Scotch?”

“No, thank you.”

“No, of course.” The DI took the bottle from his desk and slowly started to pour Rossett’s glass back into it. The glass rattled slightly as he held it against the top of the bottle, embarrassing them both.

“I’m moving to the Office of Jewish Affairs, at Charing Cross.”

“They were Gestapo who turned up here; I thought it best to let them get on with it.” The DI didn’t look at Rossett as he poured. Rossett wondered if the old man was scared, watching his words almost as closely as he watched the whiskey, making sure not to spill too much of either.

“I’ll reallocate my case files.”

“It’s already done.” The DI put the now-empty glass back onto the desk and screwed the top onto the bottle. He licked his finger and finally looked up at Rossett, tapping the same finger against his own glass. “Shame to waste it.”

“Indeed.”

“Murder to come by a decent drop now.”

“Difficult to come by anything decent.”

“Did you request the move, Rossett?”

“First I heard was this morning.”

“Are you . . . do you . . . well, do you know what they’re up to?”

“I think so.”

“And are you happy with it?”

“It’s been awhile since I’ve been happy with anything.”

“Yes.” Another sip of Scotch. “You are going to be doing a difficult job. One wonders why they chose you.”

Rossett stared at Rimmer, then shifted his gaze onto the Scotch.

“Maybe they thought they could trust me?”

Rimmer followed his eyes and then took the bottle and placed it into his drawer, out of sight of anyone passing the office window.

“Will you be having a leaving drink with the chaps?”

“No.”

“Probably for the best.”

Rimmer suddenly looked old. Rossett watched as he seemed to shrink into the alcoholic the whole station knew him to be. He’d once been a good boss, respected, until the bottle had gotten hold of him. Now he seldom ventured from his desk. Rossett imagined his panic when the Gestapo had marched in to clear Rossett’s property. He felt sorry for him; retirement was a few years off, if it came at all. Rimmer had the look of someone who wouldn’t hold up long to the new wind that was blowing through the job, and the country.

“I’d best be off, sir.”

“Hmm.” Rimmer stared at the glass and waved his hand as if swatting a fly in slow motion.

Rossett stood and turned to leave. As he reached the door, the old man piped up one last time, “Be careful, Rossett. You’ll be doing a difficult job.”

“Mostly admin, I expect, sir.”

“No. They’ll make sure your hands will be dirty.”

“I don’t think so, sir. I expect they’ll—”

The old man raised his hand and finally looked Rossett in the eye, for the first time in a long time.

“Your hands will get dirty, Sergeant. Take my word for it.”

Rossett nodded, turned and left the office. The constables’ writing room was deserted. He walked past the empty parade room and along a silent corridor. The busy station had turned into the Mary Celeste, except this time there was no mystery as to where the crew had gone.

Rossett knew they were choosing to avoid him. He checked his desk, now stripped bare. The only sign he had been there was the dent in the old leather chair he’d sat on for the last few years.

As he left the station, even the cleaners stared at the floor, polishing as if their lives depended on it.

Maybe my hands are dirty already, he thought as he dropped the flap on the inquiry desk behind him for the last time.

Rossett had found himself working under Major Ernst Koehler. Initially, they’d kept their distance, but over time, Rossett had come to like his new boss, with his easy smile and laid-back charm.

One night, when they were attending a planning conference in Manchester, Koehler and Rossett had sat and drunk in the hotel bar, and Koehler had told Rossett he’d been involved in the invasion of France.

“Maybe it was me who chased you across the channel?” Koehler laughed.

Rossett stared at the beer in front of him, and the German knew enough to let the matter drop. After some time, Koehler leaned across the table and clinked his glass against Rossett’s.

“War does terrible things to men, John.” Koehler paused, then lifted his glass, and both men drank together.

“I heard about your wife and son. I’m sorry,” Koehler said, looking toward Rossett but not at him. He fixed his eyes on a distant part of the room, unsure of how the Englishman would react.

Rossett nodded silent thanks, took out a cigarette, and put it in his mouth, shifting in the chair as he searched for his matches. Koehler slid his across the table.