Seb drove Frau Heiden home. Before he left, she gave him a copy of the local newspaper in which the murder was reported on an inside page. ‘It is not much, I’m afraid. If it was any other girl it would have been a big story, but this is all there is. Ignored because her father is in Dachau KZ.’
He took the paper, thanked her and spent the remainder of the afternoon in Nuremberg, a city he did not know well. His first stop was the cafe where Hildegard had been working before her abduction. While he toyed with a cup of very weak coffee, he read and reread the newspaper story, which was very short, no more than two hundred words. It said that local waitress Hildegard Heiden had been found dead on Hesselberg, close to the site of the Frankentag, and that police suspected murder. No suspects were mentioned and the article gave no details of her parents or her personal circumstances or ambitions to be a schoolteacher. It did, however, say that she was last seen getting into a cream-coloured car, possibly a Horch or a Maybach, while on her way home.
Nothing else. The only thing Seb learnt from the piece was the possible make of the car. No description of the driver and no names for any witnesses who saw her abduction.
He approached the middle-aged woman behind the counter and showed his Munich Kripo badge.
‘Such a terrible, terrible tragedy,’ the woman said.
‘Are you the proprietor?’
‘Yes, and now I am short-staffed. I’m sorry, that sounds awful, thinking of myself at such a time. I feel so for poor Hildy and her poor mother.’
‘Do you have any idea who might have abducted and killed her? Did anyone ever come in here and talk to her, or look at her strangely?’
The cafe owner shook her head. ‘Not that I noticed particularly. Of course, Hildy was a gorgeous young woman and she attracted a great deal of attention. Men couldn’t take their eyes off her, but that was normal. I couldn’t single out any man.’
‘And did you ever see a cream-coloured car, perhaps a Maybach or Horch?’
‘If I did, I don’t recall. But tell me, sir, why is a Munich police officer investigating? I have already spoken to Inspector Hartmann and I told him exactly the same as I have told you.’
‘There has been a death in similar circumstances in Munich.’
‘Do you mean the one reported in the newspaper? That is all done with surely. They have the man and he has been condemned to death.’
Seb smiled without humour. He didn’t bother to confirm her supposition. ‘I am told by Frau Heiden’s mother that she had a boyfriend. Did he ever come in here?’
‘That would be Dieter. Yes, he came here sometimes. He worked for the party, I think – dealing with memberships.’
‘Did he have a car?’
‘He had a bicycle. A nice boy and quite good-looking, but I don’t think Hildy ever took him seriously. Just someone to accompany her to the cinema.’
‘Thank you, dear lady, for your time,’ he said, left two coins for his coffee and walked out. He wanted to speak with Hildegard’s young boyfriend Dieter, but had only that first name and no address. The only way to make progress with this case was to talk with Inspector Hartmann, but he would leave that until he had exhausted other possible leads. And the only one that presented itself for now was examining the place where the body was found.
*
Jurgen and Silke arrived at Hesselberg in the evening having been dropped off in the small village of Gerolfingen and walking the last three kilometres uphill. The driver had said that he and his passenger were also attending the big event, but were staying the night in a nearby hotel. Perhaps they would see them later after they had checked in.
Up on the plateau of the hill, the Osterwiese, individual groups had set up camp over a wide area, and there was an air of expectation. Bands were playing, songs were being sung around fires, there were boxing matches and races, marching and dancing.
The plan for Jurgen and Silke was to find their individual troops, for they would already be here, and then try to get back together later in the evening when darkness came. The problem was, they didn’t really want to leave each other for five minutes, let alone a couple of hours.
*
Seb found nothing at the murder site, or at least the site where the victim was found. There seemed no option now but to go to Nuremberg police headquarters and try to find Hartmann. God damn it, he might not even be working on a Saturday. The thought of talking to the man filled him with gloom because he just knew that it would go nowhere and he would be packed off back to Munich.
Re-tracing his steps towards the Osterwiese where the crowds were gathering and enjoying the comradeship and anticipation of the long night to come, he saw Ernie Pope.
His first instinct was to avoid him, look the other way and carry on to his car, but then Pope spotted him and waved, so he couldn’t be ignored.
The American reporter approached him with a smile.
‘I have to say, Seb, whatever you or I might think of the Nazis, they know how to put on a show.’
‘Don’t assume you know what I think about the Nazis, Ernie.’
Pope raised an apologetic hand. ‘Of course not, old man. Point taken.’
‘Forgive me, I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just been a tough day.’
‘Really? In what way?’
‘Oh, nothing I can talk about. Anyway, good to meet a friendly face here. I take it you’re reporting on the big event. I’ll look out for your write-up.’
‘It won’t make a hell of a lot. The only interesting thing for my London editors is that I’m told Unity is going to get up on stage and make a speech. Spewing her anti-Semitic bile, no doubt. That’ll make a paragraph or two, but not a lot more. Are you going back down the mountain? Come with me, I’ve got a bottle of Scotch in my motor. Got a good parking spot a few hundred yards down the hill.’
Why not? He was going in that direction anyway and a drink couldn’t hurt. It was a better proposition than approaching Detective Inspector Hartmann fully sober.
After a ten-minute walk, they climbed into the back of Pope’s long open-top car. He had a hamper with food and a couple of bottles, one of which he uncorked then poured two large Scotches into crystal tumblers.
‘Prost, Seb.’
‘Expenses?’
‘Of course.’
‘And remind me, what are we toasting?’
Pope laughed. ‘Well, buddy, I know why I’m here at the Frankentag. Editor’s orders because of the Unity line. But what about you? This doesn’t seem like your weekend activity of choice. Should be with your girl, shouldn’t you? Or solving crimes in Munich?’
On the way down from Hesselberg, he had reminded himself that it would not be healthy to discuss certain matters with the reporter. Now, out of nowhere, he changed his mind. To hell with it, questions from the foreign press might be the only way to get the execution of Karl Friedlander cancelled or delayed.
‘If I tell you why I’m here, you’ll want to make a story out of it.’
‘Now you’ve really got me interested.’
‘But it could cost me my job. Or worse.’
‘So you want to be sure you’re protected?’
He nodded.
‘The question is, do you trust me?’
Seb liked to think he knew something about human beings. It was what made him a half-decent detective. He believed he knew when to trust people, just as he had trusted Max Haas and other men in the trenches. Trusted them when another friend died and he was falling apart and weeping and quivering like a baby. Trusted them with his sanity and his life.
‘I do, Ernie.’
‘Well, shoot. If when we’ve talked you change your mind and want me to steer away from the story, you have my word it’ll never see the light of day.’
Seb swigged down his whisky in one, waited for a refill, then told Ernest Pope everything he knew about the death of Hildergard Heiden and the striking similarities with the murder of Rosie Palmer.
‘Does this get Friedlander off the hook, though?’ Pope said at last. ‘Or does it mean he’s a double killer. That’s what my editor will ask, and so do I.’
‘You mean could he have killed Hildegard too?’
‘I mean exactly that. What are the timings?’
‘Hildegard went missing last Saturday. I picked Friedlander up first on Sunday evening, then he was caught at Freiburg on Monday as he and his parents were trying to get to Switzerland. So yes it is possible that he killed Hildegard. But maybe he has an alibi. I just don’t know because we have no record of his alleged movements on the Saturday. Wasn’t something we had cause to ask him about. And then there’s the question of the car. I have no reason to believe Friedlander even has a motor car, let alone a big cream one.’
‘Anyone can get hold of a car. You need more, Seb. This isn’t going to save Friedlander’s neck. They’ll just decide that the Hildegard Heiden case has been solved, too.’
‘Meanwhile we have a murderer on the loose.’
‘Are you really certain about this? Are you one hundred per cent that Friedlander’s not our man?’
‘Ninety-nine.’
‘I guess that’s what certain courts would call reasonable doubt. The next question is, how do I get this story printed? Who in the Munich or Nuremberg police can I quote? I need something hard – a line expressing doubt about Friedlander or something concrete linking the two cases and requiring the case to be reopened.’
‘Come with me.’
Together they walked further down the hill to Seb’s Lancia. He fished about under the seat and pulled out the brown envelope. The photograph of the dead girl slid out and he handed it over to the reporter.
‘Does that help?’
‘God, that’s grim. How similar is it to the cuts and scrawls on Rosie’s corpse?’
‘Very.’
‘Do you have a copy of the Rosie photos?’
‘They’ve disappeared.’
‘That’s inconvenient.’
‘Or convenient, depending on your point of view.’
Pope reached out to take the photograph. ‘Can I borrow this? They’ll never print it in an English paper, but the editor would like to know that I am in possession of it. It certainly poses a question.’
‘You can keep it.’
‘And is it traceable to you?’
‘Only via the person who sent it to me anonymously or the girl’s mother. She hasn’t seen it, but I referred to it.’
‘Do you think she’d talk to me?’
‘She might. She’s heartbroken, very angry and has the courage of a cornered animal.’
‘OK, give me her address. I’m going to have to work fast on this to have a cat in hell’s chance of getting the story in the Sunday papers. Monday probably – but that could be too late for Friedlander, I suppose. Will you be anywhere near the Cafe Heck for a quiet coffee on Monday morning?’
‘I’ll make sure I am. In the meantime, how will you keep my name out of this thing? Your political police friends or Putzi Hanfstaengl are bound to press you for the source.’
‘When they ask, I’ll say I saw that story in the Nuremberg rag and did a bit of digging. In truth I had seen it because I read all the papers, but I thought nothing of it. Didn’t see the connection, but no one else needs to know that.’
*
Seb realised he couldn’t approach Hartmann now. Instead he stayed at Hesselberg. He drove around all the nearby villages looking at the cars, looking at the people. Every man he saw, he wondered, are you the killer?
It was a futile exercise. In the beginning, no one looked like a murderer. After a while, everyone did. And as for the cars, there were plenty of big ones and more than enough cream or white ones. Not so many Horches or Maybachs though.
He skirted the hill, looking for caves. He found an interesting one and looked inside, but there was nothing there. Returning to his car as the light faded, he was startled to see a line of black Mercedes limousines sweeping up the hill. Seb spotted the bald head of Julius Streicher in one of the cars and, beside him, the unmistakeable blonde hair of Unity Mitford.
Well, well, that might be worth following. He strode along the road in their wake. By the time he arrived at the top, the party was in full flow. No sign of Unity or Streicher, but there was fire everywhere. One huge bonfire lit the darkening sky, blazing torches sparked like a constellation of fiery stars across the hill. Great burning wagon wheels rolled dangerously downhill accompanied by whoops and shouts of primal joy.
And then Seb was brought up short. Jurgen was there, with his Hitler Youth troop.
They were sitting cross-legged around a campfire with tin plates on their laps, eating their supper.
Jurgen was laughing. His forehead had a ragged line where Dr Stutz had sewn up his wound. But then he saw his father and his face darkened and his eyes burnt.
Seb held back. His son put his plate on the ground, then said something to the boy on his right. Probably ‘I’m going for a piss’, thought Seb.
Jurgen didn’t approach his father directly, didn’t want to be seen with him. He walked around the campfire into a throng of young people, many of them in traditional costume from different parts of Germany, others in a wide variety of uniform, including priests and nuns in habits and robes, though it defied belief that they should be here in this pagan place. So many people, so many different costumes. It was like a giant party. Seb followed Jurgen. His son stood tall, taller than his father, his shoulders back like a dog at bay. Then he pushed Seb in the chest with his clenched right fist.
‘What are you doing here?’ His voice was enraged, almost a growl, ready for a fight.
‘I’m working.’
‘You followed me, God damn you. I hate you.’
‘Perhaps you do, but I didn’t follow you. I had no idea where you had gone and I certainly didn’t know you were here. Jurgen, I didn’t even know about this event until a few hours ago. I’m investigating a murder – no three murders – and one of the bodies was discovered on this very hill. That’s the truth, I promise.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘And yet I don’t lie to you. I simply found you by chance. Anyway, how did you get here? And where is Silke?’
‘We hiked – marched, if you like. Remember, you always laugh about our marching in the troop. Well, it has come in useful and saved me a bus fare.’
Seb very much wanted to take his son in his arms, but that wasn’t going to happen. Not today. ‘I’m sorry if I have ever laughed at your activities. It is unforgivable of me.’
‘Yes, old man, it is. You think you and your generation know better than us, but what exactly did your generation do? Lost a war, created economic mayhem, kissed the feet of the French, made Germany a laughing stock in the eyes of the world. And yet you mock my generation for putting things right.’
Seb nodded. It was partly true, of course. But he couldn’t explain the finer points here and now to his son, in the midst of this throng. Justice for all, not just the privileged. The presumption of innocence rather than flinging men into Dachau without trial or even a proper charge. Democracy, not dictatorship. Not that Jurgen was going to listen; his mind was made up.
‘We are the workers’ party – the Führer has made that clear. To oppose us is to oppose the workers of Germany.’
Seb could easily have retorted that if the Nazis were the workers’ party, why had they banned trade unions? Why had they dispensed with workers’ rights? But an argument wasn’t going to get him anywhere with Jurgen in his present frame of mind.
‘Tell me about Silke, you still haven’t told me where she is. Her parents trust you, but they are concerned about their daughter.’
‘She is with her friends in the League. We have to stay apart here but we will see each other and tomorrow we will walk back to Munich together. Not to Ainmüllerstrasse, though.’
‘This will break your grandmother’s heart, you know.’
‘And you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you. Now, I have to get back to my friends. Please don’t approach me. I don’t want to be seen with you – in fact I don’t want any of my comrades to know you’re here.’
‘As you wish, but I will be here for a while, perhaps all night. If you change your mind and want to talk, the Lancia is down the road and you can leave a note for me. Or you’ll find me up here somewhere.’
Jurgen turned on his heel without a word and went off to rejoin his comrades.