by Anton Gill
The door was shut and the bolts shot home.
Adamov had been in touch frequently, but even he had drawn a blank. Now, after the wave of killings, hardened criminals were also watching their backs. No-one was willing to talk about anything. Adamov himself was leaving for the South of France for the summer. He had some business down there. He offered to stay, but Hoffmann let him go. If he'd found nothing in two months, it was unlikely that he'd find anything now.
The coarsest of the Party's propaganda sheets was Der Stürmer. It was hard to say who read it apart from uneducated, unemployed men, but it was unmissable because it was displayed everywhere in red cases, behind glass. It concerned itself with hysterical diatribes against the Jews.
Hoffmann remembered Kessler's face as he told him. It must have been a week after the purge. No longer.
'I wouldn't normally have glanced at it, but a series of photographs on one of the pages on view in one of the Stürmerkästen caught my eye.'
'Yes?'
'I don't know whether I should be telling you this or not. Look, I bought a copy. You can see for yourself.'
There were four blurred photographs, reproduced at approximately postcard size, and going across a double-page spread. It was a sequence of photographs, in which a group of three or possibly four men in civilian clothes, their faces hidden, were kicking, and stooping to punch a woman lying on the ground. The woman's face too was hidden; but there was no mistaking the clothes she was wearing, nor the shop-name on the carrier bag that lay near her. The headline, which ran across both pages over the photographs, read: 'The Kind of Villainy Jews Perpetrate', and under them was a brief article Hoffmann did not trouble to read. However, he looked very carefully at the photographs. He looked up at Kessler, his face pale.
'There's something there, isn't there?' said Kessler.
'It's hard to make out.'
'They stopped taking photographs before they stripped her.' Kessler, Hoffmann knew, had struggled with himself whether or not to impart this news. He'd done so, finally, Hoffmann also knew, because it was better to advance the investigation than to spare his Chief pain. Now he was trying to mitigate that pain by suggesting the photographer had stopped. But whatever else he'd taken couldn't be worse than what Hoffmann himself had seen. And even Der Stürmer wouldn't dare publish more specific pictures than it had - besides, they did its job for it perfectly well.
The worst thing of all was an indistinct detail in the third photograph. Hoffmann didn't want to believe what he thought he saw there.
'We must get proper prints of these,' he said.
'Yes.'
'Copies. No-one must know we've got them.'
'I'll see to it.'
'Be discreet.' Hoffmann hoped he wasn't placing too heavy a load on the young man, but Kessler just smiled faintly, abstractedly almost; seemed confident.
The nature of his own work was becoming increasingly political, involving more and more surveillance and logging of people's movements, more and more paperwork. Investigation was left to junior officers, and Kessler was one of a diminishing number of them who were not Party members.
When Hoffmann returned to his flat each night - he no longer kept alcohol there, he did not trust himself - he stuck to the same routine. He made himself tea, put some Bach on the record-player, for Bach was easier to take in his present mood than Beethoven, Schubert, or even Mozart, and settled down with a book and a packet of cigarettes. A colleague had given him a few little twists of cocaine in brown paper and he was finding that helpful. It kept his mind clear and his spirits up. But he knew nothing could protect him from sleep, from dreams, or from waking in the night imagining he was curled up to her and safe.
He wanted the comfort of Kara, and he would never have that again. She was dead; needlessly, cruelly killed. Her flat was gone, a memory, her things all in storage, where they would probably remain for years, forever. He'd intended to keep one or two of the African masks she'd retained, but he hadn't been able to bear to, and in the end he had kept nothing, not even a book that had belonged to her, not even her fountain pen. It was better that way.
Two days later, Kessler had come to the flat with a stiff brown envelope in his hand.
'That was fast.' said Hoffmann
'You're too high up the chain of command to know all the petty details, but I'm not. Department C has two or three men infiltrated in all Der Stürmer's main offices. When I started in the force I was on the beat with one of the guys who's now in the Berlin office.'
'Did you find out who took them?'
Kessler shook his head. 'No. Apparently they were handed in anonymously, together with the editorial. The big boys were delighted, just the sort of stuff they thrive on. Stuck it all in with no questions asked.'
'And no arm-twisting?'
'That I don't know either. But obviously these guys aren't Jews.'
'Obviously. The question is, are these photos any better? Can we –' Hoffmann hesitated. 'Can we... fix anything for sure?' His heart was beating hard. Part of him did not want to know.
'I think we can.' Kessler's face was serious, concerned.
He switched the desk light on, opened the envelope, and from it drew four photographs. Hoffmann produced a magnifying glass and they both pored over the pictures, especially the third.
The left hand of one of Kara's attackers was clearly visible to the right of the picture, though his head and most of his body were outside the frame. The hand was in movement, and the film hadn't been fast enough to arrest this, but the definition was clear enough to show that the ring finger of the hand was nothing more than a stump.
100
The roadblock on the outskirts of Coburg presented no difficulties. Ludo Kirchner and the fat old guards knew each other well, and when Ludo produced a couple of bottles of schnapps from under the driver's seat, the soldiers waved him through. Hoffmann thought it was possible they hadn't even noticed him in the back of the lorry. He wished everyone was that slack.
It was six in the evening and the driver went straight to the brewery.
'Well mate,' he said as he lowered the tailgate for Hoffmann to descend. 'Time to say goodbye.'
Hoffmann had already taken two notes from his wallet - he didn't want Kirchner to see how much he had got altogether - and now he handed them to him.
'Thank you.'
'Thank you.' Kirchner took the money, glanced at them, and stowed them in his pocket. 'So, where do you go from here?'
'West.'
Kirchner gave no sign of whether he knew Hoffmann was lying or not. 'Whatever you do, keep clear of Frankfurt. Pass it to the south. They're bombing the shit out of the place.' He looked at Hoffmann. 'Got enough money left for some new clothes?'
'Why should I need them?'
'Because you're no more a farmworker than I'm Max Schmeling. And I want more than this.' He didn't sound quite so friendly now.
It was a pity, Hoffmann thought, that Kirchner had left it so late to be greedy. If he'd made his demand back at the farm, or anywhere where escape might have been harder for Hoffmann, he would have stood a better chance of striking a deal. But now Hoffmann could see too much greed in Kirchner's eyes. He glanced round quickly. The grey walls of the brewery rose above them, and near the lorry a pair of huge green double doors were open, revealing beyond them a nave-like storeroom, in the depths of which men in overalls were moving about. No-one was coming towards them, but this would have to be quick.
Hoffmann raised his arms fast and pressed the points of his index fingers deep into the hollows behind Kirchner's earlobes. He flexed them hard, twice, and the driver went down like a sack. Hoffmann glanced up. No reaction from the brewery workers. Sickened at the necessity, he bent over Kirchner and made quite sure the man was dead. He removed the money he'd given him from his breast pocket, and moved away, not too fast, towards the centre of the town.
He was on his guard. If anyone had guessed his route, they'd have got here before him. The question was, would th
ey know his destination? They might have decided to move on, towards Nuremberg and Munich, or they might have decided to wait. It would be a question of balance. Move on, and risk losing the trail. Wait, and risk wasting time. He remembered an old military dictum – was it Clausewitz? – you can always recover space, but never time. Would they act on that? If anyone was here at all.
He needed to eat and get clean, somewhere to sleep, new clothes - Kirchner had been right about that - and some kind of usable ID. All he had was the Swedish passport, and if anyone found that on him it'd mean more trouble than salvation. He thought about dumping it, decided not to. What he also had was money.
He found a dark doorway and, hiding in it, he drew out his wallet, extracted a few modest and worn notes, stuffed them in a pocket, and then hid the wallet deep in his overalls. He could smell his armpits and crutch. The dousing at the pump hadn't done that much good.
He made his way cautiously into the town centre. On the hill above loomed the vast form of the castle. Few lights were on, and it was already a dark mass against the waning sky. The Ehrenburg looked deserted, and there were few people about. What Hoffmann was looking for was a cheap lodging house. He might have to move on that night, but he needed somewhere to retrench, and he needed somewhere where no-one would comment on him. He wished he were a better actor, able to disguise his accent better.
No-one had seen him. No one knew he was there. At the brewery, they would have discovered Kirchner by this time. Would they know what had happened to him? There'd be no obvious mark on the body. They'd think it'd been a heart-attack, send for a doctor - that'd buy him time.
He calculated that he had maybe four hours. By the time they'd discovered that Kirchner had been murdered, and questioned the road-block guards, if they had noticed Hoffmann at all, the most casual description, the big man, the big nose, would be enough for them, if they were halfway on the ball. Who would they have sent after him? Schiffer? Kessler? Would they trust Kessler?
The first thing to do was acquire an identity card. Hoffmann made his way to a Wirtshaus on the Löwenstraße, near the bridge. Just right, Large and crowded, dimly lit.
To be a good cop, you have to know how crooks ply their trade. As a rookie, Hoffmann had learned his pickpocketing skills from a master. He moved across the large, low-ceilinged room, which smelled of fresh beer and cheap tobacco. A lot of women and old men, a few labourers, a few soldiers, some already drunk. One of the drunks stood near the stove, leaning on it, admiring the scenes painted on its tiles. He was younger than Hoffmann, but the same height and build, and his face had the same heaviness. Casting an eye over the room for any possible plainclothes cops, people he'd recognise in an instant, Hoffmann sat down heavily at a table nearby and ordered a Maß.
The bargirls moved quickly through the mob, carrying two or three Steins in each hand, dumping them swiftly in front of the assortment of gloomy men bent over the scrubbed tables, and, swinging their hips through the smoke, made their way back to the bar, to repeat the process. They wore lipstick and fixed smiles. Most of the men gazed into space with dead eyes or talked guardedly, the talk was of beer and the harvest. Hoffmann noticed one man of about his own age who had the Coburg Badge in his lapel. He sat alone over his beer, perhaps thinking of the glory days when the Leader had marched through the town twenty-odd years ago, smashing the Commies in a series of bloody street battles.
Hoffmann sipped his beer - it came from Ludo's brewery - and watched the man at the stove. He was dressed in a cheap suit, his worn white shirt buttoned to the collar. He was hugging the stove as if for warmth, though as it was August he was clearly hugging it for support.
The time came when he summoned the willpower to cast himself off and weave to the lavatory. Hoffmann followed him. Three paces from the door, Hoffmann, likewise weaving, bumped into him, apologised gruffly, and peeled off, the man's wallet in his hand. A few minutes later he was outside, inspecting the ID. It would do, but not for long.
He made his way to a general store which was still open, under grimy paraffin lamps, and found there a suit, shirt and tie which more or less fitted him, and above all comfortable new shoes, telling the unfriendly shopkeeper that he needed them for a wedding. The ready money, counted out slowly in grubby notes, aroused no suspicion. And there was an equally modest hotel down by the Itz, with a room, and a bathroom down the corridor, and no questions asked. They even had packets of smokable cigarettes.
All he needed now was to wash and change. He'd slip out of the hotel as soon as that was done and find some transport and get out of there.
It was nine o'clock and growing dark as he approached the corner of Steintor and Obere Anlage. He saw an untidy young man in a hat standing, his back to him, under a streetlamp. The lamp wasn't lit but he knew who it was. He shrank into the shadow of a church porch.
101
Kessler sensed the movement, for he turned before Hoffmann had time to hide himself completely. The porch was set deep, but there was nowhere else to go now. Hoffmann pressed himself against the carved wall and drew his Walther 9. He could hear Kessler approaching. He slipped off the safety catch. Kessler stopped at the threshold, his shadow fell across it.
'Come out,' he said softly.
Hoffmann stayed where he was.
'I'm alone.'
It's a trap, Hoffmann said to himself. It must be a trap. But then he thought of Emma. His only option other than leaving his hopeless place of concealment was to shoot Kessler, and if Kessler was not alone, then Hoffmann would be dead anyway. He was in check, possibly checkmate. And it had happened so suddenly, so undramatically; and it was not even as if he hadn't been expecting trouble. Perhaps if he hadn't been so tired. If this hadn't come so soon after killing Kirchner. If he hadn't been so preoccupied with getting on to the next stage. All he could now was make the next move and see what happened.
He only needed to walk forward one pace. He did not lower the gun.
***
Kessler seemed embarrassed to have found him. Shyly, he held out his hand. Hoffmann pocketed his gun.
'I congratulate you,' he said. He was furious, and conscious of how dreadful he must look.
'I had a good teacher.'
'It's not over.'
'I can't stay. There's someone on our tail. But he's not here yet.'
'Do you know who it is?'
Kessler hesitated before replying. 'Whoever it is couldn't follow us to that village back there immediately, it was too small, we'd have seen him. So I reckon we've got a day on him. But he'll catch up with us.'
'Is it Schiffer?'
'He had a good teacher too.'
A car approached and drove past. Both men stepped into the deeper shelter of the church doorway.
'I must go.' Kessler looked out across the street. 'I have something for you.'
He took out the whistle and handed it to Hoffmann. 'I hope you manage to give it to Stefan.'
Hoffmann exhaled, covering his fury.
'Emma told me. A long time ago. Don't be angry with her.'
'Where is she? Do you know?'
Kessler hesitated. 'They got her. But she isn't dead, I'm sure of that.'
It took Hoffmann a moment to recover from this. Wasn't Kessler supposed to be looking after her? What had happened? 'How do you know?' was all he said.
'Schiffer. That's what made me wonder about him. It was an anonymous note, but he'd already as good as told me he was on the case.'
'Why did he tell you?'
'He knew what I felt for your daughter. He hated me for it. But what he sent was an official communication. We were working on different aspects of the same investigation.'
Hoffmann was silent.
'I'll find her again. I will.' Kessler's embarrassment had increased. He knew what Hoffmann was thinking. It had been his own first thought, at the news.
'Yes.'
They paused, not knowing what else to say. 'Where will you go?' said Kessler.
'You know better than to
ask me that.' Normally, they would both have smiled at that familiar formula.
'I could take our search in another direction,' said Kessler, earnestly.
'They'd notice. They know you're not stupid or they wouldn't have given you the job. You must follow your instinct.'
Kessler hesitated. 'You mean I must follow you?'
'We don't know how much Schiffer knows. Don't flatter yourself. You must continue the chase. Just,' he paused for a moment, 'Just don't be too energetic. This meeting never happened. But you have let me out of checkmate, and I won't forget that.'
'You could have shot me.'
'I still don't know if you are really alone.'
'We thought you would come this way. I found you by accident.'
'Accidents like that are not supposed to happen. When are you leaving?'
'Early tomorrow.'
'Where will you go?'
'I don't know yet.'
Footsteps now, far enough away, but coming closer. Kessler looked at Hoffmann. 'Goodbye, Chief.' And he was gone.
Hoffmann turned and walked swiftly away in the opposite direction. He could not think about what might have happened to his daughter, he could not bear to, he could not afford to. There would be a time for that later. But there was one thing he had to think about. Up until now, his goal and his duty had been clear to him. At the back of his mind, however, the possibility that Emma might be taken had always lurked. Now it had happened. If she wasn't dead, if they had tortured her, if they had tried to wring information out of her which would lead them to him, how much would she tell them? She knew where Stefan was. His only hope was that they would not yet be aware of his existence. Hoffmann had taken every precaution; Stefan had been safe for a decade. Would they know the right questions to ask?
There were still too many holes in the blanket which concealed his son.