“Does it?” said Hoffner.

Kvatsch actually thought he was gaining the upper hand. “You know, it’s so much nicer dealing with you than with your old partner. Knig never understood the art of negotiation. Always too quick with the rough stuff.”

Hoffner started to laugh to himself until, without warning, he grabbed the scruff of Kvatsch’s coat and shoved him against the planks on the near wall. The other men immediately stepped off. Slowly, Hoffner brought his face to within a few centimeters of Kvatsch’s. He held him there and spoke in an inviting tone: “That’s just what this city needs, isn’t it, Kvatsch? Something else to set it off in a panic.” Kvatsch was doing his best to maintain some semblance of calm. He swallowed loudly. Hoffner continued: “Revolution, war, starvation-they’re not enough for you, are they? You know, if you had half a brain, you’d realize that that’s exactly what your ‘Kripo sources’ want.” Hoffner smiled quizzically. “Why is it that you always have to be such an obvious rube?”

The sheen on Kvatsch’s face had begun to glisten in the low light; nonetheless, he remained defiant. “Glad to see you’ve picked up where Knig left off, Detective. By the way, “ he said more insistently, “how is the widow? I never got to pass on my condolences.”

Hoffner continued to stare into the callous little eyes. With a sudden surge, he pulled Kvatsch from the boards and slammed him into a bare patch of muddied rock. Kvatsch winced as he let out a blast of tobaccoed breath. He was clearly in pain, but said nothing. Hoffner held him there for several seconds longer, then let go and stepped away. He turned his attention to the dead body. “We’re done here.” Hoffner crouched down and began to scan the dead woman’s clothes: the dog had gotten to them; her blouse was in tatters. “Make nice with the good sergeant, Kvatsch, and get out.”

Kvatsch needed a moment to pull himself together. The sergeant-perhaps out of a twisted sense of loyalty-tried to help, but Kvatsch quickly pushed him aside. With a forced ease, Kvatsch straightened his coat and smoothed back the loose strands of his hair. He then spoke, undeterred by the back of Hoffner’s head: “What you’ve never understood, Detective, is how little it matters what you do, or how you do it. What matters is how it’s perceived.” Kvatsch knew there would be no response; even so, he waited. “And all for a little photo.” He nodded to the cameraman to start back for the ladder. Kvatsch was about to follow, when he added, “How much easier your life could have been, Detective.” He let the words settle. “Shame.” He then followed the cameraman out.

Hoffner waited until the sound of footsteps had receded completely. Without looking up, he said, “You two can wait upstairs, as well.”

The sergeant bristled at being lumped in with his subordinate. He offered a clipped bow to Hoffner’s back, then motioned officiously to the patrolman. The two men started off.

“Oh,” said Hoffner, still with his back to them. “And we’ll need a Kripo photographer down here. Tell him he can catch a ride in the ambulance.” Hoffner paused a moment. “And my guess is he won’t be paying, Sergeant.”

This time there was no bow. “Yes, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar.”

Finally alone, Hoffner stared down at the chiseled back through the strips of cloth: the ruts were again smooth, and the little bumps from the flawed blade appeared again at perfect intervals. She had been killed like the others, strangled and etched elsewhere-two, maybe three days ago, from the smell and look of the skin-then brought here to be put on display: the drag lines in the dirt-from some sort of crate or trunk-made that clear enough. Hoffner glanced at the side of her face. This woman had been in her late fifties. Her hands told of work in a mill: there were countless wisps of threaded cloth trapped beneath the fingernails, all of which had come to resemble little calluses on her skin. These were the by-product of years on the line, not souvenirs from any recent struggle. Not that she could have put up much of a fight. Like all of the victims, she was small, even delicate, if one put aside the gnarled texture of her hands. That, too, was a common trait: hands that had known a life of labor.

Unlike the others, however, her neck was horribly distended. Hoffner jabbed the end of his pen into the swollen flesh. That was more of the dog’s handiwork. Its teeth marks were still fresh in the fleshy skin just below the chin, yet the back had gone untouched. Instinct, thought Hoffner. Even the animal had sensed the depravity there and had kept clear.

He looked up and scanned the surrounding area. He knew he would find nothing: Wouters, or Wouters’s surrogate-Fichte would have to clear that up-was always far too careful to leave anything behind. Luxemburg and Mary Koop had been diversions: the killer was now back on form.

Hoffner placed a finger on her skin. It was cold and tough and greaseless. He ran his hand along the diameter-cut. The ridges of hardened flesh bent back easily against the pressure of his thumb. There was something oddly consoling in its familiarity, in the shape and texture of a pattern that he had known so well up until a week ago. Now there was far more to it than that: jagged ruts, and gloves, and grease, and a name, and a revolutionary, and on and on and on. It was all supposed to bring him closer to a solution, and yet, with each new “discovery,” Hoffner felt himself being drawn toward something that had little to do with the deaths of his five unremarkable and unconnected Berlin women. He was beginning to wonder where the diversion really lay.

Ten minutes later, Hoffner stepped back out into the raw air of Senefelderplatz. The chill settled on his face and, for an instant, let him forget all of the pieces that were flying through his head. Sadly, the first image that made its way back in was of Kvatsch. Hoffner knew that the first explosion of articles would appear in tomorrow’s papers. A lovely sense of panic would sweep over the city as the story jumped from the BZ to the Morgenpost, and up and down the Ullstein line, until, like a brush fire, it would leap across the avenue to the Mosse and Scherl presses, and blaze across the headlines of all of their high- and low-end papers. Kvatsch had probably come up with some clever name for the murders already. It was irrelevant what he had seen: he would invent what he needed. And a million eyes would now be peering over Hoffner’s shoulder, waiting and wondering.

The ambulance was still nowhere in sight. Hoffner knew there was no reason to wait; there was nothing else he could do here tonight. He had started across the square when he heard the sound of the sergeant running up from behind him. Hoffner dug his hands into his coat pockets and continued in the other direction. He spoke over his shoulder: “The ambulance,” he said. “Make sure she gets back to the Alex.” A mumbled, “Yes, Herr Krim. .” faded into the distance as Hoffner picked up his pace.

It was only then that he realized how quiet the square had become. Hoffner glanced over at the lamppost. He noticed that a small, horse-drawn wagon had pulled up under the light; a rifle was propped up against its back wheel. The horse stood content with a bag of oats, while the driver struggled to untie the leash from the post. Hoffner stopped.

The leash was now heavy from the weight of the dog’s lifeless body. The man had shot it once, in the throat. Save for an occasional bob of the head from each yank on the line, the dog lay quiet in a pool of its own blood. This time there had been no Franz to save it. Hoffner waited until the man had freed the dog. He then slowly headed off.

Van Acker checked the bottle before pouring out three more shots of whiskey.

The Bruges Stationsplein bar was not perhaps best known for its quality of stock, but it always kept enough of it flowing freely to satisfy the detectives of the city Politie. The rest of the station clientele had to be content with a Tarwebier or Chimay, tasty beers to be sure, but neither with enough of a kick to smooth over a ride out of town. Whiskey, on the other hand, always let you sleep. Mueller took his glass and raised it in a toast. Fichte was having trouble finding his.