Harry sat at the bar of the Ostenkeller, picking at his knockwurst and potato salad. The sausage contained too much garlic for his liking and the potato was slimy and weirdly tangy as usual. Foreign muck. But it was no worse than the Kronestube and had rapidly become his venue of choice now he’d moved apartments. The beer, as always, was good, at least as far as cold fizzy beer went.
He often fantasised about being back home in an English country pub with real ale and fish and chips but convinced himself that, however pleasant he may recall the experience, it would, in reality, fall short of expectations and was certainly not worth abandoning his career for. Maybe he could get some leave and go home and see his father; after all it had been three years since he’d been back to Coventry. He could do his duty and salve his conscience and also indulge in his misguided culinary fantasies.
He’d told Petra he had no family and to all intents and purposes, that was true. His father Reg had been living in a veterans’ home for almost thirteen years and had slowly descended into the darkness of dementia, such that he could barely function unassisted. The letters had long since ceased and on Harry’s last visit, he’d hardly recognised his son. By all accounts he was little more than a vegetable. Harry felt guilty about his lack of attention, but the fact was there was nothing he could do about it. Reg was being looked after as well as possible and had been on borrowed time for a while.
He had never been particularly close to his father and believed Reg’s military background was probably responsible for his stern manner and disciplinarian streak. Harry could never remember having a laugh with Reg and had always assumed his father’s hideous experience in the trenches had affected him so profoundly he was incapable of levity or showing affection. Life for Harry as an only child growing up in Coventry involved endless streams of instructions and orders both at school and at home. He was subject to the constant threat of corporal punishment, which was routinely and regularly administered, deserved or not.
They’d drifted further apart when his mother Kathleen had been killed in the Coventry blitz of November 1940. Harry had been given leave to attend the funeral and been shocked to find his father reduced to a hollow shell from which he would never emerge. Harry returned to active service and apart from infrequent letters, never saw or spoke to his father again until he was invalided out in 1944, by which time Reg, singularly incapable of looking after himself, had deteriorated further. Within five years, he had moved into a home.
Harry took a swig of beer and burped loudly, the stench of garlic sausage making him wince, but he had no need to worry about his breath any more – one of the few advantages of living alone. He missed Petra greatly, for her beauty, her charm, her gaiety, her intellect and most of all her company. But Petra needed more than company and, as she’d made clear, better company than Harry could offer. He wanted to see her and wish her well and say he hoped they could still be friends, but he persuaded himself to leave her be. It was the least he could do.
He’d written up a report about his role in the Bergmann affair, had it typed and re-typed until he was happy there was no room for misinterpretation or doubt and appended his unequivocal opinion that the crime portrayed so graphically in the film had indeed taken place at Santa Cristina De Lago. He knew it was academic. The main objective had been proving Bergmann’s veracity in order that further use could be made of him, not necessarily identifying the perpetrator of a crime so that charges could be brought. Now Bergmann was dead, the main objective had died with him. But even though Webb had thanked him for his thoroughness and diligence in producing an “excellent piece of work”, he did so unaware of something Harry had omitted to mention.
Identifying the perpetrator had never been part of his brief; that had been left to others. One of the three SS officers in the film had been identified as Horst Engel and, although he’d not been seen to pull any triggers, the iron cross with the SS symbol at the throat marked him out as the man giving the orders. Engel was indeed a senior member of the politburo, for what it was worth.
The image of the third SS officer and the subject of the photograph Roger had given him had not featured in his report because it wasn’t relevant. Harry had compared the image with stock photos of all the members of the East German politburo, already knowing there was no conceivable match, nor could there be, because only Harry knew who he was and only Harry knew he was already dead.
Revealing another connection between himself and Bergmann apart from his knowledge of the location where the crime was committed served no purpose, would unnecessarily complicate matters and raise questions he didn’t want to answer. He had never spoken to anyone about what happened to him in Alfredo Girardi’s farmhouse; it was too painful. He had never even told Petra so the last people to whom he would confide something so personal were idiots like Webb and the suits, notwithstanding any professional duties or obligations.
He’d spent the last eighteen years hoping the memories would simply evaporate or at least dull with time, but having seen the film and its images of appalling barbarity, looked at the photograph of the man who’d so casually demonstrated such obscene cruelty, he’d been plunged deeper into the abyss. He knew the man with the Luger. It was the man who killed him every night. It was Ernst Kessler.
***
That evening, alone in his new apartment, he lay in bed, listening to the sounds of the night, smouldering cigarette in hand, postponing the moment he had to shut his eyes and visit the other place.
He resolved to approach Webb and ask for some leave. He’d already had a week off, but that had been forced on him by circumstance and he’d have much preferred to have been at work than fester in a hotel room with nothing to think about other than the Bergmann debacle and his own problems. He’d delivered his report; the case, according to Webb, was now closed and unless there had been any other dramatic developments overnight, the workload had eased.
He’d ask for a fortnight and take unpaid leave if necessary, citing “personal reasons”. If pressed he’d refer to his recent life-threatening experience, coupled with the break-up of his relationship. He could not in all honesty blame the department exclusively for Petra’s departure but the Bergmann affair had been the final straw, the catalyst for their separation, however inevitable it might have been. He would disappear for a while, maybe even go to England, visit his father and have some proper food, take another look at his life, his career and his future.
He heard dogs barking in the distance. The death strip was no longer in sight but its presence cast a sinister spell, symbolising everything that was wrong with the world. Something had to change, that was for sure.