‘It was a roll of film with twelve exposures. Three of the church restoration in Podejuch. Two interiors, one exterior. Two photographs of the confiscation. Here’s the air shot. All smoke. Hold the film up against the light, and you’ll see it really is smoke. Here’s the failed shot when the farmer knocked a hundred marks out of my grip. Next is one you bought from me, Stuff: the crashed car on the road to Stettin. Six. Seven to ten: four pictures of the weekly market. Eleven and twelve: the opening of the new petrol station. Is that right?’

‘My God, Tredup, as if we wouldn’t take your word for it.’

‘Hardly.’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Henning. ‘I would have liked to make a deal with you. But maybe you’ll sell me the three pictures of Podejuch church. My magazine can use them. Five marks apiece. Is that all right?’

‘Fine.’

‘There. And now I’ll leave you in peace. You need to go to bed.’

‘Yes, I think I can stop for tonight. I’m dog-tired. Don’t fall over anything when you go. Wait, I’ll open the gate for you. Goodnight, gents, and thank you.’

The two of them walk down the road.

‘Do you think,’ Stuff asks hesitatingly, ‘that that was on the level?’

‘I don’t know what to think. The twelve pictures were just a little bit too handy and worked out.’

‘Oh, where that’s concerned, Tredup is a model of pedantry and good order. And for a hundred marks . . .’

‘That’s what’s comforting me too. Then you can tell Kalübbe tomorrow morning that he won’t have to recognize anyone.’

‘Yes. Well, goodbye now, Herr Henning.’

‘We’ll see each other again somewhere.