He turned, looking over his shoulder to see who was coming in. A young British policeman looked into the room, holding a bunch of keys on a chain; he stared at Koehler, who stared back.

A second passed, and the bobby stepped back and nodded his head to someone just out of sight. Koehler turned back, sick of the games.

He heard footsteps, then a slim folder of papers dropped onto the table in front of him.

Koehler looked up.

“You’re in my seat,” said Neumann.

“It didn’t have your name on it.”

“Could you move, please?”

“There is a seat there in front of you.” Koehler gestured with his head.

“Could you move?”

Koehler pursed his lips and looked at the seat opposite, studying it, then looked back up at Neumann.

“No.”

Neumann frowned, sighed, then shuffled around the table and sat down. He reached across, dragged the paper folder over, and opened it. As he scanned the first page, he absentmindedly reached up to the back of his head with his left hand and gingerly touched it.

“How’s the head?” Koehler asked.

“What?”

“How’s the head? You took a nasty knock earlier at my apartment. How is it?”

Neumann stared at Koehler flatly before finally speaking.

“Two stitches.”

Koehler whistled through his teeth.

“Could have been worse.”

Neumann leaned back in his chair, studying Koehler, and then shut the folder in front of him, leaving his left hand on the tabletop, the other on his thigh.

“What the hell is going on here?” Neumann asked.

“You tell me,” Koehler replied.

“I don’t think you’re the sort who would kill your wife and child.”

“I’m not.”

“But they vanished off the face of the earth.” Neumann looked at his watch. “Nearly twenty-­four hours ago.”

“It’s a mystery.”

“Last year, it was a mystery when your secretary disappeared as well.”

“That’s women for you.”

“And then there is the robbery where we found your wife’s identity card.”

“You think she did it?”

“I’ll not dignify that with an answer.”

“Your job to do the questions.”

Neumann drummed the fingers of his left hand on the desk and tacked in the wind, trying again to make some headway.

“Then there is your friend the policeman.”

“I thought you were the policeman?”

“The policeman who hit me over the head.”

“I’d never seen him before.”

“Rossett.”

“It wasn’t Rossett.”

“Don’t strain my patience, Major Koehler.”

“Why not? You’re straining mine.”

“You’re in a lot of trouble.”

“I’ve been in worse.”

“But this time Lotte and Anja are involved.”

They stared at each other; Koehler made to speak and changed his mind. Neumann stroked his mustache with his right hand, then rested his hand back on his leg before continuing, his tone softer this time.

“Major, I don’t know what the hell is happening here. Honestly, I am at a loss. One thing I do know”—­he tapped his hand on the folder—­“is that this will not stay my problem for long unless you help me. It is still early. In an hour or two ­people will be arriving at offices—­bosses, our bosses, yours and mine. They will hear that I had to issue an order for your arrest, they will want to know why, and they won’t want this problem to remain . . . unresolved. You understand that?”

“I do.”

“Then you will also understand that these things can have a habit of spiraling out of control, like forest fires that start from just a tiny spark. Issues like this can sweep all before them.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Then why won’t you speak to me? Maybe we can put out this fire before it burns all of us too badly.”

Koehler didn’t reply.

Neumann breathed out loudly and then shuffled his chair closer. He linked his hands on the tabletop and lowered his head for a moment. Koehler saw the stitches through his thinning hair.

Neumann looked up and Koehler smiled.

“I’m a policeman—­” said Neumann.

“I was aware,” Koehler interrupted.

“Let me continue.”

“Of course. Forgive me.”

“I’m a policeman.” He waited a second for Koehler to interrupt again, then continued. “I’ve been in London for a year now. They brought me over from Berlin to deal with what my superiors call ‘domestic matters.’ By that they mean issues they want kept in the family—­our family, the German family. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good. When something happens involving our family, the Met Police ring me, and I drag March along and we see if we can sweep things up. I’m a problem solver. I make problems go away. Normally this takes a ­couple of hours. I’ll be honest with you: it isn’t very stimulating work. I normally deal with drunken soldiers and civil servants, and the occasional visiting businessman who has slapped around a whore. Sometimes I pass the matter back to the British, sometimes the army, the navy, or even, on occasion, the air force. Sometimes I deal with the matter myself.