Berlin Burning by Damien Seaman

about Roth if she was.
    Roth sneered. ‘We’re not together any more.’
    Trautmann took a corner. The trembling steering wheel in his hands told him he was driving too fast so he eased off the accelerator. Should he ask the obvious question?
    He decided what the hell. ‘So what – ’
    â€˜I’d rather not talk about it.’
    â€˜Fine.’
    The auto turned another corner and the smell of the stock yards hit them. Dung and urine – not just from frightened animals approaching death, but also the tanneries close by. The buildings were lower on this street and now the unobstructed sun bathed them in warmth. It also made it damned hard to see.
    â€˜Oh, great,’ Roth said. He pulled himself upright and squinted through the windscreen. ‘How the hell did he manage to get here ahead of us?’
    Dozens of Schupo were forming a loose cordon around the slaughterhouse and stock yards, with more of them tumbling out of an open-topped limousine. Behind that, sunlight glinted off the steel machine gun turrets of a pillbox – a Schupo armoured car.
    â€˜You know, Kessler’s been all over this case so much I wouldn’t be surprised if he did it,’ Roth said.
    Trautmann snorted.
    â€˜No, I mean it,’ Roth said. ‘After all, why not? Maybe he’s the disgruntled Nazi who wants to hurt the minister by striking at his stepson. Maybe he found out who Meist really was, and decided to use that to his advantage.’
    â€˜Kill one of his own?’ Trautmann said.
    â€˜Weren’t you the one who just suggested that to the minister? Think about it. This is a party dedicated to breaking the law to get into power – and dismantling the constitution once it gets there. They’ve said it often enough. What’s one sacrifice to achieve that?’
    â€˜But how does this help them achieve that, Roth?’ Trautmann replied. ‘What would they gain by this?’
    â€˜Well, now you’re asking for logic from Nazis.’ Roth shifted in his seat. ‘Or maybe you were right. Maybe Kessler’s got some personal agenda. I don’t know. Feels like we’re just going round and round.’
    Trautmann slowed the auto as the first of the slaughtering sheds came up on their right and they reached the outer limits of the police cordon.
    â€˜Show them your ID, Roth,’ Trautmann said. ‘I don’t want them getting over excited and shooting us.’
    The uniforms waved them through as Roth wound down his window and brandished his papers. Trautmann heard the cries of cattle from a delivery in the nearest yard.
    More Schupo were in the yard, rounding up thickset men in bloodied leather aprons to get them out, out, out. Leaving the cattle to mill around. One Schupoman hauled the driver out of his delivery truck without even letting him turn off the engine.
    â€˜They’re enjoying themselves far too much for my liking,’ Trautmann mumbled.
    â€˜Kessler’s not fooling around, is he? How many squads is this?’
    Just then, from somewhere up ahead, the man himself spoke through a loudhailer.
    â€˜Last chance, Fleischer!’
    Trautmann saw him then, the Schupo sergeant standing by the limousine, the huddled men in front of him aiming their bullet hoses at the entrance to one of the sheds. Trautmann rolled the auto to a stop next to the barricade, nudging Schupomen off the kerb.
    He got a few angry stares but he ignored them.
    Kessler looked back at the pillbox behind him, the forward machine gun turret pointing over his head, also aimed at the shed. He raised his arm.
    Trautmann had managed to get his door half open when the machine gun opened up. Roth flinched and Trautmann let go of the door handle like it was too hot to hold.
    Bullets drove holes into the shed walls and tore up the planks. A section of the corrugated iron roof fell in.
    Then the shooting stopped. Silence hung heavy for a couple of seconds, before, little