Arriving home, he was exhausted. He had finished off the beerhouse food at gut-inflaming speed and downed the rest of his beer, all the time aware that he was being looked at and laughed at by the group at the table. The words ‘arrogant’ and ‘unpleasant’ came to mind when he thought of Adam Rock. Nor could he get the Englishman’s final remark out of his mind: you know what happens to 175s in the Third Reich. Was he referring to anyone in particular? One name came to mind: Caius Klammer. Or was he speaking in general terms?
The phone in the corridor outside his front door was ringing. Without thinking he unhooked it. ‘Yes?’
‘Can I speak to Sebastian Wolff?’
‘That’s me. Who are you?’ It was a man’s voice – Bavarian accent – but one he didn’t recognise.
‘You don’t need to know my name. I was a friend of Caius Klammer, that’s all I’m going to tell you.’
A friend of Caius. The man who wasn’t supposed to have any friends.
Seb didn’t like unidentified callers. ‘I’d really like your name, sir. Perhaps we could meet?’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, do you, given what happened to our mutual friend?’
‘Can you at least tell me how you knew Herr Klammer. Perhaps you worked together . . . or shared an interest?’
‘Please, Detective, just keep your peace for a few moments and listen to what I have to say. I won’t be calling again, so this will be the last time we talk.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘It concerns the photograph of the dead girl that you showed to Caius. He came to the conclusion that the markings were runes – ancient Germanic symbols.’
Runes. Seb had heard of such things, of course, but he knew nothing about them.
‘Can you tell me more?’
‘A little.’
‘If Caius said these symbols were runes, what did they symbolise? Did Caius have any theories?’
‘He told me that these things are almost impossible to de-cipher at the best of times because they were used in a variety of languages, throughout northern Germany, Scandinavia and England over hundreds of years. He told me that they might represent either letters or sounds or, more broadly, whole words or concepts. There was one mark on the body – a sort of side-on M or W () – which he said was generally accepted as meaning “sun” in the oldest of the known runic systems and is known as the sowilo. In other forms it can apparently look like the flashes on the SS collars.’
This again meant nothing to Seb. ‘And why exactly did he mention all this to you?’
‘Because I was his friend and he was worried about the implications of markings which might be seen as Völkisch, given the history of National Socialism. He believed that you were his friend, too, which is why I am calling you.’
The Völkisch movement: the folk mythology of Germany as espoused by such as Otto Raspe and other members of the Thule Society. Bringing together the German völk – folk – as the super-race. And everyone knew where the Thule Society led – straight to the door of the nascent Nazi Party in the early 1920s. Men like Hess and Rosenberg and other mentors of Adolf Hitler. If anyone knew about runes, they would be found there, at the very heart of Thule.
The voice on the phone continued. ‘Caius needed to talk to someone because he feared he had stumbled onto something dangerous. Rightly so, as it now turns out.’
Seb was silent for a moment. What was he to do with this information? It would surely help if he could meet the man behind this disembodied voice. ‘Sir,’ he said quietly, suddenly aware that this was a public telephone that anyone in the apartment block could use. Anyone could walk past or shelter in the shadows of doorways and listen in. ‘Could we not find a way to meet that would not compromise you?’
The voice did not reply to the entreaty. ‘He said one other thing. He said our ancestors – the ones who used runes – had strange, barbaric rituals. They made blood sacrifices – geblōts, as he called them. That’s all. Do with it what you will, Herr Wolff.’
A click. The phone was dead.
*
His mother was still awake, still fretting about Jurgen. ‘Everything’s fine, Mutti,’ Seb said. ‘Silke Stutz’s parents are good people and they are looking after him. He got in a brawl at the Hitler Youth and he has been fighting with me and he needed to get away, that’s all. He’ll be back when he’s sorted himself out.’
‘And who’s going to look after the baby?’
He found himself laughing. ‘There is not going to be any baby,’ he said, though his mind wasn’t laughing, was telling him that it was a ridiculously bold statement to make given his own history.
‘I can smell the sin after he has been with that Silke, just as I can smell the sin when you have been with that Hexie.’
‘We’re all sinners, Mutti, that’s why we go to confession.’
‘And when did you last go?’
It was a fair question. The last time he went to confession was December 1918, when he sought absolution for all his killings. The priest didn’t even seem to be listening but eventually gave him a dozen Hail Marys as penance. Probably bored by the guilt of all the young killers back from the war. He didn’t bother to tell his mother any of this.
‘And will Jurgen be home in the morning?’
‘Perhaps. He’s seventeen, Mutti. My influence – what little influence I ever had – died years ago. He’s probably old enough to fight for Germany, so what can I say?’
‘You should have taught him to learn from your mistakes, not copy them.’
‘As my mistakes go, I’d say he was one of the better ones. Don’t you agree? Anyway, I’m not sure he would thank us for calling him a mistake.’
‘Well, of course, he’s a beautiful boy, but you shouldn’t have had him so young.’
Seb shrugged with a smile. Nor, he thought, should my friends have died so young, nor should I have been slaughtering Englishmen so young. Or at any age for that matter.
He hugged his mother and she melted into his strong arms, as always. Of course she was overprotective of her son and grandson; she had brought them both up alone and they were all she had. One day, he thought, he must ask her about his father because he knew nothing of the man, just the austere shades of grey that made up his photographic image in the parlour.
‘Goodnight, Mutti.’
In bed, he should have been worrying about Jurgen and what could be done about their relationship and the boy’s other problems, but instead he could think of nothing but the anonymous phone call. The word ‘geblōt’ kept running through his mind as he tried to sleep.
It was not a word that he had ever encountered before, but the idea of human sacrifice was a concept he had read about in boys’ adventure stories when he was eleven or twelve. Tales of Norsemen with their axes and longships and blood rituals. But in this case? A bit far-fetched, surely, even for the likes of the Thule Society.
And the marks on the body? They were so haphazard, so frenzied that he could not imagine them as runes. He and Professor Lindner had immediately dismissed the suggestion that they were Hebrew script, so why should runes be any more feasible?
It was not going to be an easy confrontation, but there was one person he would have to talk to. Otto Raspe had to be the expert on such matters.
*
In the morning, he could not avoid Winter.
‘You’re in trouble, Inspector Wolff,’ the BPP man said after going through the Hitler salute palaver. ‘Big trouble.’
Seb had no doubt what the trouble was. His shadow – the pork knuckle on the motorbike – must have complained about being clobbered. Hardly surprising, he supposed. And the pistol in the dog turd must have been the final straw. A bloody nose for a miserable failure of a political police shadow could be filed away under serve the swine right. Lack of respect for state property, now that really was a crime.
‘And there was me thinking I was the hero of the hour.’
‘Were you? Then you were deluded. Your hour’s just about up. Oh, and you’ll never guess who I saw last night.’
‘Surprise me.’
‘That girl you were with outside the Osteria Bavaria when I arrested you. What was her name, Hexie Schuler, wasn’t it?’
‘Well seeing her must have made your evening, Winter, because she’s a very beautiful young woman.’
‘Indeed she is – and you and I are not the only ones who think so. She was having a high old time with some handsome fellow in the bar. All over her, he was, and she didn’t seem to mind at all.’
Seb gave the sergeant a hard look. Was the bastard lying or had he really seen Hexie? She had told him she was visiting her mother. Before the conversation could go any further, Ruff’s secretary arrived and told Seb he was wanted on the fifth floor by the deputy president of police. That suited him fine, because he also wanted the meeting.
Ruff had tried to compose his nerves, but he still looked on edge, pacing behind his desk. He turned sharply when Seb entered the huge office.
‘You’ll know what this is about, Wolff?’
‘Good day and Heil Hitler to you, too, sir.’
‘Ah yes, of course, Heil Hitler.’ He raised his right hand as though swatting a fly.
‘I imagine it has something to do with my contretemps with a guy on a motorbike who followed me and then drew a gun on me.’
‘God in heaven, what were you thinking? You beat up a BPP man and damaged official property.’
‘The stinking pistol.’
‘And the motorbike. You will be billed for repairs, which is the least of our problems. You are most definitely not popular with the senior BPP men at the Wittelsbach Palace and it reflects on me. In fact I have had Josef Meisinger on the line this morning demanding you be despatched back to Dachau with immediate effect. Luckily for you, he doesn’t have the power to do that and he knows it, given your excellent work on the Rosie Palmer case. Heydrich and Himmler are not getting involved while you still enjoy the Führer’s grace, but that may not last forever the way you’re carrying on. This is really your last warning, Wolff. So be careful. Be very, very careful.’
‘Is that it, sir?’
‘No, I want to know how you are progressing with the other case. We can’t have people shot dead on the streets of Munich.’
‘Quite so, it’s not 1923 or 1934 anymore, is it, sir?’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said my sentiments entirely, Herr Ruff. The dead man’s name was Caius Klammer. He was a quiet, inoffensive librarian and he was a friend of mine.’
‘Really? Good God.’
‘So this is personal.’
‘Well, who did it?’
‘Who knows? Perhaps the same man or men who killed Rosie Palmer. I’m still not sure how many were involved in her death.’
Ruff’s brow knitted and he stopped pacing. ‘Are you mad? Are you seriously trying to link the two cases?’
‘Without a doubt. Herr Klammer was an expert in rare scripts. He was investigating the meaning of the markings on the girl’s body on my behalf.’
Ruff’s muscles went rigid. ‘Was he the one who discovered that the symbols were Hebrew?’
‘Well no, he said the opposite. It was only Sergeant Winter who suggested that they might be Hebrew and he, as we both know, is an ignorant bag of slime.’
‘Be careful, you’re getting into dangerous territory, Wolff. The nature of the markings is part of the prosecution. They were Hebrew. That is the official line, and there will be no contradicting that. You will ignore whatever this man Klammer said to you.’
‘He said nothing to me, because he was shot dead before we could talk. But last night I had an anonymous call from a man who said he was a friend of Caius, who had told him the markings were most likely runes – ancient German symbols. Very Völkisch, you might think.’
Ruff slammed his fist on the table. ‘Who told you this nonsense?’
‘I wish I knew, but I don’t. I repeat, the caller was anonymous.’
‘And you took this call seriously?’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Because you’re a professional. Because it’s insanity. You can’t listen to some unnamed troublemaker, some Bolshie with an axe to grind. No word of this leaves this room. You never mention it to anyone, do you understand, Wolff?’
‘I think the body should be re-examined by an expert in runes.’
‘Well that most certainly won’t happen. The corpse left Germany for England on a plane with the brother, yesterday afternoon.’ He swept his left arm, flat, palm down, from right to left in a decisive arc. ‘This case is closed, finished, done.’
‘What about the photographs?’
‘Missing. I thought you might know something about that.’
Seb ignored the implied accusation. ‘So you want me to withhold evidence when I testify?’
‘You won’t be testifying. The case is being heard tomorrow morning, and Friedlander has indicated that he will be pleading guilty. The charge will be read, he will make his plea and the whole thing will be over in ten minutes flat. He killed the girl and he’ll face the ultimate penalty for his heinous act. So get your head out of the sand and get used to the idea, Wolff. Now get out of my sight.’