‘You won’t ever work for a tailor,’ I said. ‘Not with stitching like that.’
She tutted loudly. ‘I never was very good at putting in sutures. Anyway, that’s the best I can do for him I’m afraid. It’s more than he did for his victims, I can tell you.’
‘So I heard.’ I lit a cigarette and watched as she rinsed her gloves again and then her instruments. ‘How did you get into this business anyway?’
‘Forensic medicine? I told you before, didn’t I? I haven’t got the patience for all the aches and pains and imaginary ills of the living patient. I much prefer working with the dead.’
‘That sounds suitably cynical,’ I said. ‘I mean, for this day and age. But really, what was it? I’d like to know.’
‘Would you now?’
She took the cigarette from my mouth, puffed it thoughtfully for a second and then patted my cheek.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘For what?’
‘For asking me. Because I’d almost forgotten the real reason why I started to work with the dead. And you’re right: it wasn’t for the reason I told you just now. That’s just a silly story I made up so that I could avoid telling people the truth. The thing is, I’ve repeated that lie so often I’ve almost started to believe it myself. Like a real Nazi you might say. Almost as if I was someone else entirely. And you may think what I’m going to tell you is pompous, even a little pretentious, but I mean it, every word.
‘The sole aim in forensic medicine is the pursuit of truth, and in case you hadn’t noticed, there’s precious little of that around in Germany these days. But especially in the medical profession, where what is true and what is right matter for very little besides what is German. Theory and opinion have no place beside the dissecting table however; no more do politics and crackpot ideas about biology and race. Forensic medicine requires only the quiet assembly of genuine scientific evidence and the construction of reasonable inferences based on honest observation, which means that it’s about the one facet of the practice of medicine that hasn’t been hijacked by the Nazis and by fascists like him.’ She flicked her ash at Berruguete’s corpse before returning the cigarette to my lips. ‘Does that answer your question?’
I nodded. ‘Did Dr Berruguete have something to do with your brother’s death, perhaps?’
‘What makes you say so?’
‘Nothing at all other than the fact you just used him as your ashtray.’
‘Maybe. I can’t be sure. Ulrich and about fifty Russian members of the international brigades were captured and imprisoned in the concentration camp at San Pedro de Cardeña, a former monastery near the city of Burgos. I don’t think anyone who was not in Spain can have any real idea of the level of barbarism to which that country descended during the war. Of the cruelties that were inflicted by both sides, but more particularly by the fascists. My brother and his comrades were being used as slave labour when Berruguete – whose model incidentally was the Holy Inquisition, and who once wrote a paper arguing in favour of the castration of criminals – received permission from General Franco to pathologize left-wing ideas. Of course the military was delighted that science was being used to justify their opinion that all of the republicans were animals. So Berruguete was given a senior military rank and the prisoners, including my poor brother, were transferred to a clinic in Ciempozuelos, which was headed by another criminal called Antonio Vallejo Nágera. None of them were ever seen again, but it’s certain that’s where my brother died. And if Berruguete didn’t kill him, Vallejo did. By all accounts he was just as bad.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
She snatched the cigarette from my mouth again and this time she kept it.
‘So while I regret that the work of the international commission has been jeopardized, I’m not in the least bit sorry that Berruguete’s dead. There are plenty of good men and women in Spain who will cheer and give thanks to God when they hear that justice caught up with him at last. If anyone deserved a bullet in the head around here it was him.’
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Fair enough.’
I put my hand on her soft cheek and she leaned in to my palm and then kissed it, fondly. She began to cry a little and I put my other arm around her shoulders and drew her close to me. She didn’t say another word but she didn’t need to; my earlier suspicion was now gone. I’m a little slow making up my mind about these things, and full of a cop’s caution, which stops me from behaving like any normal man, but I was certain now that Ines Kramsta had not shot Berruguete. After ten years at the Alex, you get to recognize when someone is a killer and when they’re not. I had looked into her eyes and seen the truth, and the truth was that this was a woman with principles who believed in things, and those things did not include subterfuge and cold-blooded murder, even if it was someone who deserved to be murdered.
I had seen another truth, too, which was just as important, and this was that I thought I loved her.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’
At the front door of the hospital nurse Tanya caught up with me.
‘Herr Gunther,’ she said. ‘Are you going to Krasny Bor?’
‘Yes.’
‘Could you please return these things to Alok Dyakov?’ She explained, handing me a large brown envelope: ‘He left about ten minutes ago – caught a ride back to Krasny Bor with some grenadiers who were also discharged – before I had time to return his personal possessions: his wristwatch, his glasses, his ring, some money. It’s standard hospital policy to remove the contents of a patient’s pockets when they’re brought in, to keep them safe.’ She shrugged. ‘There’s a lot of theft in here, you understand.’
‘Certainly.’ I looked at Ines. ‘Is that where you want to go? Back to Krasny Bor?’
She glanced at her watch and shook her head. ‘Professor Buhtz will probably be at Grushtshenki by now, with the commission,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you could take me there?’
I nodded. ‘Of course. Anywhere you like.’
‘You can give him the bullet we dug out of Berruguete’s heart then, if you like,’ she added helpfully. ‘And see what he makes of it. Not that I think there’s going to be much doubt that it came from that red nine you found.’
‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’m going to take another look at the crime scene first. See if there’s anything I’ve missed. And maybe find that missing shoulder-stock.’
So I drove her to the headquarters of the local field police at Grushtshenki, where all of the Katyn documents recovered from grave number one were now exhibited in an especially glassed-in veranda of the wooden house.
When we arrived it was plain that the international commission was already on the scene and that both Buhtz and Sloventzik – easily distinguishable in their field-grey uniforms – were surrounded by the experts. Most of these men were in their sixties, many of them bearded, carrying briefcases and making notes while Sloventzik patiently translated Professor Buhtz’s remarks. Official photographers were taking pictures and there was a buzz in the air that wasn’t just pertinent questions – the air was full of mosquitoes. It looked more like Zadneprovsky Market on Bazarnaya Square than an international commission of forensic inquiry.
I pulled up next to Colonel von Gersdorff, who was leaning on the bonnet of his Mercedes and smoking a cigarette.
He nodded at me as we stepped out of the Tatra and then, rather more warily, at Ines. ‘How are you, Ines?’ he asked.