The Man from Berlin by Luke McCallin

Kessler, turning away to his vehicle. ‘Well, as Major Becker said, once you have written authorisation, any assistance we can provide will be yours. Until then, a very good day, Captain.’
    â€˜So?’ Claussen asked, as Reinhardt slumped into the kübelwagen next tohim.
    â€˜So, nothing much,’ replied Reinhardt. ‘Did you remember that planning conference out at Ilidža?’ He glanced over at Claussen to see him narrow his eyes and shake his head. ‘Kessler just reminded me. I’m pretty sure Freilinger alluded to it this morning, but I just didn’t catchit.’
    â€˜You think there’s a connection?’ asked Claussen.
    Reinhardt pushed his chin out, pursing his lips. ‘I’ve no clue,’ he sighed. ‘Take me back to the offices. I really hope Freilinger’s back. Then we need to think about getting a look at that Ragusa place.’
    Reinhardt looked at the Miljačka as Claussen drove back up Kvaternik. With the summer’s heat, the river was low; in some places it was a dry jumble of stones. A group of boys played in the flow of water that still ran down the middle of the river’s channel, jumping from rocks into the water. ‘Freilinger told me you used to be in the police,’ he said, suddenly.
    Claussen twitched his eyes towards the rearview mirrors, then shot a quick look at Reinhardt. ‘Nearly twenty years. In Dusseldorf,’ he replied.
    â€˜Why’d you come back into the army?’ asked Reinhardt.
    Claussen took a moment to respond again. ‘Didn’t much like some of the changes that were… you know, that we had to go through,’ he said after the moment. ‘And the army, well, it was always sort of my first home.’
    â€˜You mentioned Naroch. Back at Vukić’s house.’
    The sergeant nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Eastern Front 1915 to 1917. I was wounded, and sent home. Joined the police when the war ended.’
    Reinhardt stared ahead at the road in front and the blank façades of the buildings on the left. Claussen’s experience was close to his. Very close, but as much as it seemed they might have much in common, there was almost certainly as much, if not more, that separated them. A silence grew, and instead of welcoming it Reinhardt cursed himself at starting a conversation he did not know how to finish.
    Claussen pulled up in front of HQ and Reinhardt, still feeling a prickling awkwardness, sat for a moment before turning to face the sergeant. ‘That was good work you did. At the Feldgendarmerie station, pointing me in the direction of Kessler.’ Claussen said nothing, only looked back at him. ‘That’s something I’ll need from you, Sergeant. Any time you have something like that, a feeling, something to say about this investigation, speakup.’
    â€˜Very good,sir.’
    Reinhardt could not put a finger on how, or why, but he was sure Claussen felt he had just been insulted. Or patronised, he thought, remembering a time, long ago, a similar conversation with Brauer. Claussen was not Brauer, and Reinhardt did not have the time or strength to invest in forging a relationship with him that resembled in any way what Reinhardt and Brauer had once had as soldiers, then as policemen, as friends.
    â€˜You have the address of this nightclub you mentioned Hendel went to? Let’s pay it a visit tonight. Bring Hueber and meet me at the barracks at eight o’clock.’ Reinhardt got out of the car, turning as he closed the door. ‘Until then, you are free to do as you will.’
    Back at the offices, Reinhardt was told Freilinger had returned and was expecting him. On his way up, Reinhardt stopped quickly in his office and retrieved from his desk the notebook he used to record ­information within Abwehr. He flicked through the pages until he found what he needed, folding the top of the page to mark it. The major’s orderly ushered him into