Seb stared at the phone in his office for a full five minutes before picking it up and making the call he dreaded, to Caius Klammer’s widowed sister Ingrid Grosse in Vienna. It was sad and painful. She was shattered by the news and could barely speak.
‘But who would want to harm him, Herr Wolff? He had never hurt a soul.’ She was trying to speak through heart-wrenching sobs.
‘There will always be bad people in the world. We are trying to find a motive, but it seems senseless. Perhaps robbery.’ He wasn’t going to tell this poor woman any of the obscene facts involved in this atrocity.
‘What happens now, Inspector Wolff?’
‘We can talk later about funeral plans,’ Seb said. ‘You could perhaps come to Munich or perhaps you might wish to have the body removed to another place for burial? Just let me know and I will help you with the arrangements. And, of course, I will keep you informed regarding the progress of our investigations.’
‘Thank you, sir, thank you.’
‘And you might like to know that I was a friend of your brother. He was a great help and mentor when I was trying to make up for my lack of education a few years ago. A wonderful man.’
‘Yes, he was. He always came to us in Vienna at Christmas to celebrate the Lord’s birth with my children and me. I am a widow, you see. Christmas was the last time I saw him, six months ago, but we always felt close in our hearts.’
‘And no other relatives?’
‘A few distant cousins that’s all. But we’re not in touch.’
‘What of his friends here in Munich?’
‘He never spoke of his friends. I suppose he must have had some, but I have no names. As you know, he was a quiet man and kept himself to himself.’
‘Well, if any thoughts come to you, Frau Grosse, please call me. Without knowing more about your brother, this is going to be a difficult case to solve. We have no witnesses and no clear motive.’
‘You think it is possible he knew the killer?’
‘It is always a starting point in a police investigation.’
Putting down the phone, he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. Winter was not in the room with him. Seb dialled again, this time to the LMU and got put through to Professor Lindner.
‘Do you have copies of the photographs of Rosie Palmer showing the marks?’
‘Your lot took all the evidence, Wolff, and the body has gone for burial. I believe it is being flown back to England.’
‘My lot?’
‘Police. They wanted everything filed away for use in court.’
‘Did these officers give you a name? Not Sergeant Winter by any chance?’
‘No, not him. A couple of BPP heavies, I think. Anyway, I’ll ask my secretary and get back to you.’
*
‘How do you suggest we proceed, Sergeant Winter?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean the murder of Caius Klammer. Where do we start? We have few enough clues. I wondered if perhaps you might have some idea.’
‘Round up some 175s, get them to talk.’
‘Why would a 175 kill another 175? Surely it is more likely to be someone who resents them? I thought it was interesting that the bullet was a 7.65 mm. That could be a Walther PPK, of course – standard police issue.’
‘You think a cop shot him? That would be commendable, perhaps, but unlikely.’
Seb choked back his renewed desire to crush Winter’s windpipe and smiled instead. ‘So, back to my first question. How do you suggest we proceed?’
‘You’re the great murder detective, Herr Wolff, so you lead and I’ll follow.’
‘We should talk again to his colleagues at the library. Someone must know something. Why don’t you do that while I make a few phone calls, talk to people who might know more than we do about the underworld in which Herr Klammer moved.’
‘You’re trying to brush me off again.’
‘I’m trying to make some use of you.’
*
Seb found Lena Popp at Baroness Laroche’s house in Koniginstrasse. The baroness listened in silence as he explained why he wished to speak to her.
‘Well,’ she said at last. ‘She’ll be upstairs changing the bedding, so make yourself at home, Inspector. See what she has to say for herself.’
‘Just one thing. To be certain, she would have seen Rosie Palmer here at your house?’
‘I suppose she would have. Yes, of course, most certainly. As I told you, Rosie came here often. I liked her very much and we got on very well despite the difference in our ages.’
‘And Karl Friedlander, would she have seen him?’
‘You know, at the risk of repeating myself, these SS boys are all cut from same cloth.’
‘Friedlander is not SS, he is a Jew and his looks are not Nordic Aryan. He has dark, curly hair. A very handsome young man.’
A light came on in the baroness’s eyes. ‘Of course, yes, when you put it like that, yes, indeed, I did meet him. Just the once. A lovely young man. He and Rosie seemed very close. Laughing and chatting a lot. I recall that Unity seemed put out, a bit miffed. You know she takes all this anti-Semitism stuff rather seriously, and it did seem to me that the young man – Karl, did you say? – was probably Jewish.’
‘Yes, he’s Jewish. And he has been accused of killing Rosie. Lena Popp is giving evidence that she saw him in the vicinity of her lodgings.’
‘I’m shocked, Herr Wolff, truly I am. He appeared to be a rather gentle soul.’
‘Well, your maidservant’s testimony against him is likely to be crucial. So I repeat, would she have seen him here in the weeks before Rosie’s death? Would she have known him by sight?’
‘It’s possible. Why don’t you ask her yourself? I’ll call her down.’
*
Lena Popp was small with a sweet, open face. But she was visibly nervous, which was no surprise to Seb. She stood upright, her shoulders taut, her hands twisting together in front of her crisp white apron.
‘Heil Hitler, Fräulein Popp.’
‘Heil Hitler, sir.’
‘I am Inspector Wolff from the murder team at the Munich Police Presidium in Ettstrasse. Have you heard of it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I believe you met my colleague, Sergeant Winter?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The girl’s gaze moved between Seb and the baroness, who stood to one side of the parlour, her arms folded across her ample figure, watching with interest.
‘And you told him something about a young man named Karl Friedlander. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How do you know Herr Friedlander?’
‘I . . . I don’t know him, but I have seen him here.’
‘When was that?’
‘Maybe last autumn?’
‘You don’t sound sure.’
‘It was a while ago, but I remember him.’
‘Then perhaps you can describe him to me.’
‘He . . . he looked Jewish.’
‘Jews come in all shapes and sizes. Some are fair-haired, some dark, some tall, some short – and everything in between. Perhaps you could manage a more detailed and precise description.’
She was blinking rapidly now. Seb guessed her age at no more than eighteen; hardly older than his own son. And she was becoming flustered. She didn’t expand on her statement.
‘Well, Fräulein Popp?’
‘I suppose he was dark-haired. A big nose.’
‘That doesn’t sound like Herr Friedlander.’
‘Maybe not such a big nose. I don’t know. You’re confusing me.’
‘But you would recognise him?’
‘I . . . yes, I would recognise him.’
‘You know, of course, that lying to a court of law is a serious offence. Those who do not speak the complete truth to a judge could end up in prison themselves. Now tell me, did you ever have occasion to talk to Herr Friedlander?’
Her pert face creased and twitched. She no longer looked remotely sweet. ‘Do you think I am lying then? I know what I saw. It was him, the Jew, the murderer. I saw him from the tram on my way home.’ Her soft, light voice was sharp, both defensive and accusing. ‘You are just twisting my words.’
‘In what way?’
‘You are doubting that I saw the man, and yet I did – and he will pay the price for his foul deed.’
‘How did you discover that Herr Friedlander was under investigation?’
She shrugged. ‘Word gets around.’
‘But who specifically?’
‘I don’t know. I was in the Löwenbräukeller at Stiglmairplatz, waitressing because we need the extra money. I do shifts some nights. People were talking, that’s all. It might not be in the papers, but everyone’s talking about the English girl being killed. Someone mentioned that a Jew called Friedlander had been arrested. That’s when I remembered seeing him, the swine.’
‘And then what did you do?’
‘Called you lot, didn’t I? Sergeant Winter took the call.’
‘And you’re certain of what you saw?’
‘Of course.’
‘You realise your testimony could cost that young man his life?’
‘Good. He deserves everything he gets for what he did to English Rosie. Lovely girl, she was.’
*
Karl Friedlander didn’t move, did not even raise his eyes when Seb entered cell number 40 on the fourth floor of the police prison at the Presidium. The room was narrow – six metres by two – and a foul smell emanated from the water closet. There was no bed, just a low pallet with a black sack stuffed with straw. No mattress or pillow. The only light came from a tiny window, close to the ceiling and out of reach. Friedlander sat hunched up on the pallet, his head hanging.
‘Stand up.’
The prisoner leapt to his feet.
‘Get used to obeying orders, instantly. This is bad for you, Herr Friedlander – don’t make it worse.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Have you been told of the new evidence against you?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, but it’s a lie.’
‘That’s as maybe. What matters is what the court believes. Do you remember this maid, this witness?’
‘No, I didn’t notice her. But then I only had eyes for Rosie.’
‘Have you got a lawyer?’
‘My father has used a lawyer in the past, but he is a Jew like us and he has had the sense to leave the country.’
‘Do you have money to pay a lawyer?’
‘That depends on the price.’
‘I’ll see whether one can be found.’ Preferably Aryan, he thought. The court might not even accept a Jewish lawyer.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘No promises, though. In the meantime, answer questions honestly and openly. Silence will be taken as evidence that you are hiding something and you will be presumed guilty.’
‘Do you believe I am innocent, Inspector?’
‘I collect evidence. Guilt or innocence is for a court of law to decide, not me.’
‘And my parents, what of them? I have been told nothing.’
He didn’t want to be the conveyor of bad news, but he had to be honest. ‘They are in custody and if you are convicted, they will almost certainly be accused of harbouring a criminal and helping you try to evade justice. But it is possible that your mother will be treated leniently and allowed to go free.’
‘But not my father?’
‘We must hope for the best. For him – and for you, Herr Friedlander. This is out of my hands now.’