Pale Horse Riding

by Chris Petit

  Her skin was grey and her lips blue from the cold. Schlegel felt the sweat dry on his back. The woman’s proximity to the dead seemed to have reduced her to a colourless, shapeless figure of indeterminate age.

  Morgen said he was there for the autopsy report carried out on Tanner.

  The woman looked blank, then said, ‘Oh, brains in the ditch. No autopsy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Not possible.’

  ‘One is being carried out?’ Schlegel said. He could not decide if it was a question.

  ‘Up the chimney.’

  Morgen asked, ‘Are you telling us the body was removed before autopsy?’

  The woman nodded.

  ‘Who signed the release?’

  ‘Mr High-and-Mighty himself. Garrison doctor Wirths.’

  Morgen asked if Schlegel could think of a single connection between Tanner and what they knew of Wirths. Schlegel couldn’t.

  Morgen asked the woman, ‘Do you have a sheet on Tanner?’

  ‘On whose authority?’

  ‘Oh, fuck the paperwork for once,’ said Morgen. He laid two cigarettes on her sill. The hag contorted her face into a horrible attempt at a smile. ‘Correct answer. I am only letting you because I haven’t got around to filing it.’

  ‘My saviour,’ said Morgen, leaving Schlegel thinking how in Berlin flirting was a selective social art rather than endemic.

  The report was out with a mess of other papers. Morgen said there was quite a lot she hadn’t got around to filing. He kept the mood light, jollying her along until she simpered.

  The sheet, finally produced with a flourish, gave Tanner’s bare details. Cause of death, fatal blow. The box next to autopsy was ticked.

  The woman grimaced. ‘Ticked in advance. By me. An autopsy had been scheduled. Booked in. Backlog. Another staff shortage. But his lordship turned up and took the body.’

  ‘Is that something he has done before?’

  ‘Are you kidding? We are way below his level of consideration. It was the first time Dr Wirths has deigned to visit our humble station and I told him so.’

  They returned to the empty office where they were joined shortly afterwards by Schulze carrying a large pile of folders.

  ‘Garrison hospital records,’ she said.

  They were hanging folders, the sort that didn’t stack neatly and slithered across the surface of her desk. Morgen leaned forward with surprising alacrity to catch one as it fell to the floor.

  ‘Garrison hospital records?’ he asked.

  ‘Since the beginning of last year it seems there have been nine cases of garrison women being admitted to the staff hospital suffering from severe bruising and broken bones, always described as the result of a fall.’

  Schlegel remembered the woman at the commandant’s party sporting a black eye.

  ‘Are we thinking this connects to Ingeborg Tanner?’ asked Morgen.

  He was being patronising and Schlegel saw that she could tell.

  ‘I am not the detective,’ she answered tartly. ‘I am just collating possible evidence for you to consider.’

  Morgen held up his hand in apology. Schlegel found it hard to tell whether she was being deliberately cool or just professional.

  ‘How did you know about this?’ he asked, trying to sound conciliatory.

  ‘I didn’t,’ she said, sounding more exasperated than mollified. ‘I found this pushed under the door.’

  She passed over a narrow sheet. It looked like a strip of ticker tape, on which was typed a terse message recommending inspection of the garrison medical records of the named women, including the hospital picture library.

  ‘How odd,’ Morgen said. ‘What are the circumstances of these cases?’

  Six of the nine women were married, Schulze said, and living with their husbands.

  ‘Are we talking about private violence?’ asked Morgen.

  ‘It would seem so.’

  Schulze appeared sufficiently troubled for Morgen to ask what was the matter.

  ‘Such cases aren’t usually noted. They are treated and forgotten about.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I am aware of situations where things got out of hand. Incidents like that do not appear on a woman’s medical record even after treatment. I made a date of the incidents – not that there’s any pattern.’

  Morgen scanned the list. ‘They started around eighteen months ago, in January 1942. Two incidents that March, one in April, then nothing until August, with four since – one in September, two over Christmas, with one in the current year on 3 February and nothing apparently in the six months or so since.’

  He read the medical notes, noting aloud bruising to upper arms; fractured cheekbones; bruising to buttocks and thighs; broken nose; dislodged molar; one example of cutting, as a result of head hitting a radiator.

  ‘Married?’

  ‘Four were.’

  ‘And their husbands?’ Schlegel asked.

  ‘All transferred.’

  ‘As a result of disciplinary action?’

  ‘The personnel office has no record of any.’

  ‘And the wives?’ asked Morgen.

  ‘A soldier’s file lists his postings and dependents, with no further details on them.’

  Morgen tossed the paper on the desk and asked, ‘Is this a real lead or another wild distraction?’ He looked at Schulze. ‘Do any of the cases note rape or sexual assault?’

  ‘They wouldn’t.’

  She had to explain such matters were considered private between the parties concerned. Her look suggested that Morgen as a man of law should have known that.

  ‘But this is odd,’ she said, producing more folders. ‘In the five cases since 18 August last year photographs were taken.’

  They were unprepared for what they were shown. A set of professional portraits displayed a woman’s smashed and bruised face from different angles. One eye was entirely closed. Further shots of her naked body, from front and behind, revealed the extent of livid damage to the torso, legs and arms, and lacerations on the buttocks and upper thighs.

  ‘Always described as a fall, you say. Why document the evidence, then describe it as something it clearly isn’t?’

  Morgen gestured at Schlegel, who had no answer. Schulze spread other photographs out. The cumulative effect was forensic and intrusive to the point of being pornographic. Schlegel was reminded of his stepfather’s pictures of naked women in bondage, which had something of the same shamed staring.

  ‘Did you know this sort of thing went on?’ Morgen asked.

  ‘No, but socially things could get pretty wild,’ Schulze replied. ‘Men consider most women fair game.’

  Perhaps sensing Morgen’s next question, she added, ‘I made sure I was attached. Not very adventurous but easier than spending the whole time being chased.’

  ‘Are things less wild now?’

  She didn’t answer and said, ‘A senior doctor named Hartmann is the referred physician in several cases. I have made an appointment for you to see him.’

  Hartmann had more important concerns than garrison women who provoked arguments. ‘It’s not as though we haven’t enough on our plates.’

  Hartmann was a dapper ethnic German, with a corresponding accent, pomaded hair and breath that combined a kick of mouthwash, booze and halitosis. The office’s main feature was a caged canary. It trilled unpleasantly. The blind was mostly down. Hartmann sat silhouetted behind his desk and left them standing.

  He couldn’t remember why a decision had been made to keep a visual record of such cases and his manner said nor did he care.

  ‘And the cases themselves?’ Schlegel asked.

  ‘They had to be treated.’

  ‘Domestic falls covers a multitude of sins.’ Morgen made no effort to make it sound as though he liked or respected the man.

  A classic stonewaller, Schlegel thought, as he watched Hartmann move his pen from one side of the desk to the other.

  ‘There used not
to be a report at all in such cases. They were patched up and sent home.’

  ‘Did this happen a lot?’ Morgen’s tone remained unpleasant.

  Hartmann matched it, saying, ‘I couldn’t tell you really. I don’t hold surgery.’

  Schlegel expected it had; there was an epidemic of everything else.

  ‘Then reports had to be made, as of the beginning of last year. Why the change?’

  ‘A directive probably.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘You can’t expect me to remember . . . We get a load. The commandant’s office, the garrison doctor, Berlin . . .’

  ‘What about the instruction to photograph such cases?’

  Hartmann looked blank.

  ‘Did you take the photographs?’

  Hartmann snorted.

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Did you not arrange it?’

  ‘I told an orderly to sort it out.’

  Schlegel looked at him expectantly, until Hartmann said, ‘He got drafted. If that is all.’

  Hartman picked up his fountain pen. He looked far from busy.

  As they left, Morgen said, ‘Let’s go and see if Dr Wirths is holding surgery.’

  Wirths had an office in the same building. An outer room was managed by a prisoner secretary. Wirths was working with his door open and, spotting them, he came out, presuming they had come about their shots.

  He asked for their medical cards, which they were supposed to carry. Morgen had left his in the hotel. Schlegel’s showed he was due a booster shot.

  Wirths told him to roll up his sleeve and asked the secretary to prepare a syringe.

  Morgen smirked and said he hated needles.

  As Wirths was about to inject Schlegel, Morgen, who made a point of watching, said, ‘We have some questions about Ingeborg Tanner.’

  Wirths paused. Schlegel, who had been looking away, turned and saw Wirths with the syringe poised, looking blank.

  The name meant nothing, he said.

  ‘Ingeborg Tanner?’ Schlegel prompted.

  Wirths stuck the needle in his arm. Whether the man was inept or did it deliberately, the shot hurt like hell. Schlegel felt the depression of the plunger and was very aware of the needle in his arm.

  ‘There will be side effects,’ the doctor said. ‘Drowsiness almost certainly.’

  ‘How do we know what you are pumping into him?’ asked Morgen jovially, more to discomfort him, Schlegel suspected, than the doctor.

  Wirths laughed politely and said, ‘This name. I am at a complete loss. Help me here.’

  ‘You removed her body in person. We saw your signature.’

  Morgen watched Wirths fiddle with the syringe, put it in an enamel bowl and fussily cover it with a towel.

  ‘Oh, her,’ he finally said.

  Schlegel suspected Wirths, for all his agreeable air, resented any questioning of his authority or integrity.

  ‘Yes. I am sorry. I do remember. What it was, we’re always on the lookout for female autopsy cases with gonorrhoea, in relation to research we are conducting, especially tubo-ovarian abscesses. I am rather red-faced for having forgotten.’

  ‘How did you learn about the case?’ asked Morgen, sounding less than persuaded.

  Wirths indulged in a bout of concerned nodding. ‘It must have been one of my orderlies. They’re told to keep a lookout. Yes, that would be it.’

  ‘Tanner was a garrison woman who was murdered.’

  Wirths looked at them, from one to the other.

  ‘Didn’t you notice half her head was missing?’ asked Morgen.

  ‘Oh Lord, I assumed she was a prisoner.’

  ‘Yet you bothered to fetch her yourself.’

  Wirths appeared stricken. ‘To tell the truth, I was rather excited. It’s not often such opportunities fall into our hands. Alas . . .’ His long face registered disappointment. ‘She did not have gonorrhoea or any other form of sexually transmitted disease, so I abandoned the project.’

  ‘And had the body cremated?’

  ‘I had no reason to do otherwise. No one told me. Of course, had I known . . . I followed procedure.’

  However honest the doctor was or wasn’t, Schlegel was sure he was a man of conscience and procedure.

  On their way back to the office they passed Broad lounging on the grassy bank, smoking and without his accordion for once, on what he lazily called intelligence-gathering duties.

  Sometimes Schlegel wondered if they weren’t being surreptitiously followed and in Broad’s case perhaps not so surreptitiously.

  Schlegel asked if had heard anything about the seamstress. She should have been in the commandant’s detention cells following her dismissal but was not.

  Broad looked knowing, making the most of his moment.

  ‘Perhaps because she was passed on to us.’

  Schlegel was barely surprised, given the levels of serpentine intrigue. ‘By whom?’

  ‘One of Groenke’s stooges, I suspect, with Groenke acting for either the commandant or his wife, but this is no more than higher intuition.’

  ‘Was passed on?’ asked Morgen.

  ‘For a couple of days. We were told she needed to be taken care of.’

  ‘Taken care of!’ exclaimed Schlegel.

  Broad laughed. ‘Not like that. I talked to her once or twice, lent her a book. Interesting woman. She was permitted to read. She was even allowed the block’s cat for company, which is a privilege.’

  ‘Did she say what happened?’

  ‘She got caught in a blazing row between the commandant and his wife.’

  ‘According to the wife, she was due to be shipped out.’

  Broad laughed nastily. ‘I doubt it.’

  The implication was obvious. Schlegel tasted his revulsion. He asked if the commandant was her sugar daddy.

  Broad said, ‘We know she’s his crush, but sugar daddy I couldn’t say.’

  ‘Are there other men?’

  Broad laughed. ‘Bees round honey.’

  ‘Are you saying the commandant still has her somewhere?’

  ‘He or someone else. Either way she has been moved on.’

  ‘Then there will be paperwork,’ said Morgen, sounding like a man who knew there wouldn’t.

  ‘There’s an exemption clause known as fuck the bureaucracy,’ confirmed Broad.

  ‘Then where is she now?’

  ‘Anywhere. You will discover if you stay with us long enough that we live in an entirely theoretical world. There are other possible explanations. She could be trying to hide herself. A woman who is not a dog is fair game. A jealous supervisor, for instance.’

  ‘Then she may be dead?’ asked Schlegel.

  ‘Occupational hazard, old boy. Prisoners are always falling out, and the supervisors are all certifiably crazy.’

  The ‘old boy’ was typical of the informality of the garrison. Broad would have been perfectly aware he was addressing his senior.

  ‘And if she isn’t?’

  Broad gestured towards the zone.

  ‘Out there. Plenty of space to stash someone, for weeks, months even.’

  Schlegel was about to leave but Morgen wasn’t finished.

  ‘And what do you know about us?’ he asked.

  Broad appeared entertained. ‘The big question. We know the commandant has a bee in his bonnet over a dead garrison woman, but it wasn’t given to us, and you were called back as outsiders to investigate under the table.’

  ‘You’re very well informed.’

  Broad smirked. ‘Courtesy of the commandant’s domestic staff.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘The commandant is old-fashioned in his use of the telephone. He thinks it is necessary to speak up. When he telephoned Berlin and spoke to his boss he was ordered to bring you back, just when he thought he had got rid of you.’

  ‘Why tell his boss?’ Morgen asked.

  ‘Panic is the word, and perhaps he wants to keep him sweet because he
’s nervous about his job.’

  ‘Good information,’ said Morgen, and inspected his packet of cigarettes. ‘There are five in there. You have them.’

  They left Broad happily lighting up.

  Schlegel said he wanted to search for Sybil, providing he could find some form of transport. He supposed there were areas to isolate, people to ask. He had Sybil’s picture to show around.

  ‘I think you should, and while you are about it check on Horn and Palitsch, who both live in Rajsko.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Garrison directory.’

  Morgen looked smug. The garrison directory was a legendary publication, known to exist, but impossible to get one’s hands on. It was bureaucratic madness. The post office held a copy but when Schlegel had requested to see it he was told it was classified. The commandant’s office and the security police held copies but again security was cited as the reason for it being unavailable for inspection. The switchboard’s copy was guarded with equal zealousness. Recently a couple of operators had been dismissed for showing it.

  They were back in the office. Schlegel was astonished to see Morgen produce his own copy. He refused to say where he had got it. Schulze was hugely impressed. She said not even the construction department had one. Morgen continued to look complacent.

  ‘How do you make telephone calls?’ Schlegel asked Schulze.

  ‘We have our own directory but no private listings outside of department staff.’

  Morgen said, ‘Now we no longer have Bock with us, it would be useful to know what else Horn knows, sober or not.’

  The tiny man in the post office had made a drinking gesture regarding Horn, who wasn’t answering his telephone.

  Schlegel guessed Morgen wanted to know if Palitsch’s residence showed similar signs of acquisition to Tanner’s locker.

  Morgen tossed the directory to Schlegel and said, ‘Check and see if any of the numbers match those in Tanner’s book.’

  The number given for Palitsch’s address matched the one he had rung.

  He looked up all the names he knew. The commandant wasn’t on Tanner’s list. Nor was Juppe, nor Dr Wirths, nor security chief Grabner.

  But Broad was.

  So was Krick.

  Schlegel didn’t say because Schulze was present.

  Instead he asked, ‘It’s all very well, but how am I supposed to get around?’