St Kilda Blues (20 page)

Bitter cold, hunger, exhaustion and despair were Berlin's memories of the last days of the war and his captivity. The Germans had built most of their POW camps as far east as possible, into Poland, Czechoslovakia and East Prussia, maximising the distances escapees would have to travel to safety. In early 1945, with the Red Army's relentless advance into German-held territory, tens of thousands of Allied POWs were forced out of the camps at gunpoint, joining millions of frightened refugees already jamming the roadways. They began marching slowly westward, back into Germany through what were quickly becoming the worst winter blizzards in a hundred years.

Berlin's camp had been evacuated over two days, with the thousands of prisoners split into more manageable groups of several hundred each. A small detachment of armed guards was assigned to each group, along with several very skittish German shepherd attack dogs. The dogs constantly fought against the leashes of their handlers, lunging and snapping at prisoners who fell behind the column or wandered off the roadway.

On the seventh day of the march the guards forced the column of shivering POWs out of the sleet and into the meagre shelter of a wooden barn shattered by repeated Russian air strikes. It might have been around four or five in the afternoon but if the winter sun was still out there beyond the leaden clouds the POWs couldn't tell. The horse-drawn army field kitchen the German soldiers called
Die Gulaschkanone
, or goulash cannon after its tall, smoking black chimney, was nowhere to be seen so the starving men knew it would be another night without food.

Berlin had found the potato a little over an hour after he and the other exhausted, freezing men had slumped gratefully down into the shelter of the barn. After cleaning his boots as best he could he tried to sleep, but something jammed into his back. He dug for it, expecting a stone, and was bewildered at finding a potato hidden deep under the filthy straw. How it had escaped detection by the hordes of refugees who must have used the barn every night was hard to understand.

His fist closed around the black lump and he slipped it carefully into the pocket of the khaki army greatcoat issued to him after he was captured. Like all the others, Berlin was starving, but he held onto the potato. It reminded him of home, of his grandmother and a time when he was safe and warm, with a full belly, and he held it tightly through the night. There might be worse to come and he would need the potato, though he knew that if things became even just a little worse he would not survive.

The next morning the snorting of a horse woke them and there was a watery soup waiting in the big boiler of the field kitchen. Berlin joined the line of hungry men, his hand still closed around the potato in his pocket. Some of those with dysentery stayed a little longer in the shelter of the barn, sobbing as they squatted and added another layer to the misery and squalor that would greet whoever used the place for respite that evening.

As the men waited, stamping their feet and swinging their arms to keep warm, someone half jokingly suggested they should perhaps add the horse to the soup and just pull the wagon themselves. The Gulaschkanone was designed to be hauled by two horses, and their single carthorse looked as exhausted, scrawny and underfed as the POWs. Berlin doubted it would add much in the way of nourishment.

He checked the sky for any breaks that might give respite from the sleet and snow. Sunshine would be welcome to warm their freezing bodies but clear skies would also make them easy targets for roaming
Sturmovik
, the Russian aircraft responsible for their burnt-out lodgings and the rocketed trucks and tanks they passed along the road. The grey sky and snow-covered landscape merged seamlessly at the horizon, meaning they would at least be safe for the first part of the day.

Behind the barn a stand of fruit trees stood leafless and forlorn. Among the bare branches Berlin saw ravens waking from rest. They were fat and sleek, eyes glinting, black feathers shimmering through the winter mist. The ravens would breakfast at their leisure while he starved, filling their bellies without the usual raucous squabbling over every morsel. It was a very good time for carrion-eaters.

After breakfast the POWs moved off, shuffling westward. Around midmorning Berlin heard gunfire from somewhere ahead of the column. Single shots, spaced – pistol or rifle fire, not the steady, constant rumble of the Russian artillery far behind them. It was sleeting now and the prisoners kept their heads down. Berlin squinted into the distance and saw the guards at the front of the column beginning to force the prisoners off the main roadway and into the snowdrifts.

An order was coming down the line, passed from one guard to the next. Berlin could hear the word ‘Juden' repeated. The guard for their section began pushing men to the side of the road with his Mauser rifle held horizontally at chest height. The POWs protested, groaned, resisted, preferring the ankle-deep slush of the roadway to the knee-deep snow of the drifts.

A thin, dark line appeared over the crest of the hill ahead, moving slowly towards them. As the figures drew closer they separated into two groups and Berlin heard an angry murmur from the POWs in front. On the right was a shuffling, stumbling line of people dressed in ragged striped tunics and pants, and in the middle of the road, out of the worst of the muck, was a smaller, more widely spaced group dressed in black uniforms.

‘Those bastards look like the fucking SS.' It was a shivering airman standing behind Berlin who spoke. He spat into the snow for emphasis. ‘And them others, I think they're bloody four-be-twos.'

The German guards kept their backs to the column of Jews and SS men. To Berlin it appeared that they were more concerned with looking away from what was happening on the road than keeping control of their POW charges. Most of the SS men Berlin had seen since his capture had been neatly turned out in tailored black uniforms, but this group looked tired and angry, their clothes crushed and dirty. They carried rifles and holstered pistols or MP40 machine pistols, and several had whips or clubs.

Berlin was shocked at the condition of the shuffling, silent Jewish prisoners. Some wore battered shoes or wooden clogs but many were barefoot or simply had rags bound around their feet. Their clothing was threadbare – thin, tattered trousers and a shirt or tunic, some open to the wind and showing gaunt, skeletal torsos. Their hair was close-cropped or shaven, their vacant eyes sunk deep into sockets above protruding cheekbones. Berlin realised with a jolt many of these walking scarecrows were women.

More shouting from somewhere near the front of the POW column and Berlin could make out a figure beside the road, someone who had fallen out of the line of Jewish prisoners. The man was on his knees, head bent forward. An SS soldier lifted his rifle, firing a single shot from about a foot away into the back of the man's head. The body jerked sideways and went limp, a red smear appearing on the snow. The POWs were yelling now, screaming in anger at the SS while the camp guards tried to hold them back and calm them down.

A figure in the silently shuffling column opposite Berlin stopped and stared across at the POWs. It was a woman. She looked like she had just woken from a deep sleep and her eyes locked onto Berlin's. He found he couldn't look away. She must have been very beautiful once. She still was, despite the filthy striped tunic, cropped hair and drawn face, her lips blue from hunger and cold. How old was she? he wondered. A Jewess. The word ‘Jewess' had intrigued him since he had first found it in Sir Walter Scott's
Ivanhoe
in the Essendon Public Library when he was ten. A real Jewess, his first, here among the filthy slush and detritus of war on a lonely Polish back road.

They continued to stare at each other, the Jewess standing quietly as the column of Jews moved slowly past her. A young SS officer, not more than twenty, was suddenly at her side, screaming. Berlin had enough
Kriegie Deutsch
, prison camp German, to understand the words: ‘Move your arse, you filthy Jew cunt.' The SS officer took his pistol from its holster, pulled the slide to chamber a shell and placed it against the woman's temple.

Please, oh, please keep moving
, Berlin begged her silently. Behind her, in the distance, he could see a raven circling. Closer, in painful detail, he could also see the silver death's-head insignia on the soldier's cap, the silver SS flashes on his jacket collar. The third finger on the soldier's right hand, the hand holding the pistol, was missing above the second knuckle.

Berlin was willing her to move with every ounce of strength he had. But the Jewess just smiled at him, a wondrous smile, deep and serene, and in his mind he heard her say, ‘I chose my time. Remember me. You are my witness.'

Berlin saw the soldier's finger tighten on the trigger, the slide move back and the empty brass shell casing eject, tumbling end over end away from the gun. There was no sound, just a puff of smoke from the muzzle whisked away by the wind, and then the girl was gone.

He continued to stare at the place where her face had been. All around him the POWs were screaming at the SS officer, but to Berlin their mouths worked silently. He studied the steely grey sky and felt the wind and watched the raven circling overhead.

The breeze rattled the venetian blind again and he realised the circling crows were just the shadow of the swaying bedroom light fitting moving across the ceiling. It was Wednesday morning and Gudrun Scheiner was starting her fourth day of captivity, if she was still alive. He could hear Rebecca in the kitchen. ‘Tea's made, Charlie. Do you fancy braised steak and onions on toast for breakfast?'

Berlin always fancied braised steak and onions and there were usually a couple of tins of his favourite brand, Tom Piper, in the cupboard. Rebecca sometimes jokingly described the thick, salty stew as Daddy's Goulash. He had told the kids when they were younger that it was made of horsemeat, which of course meant he had it all to himself.

While he waited for the shower to run hot he weighed himself on the bathroom scales. Twelve stone. Age was catching up with him. He should walk more, like he had when he'd come home from the war. He'd walked miles then, not for the exercise but just to be alone and just because he could go wherever he wanted. In the camp there was a circuit to walk and it was the same thing every day. Always on his right was the warning wire, a single strand set at ground level a dozen yards from the barbed wire perimeter fence. Between the warning wire and the fence was death, from a camp guard's Mauser rifle or the machine guns in the watchtowers.

When they marched him and all the others out into the snow and the blizzards he was glad he had walked the circuit every day in the camp and he was glad he was wearing good shoes. Twelve stone, almost one hundred and seventy pounds. He'd been half that, eighty pounds, when the Red Cross people weighed him after the column finally staggered into the Luckenwalde POW camp 30 miles south of the Nazi capital.

Eighty bloody pounds. He had been able to count every one of his ribs. But at least he'd survived the twenty-day march with all his fingers and toes intact. When the younger coppers complained about the stink of a just-discovered decomposing body Berlin remembered the smell of frostbite and gangrene. He knew there were things that were just as bad and sometimes even worse.

It appeared that Gerhardt Scheiner had chopped up every log he had on hand and had now replaced that distraction with pacing the living room and smoking. The ashtray on the glass coffee table was overflowing. Scheiner was looking a lot older than he had just two days earlier and Berlin wished he had better news for him. Ten o'clock Wednesday morning made it three and half days, and Berlin tried to block out the images of the knife wounds on the body of the girl in the lake. He had little to tell the girl's waiting father but he felt he had to face the man at least.

‘I'm sorry the news is not better, Mr Scheiner. I really am.'

Scheiner's scarred face was set, hard, angry. ‘Everything is being done to find my child, you all say to me, everything is being done. And everything produces nothing.' He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and took another from a silver box on the mantelpiece. ‘The other detectives are useless, Mr Berlin, they come and tell me nothing and now you come and tell me nothing.'

Scheiner appeared to have on the same clothes he was wearing two days ago. The front of his overalls were covered in cigarette ash and the stubble on his face said he hadn't shaved. Berlin forced away an image of the girl and the pistol on the frozen Polish roadway. Even if it was Scheiner in his nightmares, this was not the time, he told himself.

‘We have some more leads to follow up, Mr Scheiner. I promise you we are doing everything, everyone is doing whatever needs to be done but it takes time'

‘Twenty thousand pounds.'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘I mean $20 000. That is the reward I intend to post in the papers this afternoon, and on the radio and TV. Find my daughter, DS Berlin, return her to me and the money is yours.'

Berlin knew this was an added problem that they didn't need. ‘It's a bit early yet for a reward, Mr Scheiner. That kind of money can complicate things at this stage. You get all sorts of people coming out of the woodwork, telling all sorts of stories, promising all sorts of things.'

Scheiner shrugged. ‘What do I care about complications? They promise, you promise, the police commissioner promises, Mr Bolte promises. I am tired of promises. I want my daughter home, I want her beside me, do you not understand?'

There were the beginnings of tears in Scheiner's eyes and Berlin saw Roberts, hands deep in his trouser pockets, staring down at the carpet. Berlin wanted to say something, wanted to say he did understand, wanted to try to comfort him somehow but he did nothing. Berlin tried to remember the last time he had cried and couldn't.
Have I no tears left?
he asked himself.
Am I even capable of tears?
And how big a bastard am I for doing what I have to do now?

‘Mr Scheiner, I'm asking you to hold off on announcing the reward, just until tomorrow. I wasn't planning to say anything but we may have a lead. We're following it up and it looks promising but splashing that reward all over the papers and TV really might complicate things. If you can hold off for twenty-four hours it would really be helpful. I can't say any more than that.'

The fear and anger in Scheiner's eyes was now replaced with hope. Berlin's eyes focused over Scheiner's shoulder, on the cocktail cabinet and the bottles of whisky and gin and vermouth. Was there really any hope for the girl? He had to believe there was, had to believe it was true. And he had to lie – to her father and to himself until the lie became truth. He had lied to his crew thirty times, told them on each mission he knew they would make it home, and his lie became the truth twenty-nine times. Berlin knew he had to find the girl and soon; he desperately didn't want this lie to be like that last one to his crew.

There was a limited press presence outside the Scheiner home, which meant someone was doing a good job of keeping a lid on the story. A $20 000 reward offered in the papers would put an end to all that. The reporters and press photographers and a TV news cameraman ignored the two policemen as they walked to the car. It looked a little like rain so the hood on the Triumph was up and locked in place. Berlin opened the passenger side door and bent down to toss his hat behind the seat.

Roberts looked at him across the top of the hood when he straightened up. ‘Do you want to tell me about this lead we have on the girl, Charlie?'

Berlin put both hands on top of the car. ‘I'm just playing for time, Bob. Scheiner is desperate, which is fair enough, but we both know what will happen once word of a $20 000 reward gets out.'

Once that reward was posted every police station in Australia would be besieged by reporters, concerned mums, psychics, drunks, charlatans, dads whose kids were five minutes late coming back from the shops and weird blokes showing up with hands out, offering up a variety of fifteen-year-old girls aged from ten to thirty. On top of that they would get every copper with too big a mortgage, or too pricey a mistress or an angry bookie on their tail, wanting to be involved, sticking their oar in, hoping for a quick solution to all their problems but just muddying some already murky waters.

‘Okay, Charlie, you've bought us some time, so what do we do with it?'

Berlin had been asking himself the same question, running back over the evidence in his mind. ‘We go back to the studio to talk to Derek Jones again. Something's not right there and he's the only link we have to the girl, even if it is just about him being at the same place on the night. It's not a whole lot but right now it's all we have.'

They were halfway down Honeysuckle Drive when a yellow ball rolled out from between two parked cars followed closely by a cocker spaniel puppy. Roberts jammed on the brakes and Berlin was flung forward and upwards out of his seat, banging his forehead on the metal edge of the windscreen surround. His hands splayed out on the dashboard held him back and lessened the impact a little. He sat back in the seat and touched his forehead. No blood but there would be a bruise and a bump for sure.

‘Sorry, Charlie, you okay?'

Berlin glanced across at Roberts and nodded then rolled down the side window for some air. A smell of burned rubber was coming from under the car.

The cocker spaniel scooted back across the road with the ball in its mouth. A man standing between two cars picked the dog up and walked over to the passenger side of the Triumph. His shoes were pricey and well kept, stylish, possibly by Raoul Merton. The suit and shirt and tie were all top-shelf items as well. Manicured nails, and the man's hair was neatly cut, probably this morning from the hint of talcum powder and bay rum Berlin's nose could detect over the smell of burnt rubber.

‘Sorry about that, looks like you might have a bit of a bruise. It's the new wife's new dog and she just loves going after balls. The dog, I mean, not the new wife. Thanks for stopping.'

Berlin opened the passenger-side door and climbed out. ‘That was the idea, wasn't it?'

The man in the suit casually tossed the dog in through the open window of a red Jaguar saloon parked at the kerb. The spaniel yelped as it missed the seat and landed on the floor.

‘I'm Warren Sunderland, but my friends call me Woz.' He put out his hand.

Berlin ignored the outstretched hand. ‘I know who you are and I can't imagine you have too many of those – friends, I mean.'

Sunderland had started as a copyboy at
The
Argus
just after the war, Rebecca had told him, so that made him maybe forty. The shiny red Jag and Sunderland's puffy pink face both said the man lived as well as he dressed. The shrewd look in his eyes and a cruel twist to his mouth told Berlin the man would do whatever was necessary to keep living that way.

Sunderland lowered his arm and smiled. ‘So you're the bloke who landed Rebecca Green. Could have had her myself, back in the old days at
The
Argus
, but she wasn't really my type.'

Was the remark meant to goad him?
Berlin wondered. ‘Some men just can't handle good-looking, smart and talented, I suppose. Or was it that Jewish thing?'

Sunderland puffed out fat pink lips in what looked almost like a pout. ‘Bugger me, Charlie, old son. You got the girl, no need to be a sore winner.'

‘My name is Detective Sergeant Berlin. I don't know you personally but I know a bit about you and I don't like you. I also don't like your paper and what you write in it. And I especially don't like you mentioning my wife, so don't do it. If it was me driving and you chasing that ball I wouldn't have used the brakes.'

Sunderland leaned down and looked over at Roberts, who was still sitting in the car. ‘You should buy your mate some breakfast, Bob, or maybe get him a double Scotch; he's a bit too bloody toey for this time of the morning if you ask me.'

Roberts didn't respond.

‘You and Bob know each other?' Berlin asked when Sunderland straightened up.

The fat lips twisted into something vaguely resembling a smile. ‘I know lots of coppers, Detective Sergeant Berlin, good ones, bad ones, the boring, the mediocre, the talented and the ones just getting by on their looks. It goes with the job.'

Sunderland had dropped the Detective Sergeant Berlin bit into his response with a hint of sarcasm and again Berlin wondered if the man was trying to goad him. It also sounded like a well-rehearsed little speech. Rebecca had once told him that since journalists were always meeting new people and seeking to quickly create a friendly relationship most of them kept a stock of carefully prepared casual comments and anecdotes and jokes to establish some kind of instant rapport. Sunderland's response was that maybe he knew Bob and maybe he didn't. But he knew something. And was that ‘double Scotch' comment supposed to show he also knew something about Berlin's past problems?

‘We're very busy Mr Sunderland, so if you have a point you're trying to get to, can you move it along?'

The insincere Sunderland smile flashed again. ‘Just doing my job, keeping my readers up on the latest news. I was wondering if you might like to make a statement about your ongoing investigation. Get your side of the story out to the public.'

Berlin's head was starting to ache. What was Sunderland after exactly?

‘I'm not sure what you mean by my side of the story.'

‘Jesus, you can't be that bloody naive. Young girls going missing, turning up dead and the police and press keeping a lid on it for months. Collusion in high places, premier doing favours for wealthy and influential friends and a suspect copper brought in on the quiet to help sort things out.'

‘Why am I a suspect copper?' Berlin regretted the words as soon as he said them.

A brief look of surprise flashed quickly across Sunderland's face and his eyes started to swing towards the parked Triumph and then he stopped himself.

Exactly who was suspect here? Berlin wondered.

Roberts started the Triumph's engine then leaned across the car to Berlin's window.

‘Hey Warren, why don't you do the world and me a great big favour and go and get rooted.'

Sunderland stepped back from the side of the car and smiled. ‘I'd like to quote you on that Bob but a lot of my readers are of a quite delicate disposition. Wouldn't want them getting the vapours. Maybe I'll see you in court.'

Berlin had barely closed his door when the Triumph accelerated away and he was slammed back in his seat. The passenger seat in the sports car was a hell of a lot more comfortable than the pilot's seat in his bomber but at least in the Lancaster he had a safety harness. From next year seat belts would become compulsory in motor vehicles but right now from the way Roberts was driving next year seemed a very long way off.

When he looked in the passenger-side mirror Warren Sunderland was already a small and quickly receding figure. Bob Roberts was staring straight ahead and his hands were clenched white-knuckle tight on the steering wheel.

What the hell have I landed myself in?
Berlin wondered.