I have the tacit approval to hold ­people for a few days in the cells here, as a punishment.” Neumann pointed at the floor, indicating where the cells were beneath them.

“Judge and jury.”

“Indeed, it’s a little unorthodox, but I’ve never had anyone complain. You see, they prefer me dealing with matters because I’m a little less . . . direct than others. But you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

“Would I?”

“I’d assume so; you do work closely with the Gestapo, don’t you?”

Koehler didn’t reply.

“What I am trying to say, Major, is that there is a window here, and it’s closing very quickly. You might think you are sitting opposite a dumb flatfoot from Berlin, and”—­Neumann shrugged—­“you might be right. But I’m the best chance you have to resolve this issue and come out of it in one piece.”

“What about the person who gave you those stitches?”

“Accidents happen. You were under a great deal of pressure in a stressful situation. You were concerned for the well-­being of your family. I can understand that. I’ve been a policeman for a long time. I’ve bumped my head before; this won’t be the last time it happens.”

“I need to get out of here.”

“You need to talk to me.”

“I need to get out. You have to promise you will let me out.”

Neumann looked at the table and then back at Koehler. “I will not make promises I can’t keep.”

Koehler wiped his hand across his eyes, then rubbed with his finger and thumb so hard that when he looked at Neumann again he had to blink two or three times to be able to see him.

“Do you want my wife and child to live?” Koehler said quietly.

Neumann lifted his chin. “Of course.”

“Then you have to let me go.”

“It isn’t that simple.”

“No, really, it is.” Koehler stared at Neumann, the certainty of his statement causing the policeman to open and close his mouth without speaking.

There was a knock at the door, and it opened before either Koehler or Neumann had a chance to react. March leaned halfway into the interview room, looking at Koehler and then at Neumann.

“Sir, I need to have a word,” he said to Neumann.

“Not now.”

“It’s urgent.”

“Later.”

“They’ve found a body.”

Koehler and Neumann looked at him and said in unison, “Where?”

March tilted his head toward Koehler and then looked at his boss, who gestured that he should continue.

“On the riverbank. Someone looking for scrap metal found it . . . her . . . an hour ago.” March swallowed and looked at Koehler. “It matches the description of your wife.”

Koehler felt the earth drop through him.

“Identification?” said Neumann.

“Nothing on her.”

“Do we know how she died?”

“Nothing confirmed yet, but . . . the suggestion is she has been shot or stabbed.” March looked at Koehler and despite himself said, “I’m sorry.”

Koehler raised his hands to his face and rested his elbows on the table, leaning into his palms, pushing his face hard, hiding behind the pain.

“Where is the . . . deceased now?” he heard Neumann say.

“Still at the scene, sir. They are waiting for the doctor and Met detectives to finish up.”

“Get the major’s belongings and bring them. We’re going down there.”

THERE IS A stubborn silence at the scene of a death. As Koehler, Neumann, and March ducked their heads under the hole in the fence, Koehler noticed that silence, settling like the snow, all around them.

Nobody had spoken in the car. Neumann had sat in the back with Koehler, and when they’d arrived Koehler had realized that the handle on his door didn’t work. He’d sat and watched March walk around the car, waiting as the big policeman had opened the door, and then stepped out.

“Should I cuff him?”

“No,” Neumann had replied, and Koehler had looked across and nodded thanks.

The snow made the ground look even, but the frozen mud it concealed was anything but. All three picked their steps carefully as they made their way down to the mucky brown riverbank ahead of them. The sun was up but hidden behind the clouds when they first caught sight of the group of men at the water’s edge.

Koehler slowed, putting off the moment, clinging on to hope as long as was possible. The group around the body turned to face them, as a fresh scattering of snow blew in off the river.

The tide was coming in; the Thames looked to be flowing left to right, a brown carpet, lapping at the toes of the one naked foot that emerged from under a canvas sheet on the shore. Koehler realized that they’d been expected.