Berlin Burning by Damien Seaman Page B

other bench. He pulled out a couple of uniforms and a small pistol, which he handed to Fleischer.
    Now there was a gun in the mix, Trautmann had to act fast. He reached down for the coffee pot, kicked open the door and shouted a warning, heaving the pot at the ticket window.
    Then he put the conductor’s whistle to his lips and blew it as long and hard as he could before Fleischer could react.
    Fleischer’s mouth twisted into a snarl and he raised his gun.
    â€˜You son of a –’ he began, but his words were drowned out with more whistles coming from the station. Police whistles.
    â€˜Police!’ called a voice from the outer door. ‘Open up!’
    â€˜Your move, Fleischer,’ Trautmann said, looking pointedly at Maria and then at the gun barrel still aimed at his chest.
    Fleischer flicked off the safety catch. No one moved.
    â€˜Look, Fleischer –’ Trautmann said.
    â€˜Say one more thing, you fucking traitor. Go on, I dare you.’
    A bead of warm sweat fell from Trautmann’s hairline down the back of his neck. Would they hurry up and break down that goddamned door?
    Chapter 19
    â€“–––––––
    â€˜W here in Hades’ sweaty armpit were you?’ Trautmann thundered, coffee cup shaking in his hand.
    The two plainclothesmen – Haas and Franke – looked at their feet.
    â€˜It was shift changeover, Mule,’ Hass said, adjusting his hat and meeting Trautmann’s eye for the briefest of moments before looking away. Embarrassment or the shock of Trautmann’s burns, the kommissar couldn’t tell.
    â€˜I needed you there.’
    Trautmann went to his desk and found two notes waiting for him.
    You wife wants to know when you’re coming home
    â€“ said the first, a phone message with the date and time hastily scribbled on a scrap of paper. Dagmar had phoned twenty-some minutes ago.
    He flipped that over and read the second, on headed department notepaper – from Weiss, his boss and the deputy police president in charge of Kripo. This one was several shades more urgent:
    Where are we with the Meist case? I’m getting calls from the Minister. Could do with your report for the Murder Commission, post haste. See me soon as you get this.
    And suddenly all Trautmann could think of was Roth. How was he going to explain what had happened to Roth?
    He sighed. He couldn’t blame Haas and Franke for not knowing the seriousness of the situation. After all, he had no report to show anyone yet. And God alone knew when he’d get the time to put it all down.
    It had been Schupo who’d broken through the door and saved Trautmann’s arse. Not that he wasn’t grateful for not having to swallow a couple of bullets, but it meant Kessler would hear what had happened all the sooner. And Trautmann didn’t want to guess the consequences of that. Not before he could solve this damn case.
    Fleisher and Maria he had cooling off in a couple of separate interview rooms, and there was no time to lose.
    â€˜Here,’ he said to Franke, the senior of the two detectives. Franke was in his mid-thirties, a thin man with rounded shoulders and a drooping moustache. Trautmann handed him the photograph from the wallet of the mystery man they’d found in Meist’s apartment.
    â€˜What’s this?’ Franke said.
    â€˜You can make it up to me by visiting this photographer and finding out who this photo belongs to.’
    Franke angled the photo to catch the light and showed it to his partner.
    â€˜ Now gentlemen, please.’
    â€˜Who’s the guy?’
    â€˜Suspect in the Meist murder.’
    Franke brightened at the news and turned to go.
    â€˜Just a moment,’ Trautmann said.
    The two men paused.
    â€˜I want you to come straight back to me with this. No one else. Understood?’
    Franke nodded.
    â€˜Say it.’
    â€˜Understood, Trautmann, Christ! What’s bitten you today? You