Seb accompanied Friedlander home in a taxi and told him that he might be required for more questioning. For a while, he had considered having him locked up in one of the Presidium cells, but eventually thought better of it. He seemed to be the only suspect on the horizon, but there wasn’t a speck of evidence against him.
After dropping Friedlander off, he took the taxi home to Ainmüllerstrasse and was surprised to find a wrapped package on the kitchen table in front of his chair. It had an accompanying card saying ‘Why not read this before judging us, old man? Happy birthday, Jurgen’.
Carefully removing the brown paper wrapping so that it could be reused he found himself laughing at the contents: a brand new copy of Mein Kampf, the infamous tract written by one Adolf Hitler during his spell in Landsberg Prison following his attempt at violent revolution in 1923.
His own son putting royalties into the bank account of Hitler! Though it had sold in the millions and made the Führer a rich man, Seb had never had any inclination to read it, but perhaps he owed it to his son. If it was meant as a peace offering, then it had to be welcome.
He scribbled the words ‘Thank you, I will’ on the card and left it at Jurgen’s space on the table. He considered adding ‘and unlike certain others, I won’t burn it’ but thought better of it.
Bed beckoned. It was late and the day had been long. He set the alarm, crawled between the sheets and fell asleep almost instantly.
*
He woke five hours later surprisingly refreshed, had a quick breakfast of bread and cheese and coffee – all provided by his mother who bustled around him, happy to have her son back in the daily routine – then drove to Ettstrasse. Winter had arrived just before him.
After exchanging salutes, Sergeant Winter went on the offensive. ‘Where is he?’
‘Who?’
‘Karl Friedlander. The killer. Which cell?’
‘Probably still asleep at home. It was a late night.’
‘You mean you have let him loose without charge?’
‘With what should I have charged him, Sergeant? I would require some evidence to charge a man with murder.’
‘But I know that you have the word of Miss Mitford. I caught up with Fritz Mannheim this morning and he told me everything. And the Jew clearly had the motive. I told you those markings were Jew script.’
‘Motive alone is not enough – and show me the proof that the markings were Hebrew, if you can. Anyway, Friedlander has an alibi. So our hunt goes on.’
‘Why was he not slung in the cells? He is a Jew – the corpse was defiled with Jewish markings. Fräulein Mitford has given you the motive. What more do you need?’
‘Are you stupid, Winter? Or is this just an act? In the Kripo, we uphold the law of the land, and that means making arrests when we have reason to believe we have the guilty person. In this case, we have no evidence against Herr Friedlander. Perhaps the BPP does things differently, simply ignoring the concept of justice.’
‘And so you resort to insulting me again, and you slander the BPP. In doing so you defame Heydrich and Himmler and, indeed, the Führer himself. You will pay a heavy price for this, Inspector Wolff.’
It didn’t seem worth continuing this verbal combat, so Seb simply ignored his outburst. ‘I am going to Friedlander now to talk to his parents to ensure his alibi is confirmed. Also I would like a few more words with Miss Mitford. I leave it up to you whether you accompany me, or follow some other lead.’
‘There are no other leads. And I have been told again that I must accompany you at all times until this matter is completed to everyone’s satisfaction. And that means conviction and execution, nothing less.’
‘Then let’s go.’
Seb tucked his Walther PPK in the shoulder holster nestling against his shirt. The phone rang and he picked it up.
‘Hello. Criminal Inspector Wolff.’
‘Heil Hitler, Wolff.’
Seb recognised the voice immediately. It bore a strong hint of American. ‘Heil Hitler, Herr Hanfstaengl.’
‘Could you be at the Brown House in twenty minutes, please? The Honourable Mr Edward Palmer, Viscount Braybury, will be here and I am told he would very much like to meet you. He is brother to the late Miss Rosie Palmer.’
Of course. The meeting. It had slipped Seb’s mind. And what was he supposed to tell this poor Englishman? Your sister’s killer is still at large and we are bereft of clues. ‘Yes, of course, sir, I shall be there.’
He replaced the phone.
‘What did Hanfstaengl want?’
‘The dead girl’s brother is over from England. I am to meet him.’
‘Then I will come too.’
Seb looked at the unimpressive Sergeant Hans Winter with dismay. He was not a good advertisement for the Third Reich. ‘Come on then, but we’ll be speaking English.’
‘You can translate for me.’
*
Outside the main entrance of the Brown House, a pair of uniformed SS men stood to attention, rifles clasped diagonally across their rigid torsos. Inside, the atmosphere in Hanfstaengl’s office was sombre. Consul-general Donald Gainer was there, standing beside a young Englishman, who was introduced as Viscount Braybury, Captain Edward Palmer.
Everyone shook hands, except Winter who tried in vain to force the Hitler salute into the proceedings. Hanfstaengl turned on him and whispered harshly in his ear. ‘Mr Palmer is an honoured guest from England, you ignorant dolt, and as such cannot be expected to use the new greeting.’
‘But it is required.’
‘All that is required, young man, is that you leave the room and wait outside. Your presence is not helpful here.’
Winter gave Hanfstaengl a deadly look, then turned it on Seb. ‘I have been ordered to stay with Inspector Wolff for the duration of this inquiry, Herr Hanfstaengl. Orders direct from the offices of both SS-Reichsführer Himmler and SS-Obergruppenführer Heydrich.’
The names cast a chill over the room. Winter had clearly included their titles as weapons. Hanfstaengl’s face tightened and he glared at the political policeman. ‘Do you speak English?’
‘No.’
‘Well then you won’t understand a word we are saying.’ He turned back to the young Englishman with a grave look and changed languages. ‘Forgive me, Captain Palmer. A slight confusion.’
Edward Palmer was a product of his class. What the seamen with whom Seb once sailed would have called a solid six-foot toff. He was lean and powerful and had a languid air. In normal times, his demeanour would probably be considered affable and good-humoured, today it was serious, but somehow lacking the appropriate melancholy. Even at this time of emotional devastation when other men would be weeping for the loss of a beloved sister, his face betrayed nothing. So this was the famous stiff upper lip. To Seb, it was a denial of humanity and he didn’t like it.
The Englishman met Seb’s eyes and their mutual gaze held. ‘And I understand that you are leading the investigation, Inspector Wolff.’
‘Yes, sir.’ He clicked his heels and gave a respectful bow of the head. An officer was an officer, whatever his nationality. And having served in the Bavarian army, it was second nature for Seb to defer to the officer class.
‘And what do you know so far?’
How much to tell this young man, whose age he estimated at the mid to late twenties? ‘Miss Palmer – your sister – was found dead in woods on the banks of the River Isar the day before last. She had been stabbed to death, her body wrapped in a rug.’
‘Stabbed? I heard that her throat had been cut.’
‘Forgive me, that is correct. I was trying to lessen the horror.’
‘I’m not a child. I want the truth. Unvarnished.’
Seb bowed again. ‘Professor Lindner at the LMU laboratory puts the time of death at about midnight the evening before she was found. The last known sighting of her was by her Munich host, Herr Walter Regensdorf, in the hallway of his house at Karolinenplatz. It was around nine o’clock in the evening and she was about to go out. After that, nothing. Which leaves a missing three hours before her death. I have been attempting to fill in that time. The best I have come up with so far is evidence from her good friend Miss Unity Mitford that they were planning to meet at the Schneider Bräuhaus in the city centre, then go on to the Hofbräuhaus to join some other friends. Your sister didn’t turn up at the Schneider and Miss Mitford ran into some other acquaintances and went to a club on Lenbachplatz. I’m afraid that is all I know so far.’
The young Englishman was stiff and gaunt. ‘In the past hour, I have seen the body following the autopsy, also photographs before she was cleaned up and cut open. There were many cuts and curious markings. The picture obviously does not show the colour but I’m told these were red lipstick.’
Seb nodded. ‘Indeed, sir. And that is a major part of our inquiry. It is possible the marks mean something, but as yet we have not been able to ascertain what. I am, however, in touch with an expert at the Bavarian State Library, who is a student of many scripts, both ancient and modern. He is examining photographs of your sister’s body and I am hopeful he will report back to me today.’
‘So what you’re saying, Herr Wolff, is that you’ve got precisely nowhere. No suspects, nothing.’
The words stung because they were true. Seb felt the eyes of the men in the room boring into him. He knew that Hanfstaengl was suffering, too, for his neck was also on the line.
Winter broke the echoing silence, speaking urgently to Seb in German. ‘Have you told him about Friedlander? I didn’t hear you speak his name. You have to tell him about the Jew.’
Edward Palmer turned towards Winter. ‘What did you say?’ He was speaking German.
Seb felt a surge of panic. He had deliberately avoided mentioning Friedlander. ‘Just something Miss Mitford said. Your sister had a friend called Karl Friedlander and Miss Mitford had suspicions about him.’
‘Good God, man, I know who Friedlander is. Are you saying he’s here in Munich?’
‘Yes, sir, but I have interviewed him and there is no evidence to link him to your sister’s death.’
‘I met the ghastly man in England. Hung around my sister like a bad smell. None of us could understand why she had anything to do with the fellow.’ He took a step towards Winter and switched to fluent German. ‘And you say Friedlander is a suspect?’
‘Miss Mitford states that he is the killer, sir.’
‘Well, where is he? Has he been charged?’
Seb moved between Palmer and Winter. ‘I’m sorry but I really don’t want there to be any misunderstanding. Karl Friedlander has been accused of nothing. There is no evidence that he has harmed Miss Palmer. Quite the opposite, I am pretty sure he was deeply in love with her and is devastated by her death.’
Palmer snorted. ‘Love? You don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector. He’s taken you for a fool.’
‘I really don’t think so, sir.’
Hanfstaengl and Gainer were speechless witnesses to the conversation. At last Hanfstaengl cleared his throat. ‘I think the best thing to do is to bring this Friedlander man back into custody for harder questioning, don’t you, Inspector? Check his alibi. His fingerprints, his movements. Clear the air once and for all.’
Seb could do nothing. ‘Of course, Herr Hanfstaengl, if that is what you wish.’
‘It is. Go and pick him up now.’
‘Because if you don’t, Wolff,’ the dead girl’s brother said, his cultured voice now brittle and savage. ‘I will kill the filthy Jew myself.’