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came through for him. I was the one who appreciated that despite his awkward lack of enthusiasm for the Nazis, he was still a good bull.’ I shook my head bitterly, and swore again.
    â€˜When did you last see him?’
    â€˜Last night, around eight o’clock. I left him in the car park behind the Metropol on Nollendorfplatz.’
    â€˜Was he working?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Doing what?’
    â€˜Tailing someone. No, keeping someone under observation.’
    â€˜Someone working in the theatre or living in the apartments?’
    I nodded.
    â€˜Which was it?’
    â€˜I can’t tell you. At least, not until I’ve discussed it with my client.’
    â€˜The one you can’t tell me about either. Who do you think you are, a priest? This is murder, Gunther. Don’t you want to catch the man who killed your partner?’
    â€˜What do you think?’
    â€˜I think that you ought to consider the possibility that your client had something to do with it. And then suppose he says, “Herr Gunther, I forbid you to discuss this unfortunate matter with the police.” Where does that get us?’ He shook his head. ‘No fucking deal, Gunther. You tell me or you tell the judge.’ He stood up and went to the door. ‘It’s up to you. Take your time. I’m not in any hurry.’
    He closed the door behind him, leaving me with my guilt for ever having wished ill to Bruno and his harmless pipe.
    Â 
    About an hour later the door opened and a senior SS officer came into the room.
    â€˜I was wondering when you’d show up,’ I said.
    Arthur Nebe sighed and shook his head.
    â€˜I’m sorry about Stahlecker,’ he said. ‘He was a good man. Naturally you’ll want to see him.’ He motioned me to follow him. ‘And then I’m afraid you’ll have to see Heydrich.’
    Beyond an outer office and an autopsy-theatre where a pathologist stood working on the naked body of an adolescent girl was a long, cool room with rows of tables stretching out in front of me. On a few of them lay human bodies, some naked, some covered with sheets, and some like Bruno still clothed and looking more like items of lost luggage than anything human.
    I walked over and took a long hard look at my dead partner. The front of his shirt looked as though he had spilt a whole bottle of red wine on himself, and his mouth gaped open like he’d been stabbed sitting in a dentist’s chair. There are lots of ways of winding up a partnership, but they didn’t come much more permanent than this one.
    â€˜I never knew he wore a plate,’ I said absently, catching the glint of something metallic inside Bruno’s mouth. ‘Stabbed?’
    â€˜Once, through the pump. They reckon under the ribs and up through the pit of the stomach.’
    I picked up each of his hands and inspected them carefully. ‘No protection cuts,’ I said. ‘Where did they find him?’
    â€˜Metropol Theatre car park,’ said Nebe.
    I opened his jacket, noticing the empty shoulder-holster, and then unbuttoned the front of his shirt, which was still sticky with his blood, to inspect the wound. It was difficult to tell without seeing him cleaned up a bit, but the entry looked split, as if the knife had been rocked inside him.
    â€˜Whoever did it knew how to kill a man with a knife,’ I said. ‘This looks like a bayonet wound.’ I sighed and shook my head. ‘I’ve seen enough. There’s no need to put his wife through this, I’ll make the formal identification. Does she know yet?’
    Nebe shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ He led the way back through the autopsy-theatre. ‘But I expect someone will tell her soon enough.’
    The pathologist, a young fellow with a large moustache, had stopped work on the girl’s body to have a smoke. The blood from his gloved hand had stained the cigarette paper and there was some of it