The police lieutenant limped into my flat on a Sunday evening. He wasn’t in uniform and I was just about naïve enough to assume this might be a social visit: just passing, thought I’d pop in.
“They let you out?” I asked as I held the door open.
“Had to argue with the surgeon.” Steinlein’s stick tapped over my painted floorboards.
I offered my visitor the comfy seat, but he preferred the hard kitchen chair at the table. I was about to offer him coffee too, but he lit a cigarette and started to speak.
“I know you’re still on leave but I was hoping you could help me with a case. It’s sensitive.”
The shift in his voice warned me even before his words reached me. This was work. This was police work. I got up, carefully pushed my chair back under the table and stood by the door, pointing out into the hallway.
“You want a cup of coffee, you’re welcome. But if you want to get me involved in something … You know why I’m still on leave? It’s not because of this,” I touched my bruised panda eyes, the eyebrows that were still growing back, “nor because of this,” I pointed at my left knee. “They say it’s because I need a rest.” I tapped the side of my head. “I think I’ve had enough of sensitive, don’t you, comrade Lieutenant?”
“When the fascists attacked me, when I was in hospital, you were the only one to come to visit.” Steinlein was still sitting there, hands clasped over the top of his walking stick.
“Doesn’t make me responsible for you.”
“Think about it. Call me when you’re ready to talk.” Steinlein got to his feet, holding on to the table for support, then tapped his way back into the hall, as slowly as he’d come in. By the time he was at the door, curiosity had got the better of me.
A curiosity I thought long gone. A curiosity I should have known better than to allow myself.
“What is it? What’s so bloody sensitive?”
With one hand on the latch Steinlein half turned to meet my gaze. “They want to kill Kaminsky.”