘Why ask me?’
‘Because I think he may have been murdered by your friend, Paul.’
‘Who?’
‘Franz Koci. The Czecho that Gustav asked you to meet on Nolli Platz.’
Arianne rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, him. I’d only just managed to forget all about that business.’ She uttered a profound sigh and smacked the wicker beach chair we were sharing with her fist. ‘What happened to him? This Dutchy.’
I told her how Geert Vranken had died; and I told her about Franz Koci’s switchblade.
‘That’s really awful. And you mean to tell me that the poor man is still lying in the mortuary at the Charite like last week’s one-pot dinner?’
I nodded.
‘What about his family?’
‘I wrote to his wife, telling her what had happened.’
‘That was big of you.’
‘I didn’t have to do it. In fact I was almost ordered not to do it. But I thought someone should. Like you, I felt sorry for her. Besides, I was hoping that his wife might write back, with some more information. Something that would help me to find her husband’s murderer.’
‘You didn’t tell her-’
‘No, no. I just said there’d been an accident. And that because of wartime regulations, it was impossible for his body to be sent back. But that I’d see to it, personally, that he got a decent burial.’
‘And will you? I mean, that sounds expensive.’
‘As a matter of fact I’m hoping to persuade the Gestapo to pay for it.’
‘How are you going to do that?’
‘By lying. I shall tell them that the mortuary needs the space, which is true; and also that it’s best Vranken’s remains are not cremated, in case we need to examine the body again, which is not. Something like that. I’m really quite a good liar when the occasion demands it.’
‘I don’t doubt it, Gunther. And the widow? Have you heard back from her?’
‘Not yet. And I probably won’t. Would you write to some Nazi bastard who was occupying your country?’
We were both silent for a while the way you are on a beach. On the blue water there were lots of little white boats that looked as if they were made of paper. We watched the boats and we watched children building sandcastles and some girls playing volleyball. The beach was crowded with people who, like us, figured it was maybe the last day of summer and who were worried we might be in for another hard winter, like the last one when the temperature fell as low as minus twenty-two degrees centigrade. This, of course, was just one of many things we Berliners had to worry about following the overthrow of Kiev. The German High Command had issued a victory communique announcing that the Army was now in charge of 665,000 Soviet prisoners. This seemed like a fantastic figure, and there were some who thought it meant that the war in the East was all but won; but there were many others, like myself, who thought that there were probably a lot more Soviet soldiers where those 665,000 men came from.
Eventually, Arianne said:
‘I’ve been thinking of going back to Dresden. To visit my mother.’
‘Good idea.’
‘You could come with me if you like. It’s only two hours on the train. I’ll probably stay there for a couple of weeks but you might like to stay for the weekend.’ She shrugged. ‘You’d enjoy Dresden. It’s not like Berlin where there’s no room. My mother has a huge apartment in Johann Georgen Allee, overlooking the park. And of course it’s much safer than Berlin. I don’t think there’s ever been an air raid.’
She was wearing a blue Lastex swimsuit that was like a dress and showed off her legs, which looked lovely to me. I was trying to keep my eyes on her face as she talked, but it was difficult when all I wanted to do was lay my muzzle on her lap and have her play with my ears and pull my tail.
