put aside their misfortunes. The pastor held tight at Otto Guttmann's hand when the death of Willi was talked of.
Later there would be a salad lunch. Guttmann explained that Erica was with her friend. He had no more commitments for the day and much to speak about.
The two men walked on the medieval flagstones of the cathedral cloister, far from the factories of the city, far from the industry and its chimneys.
They sucked at the air that was rich with the scent of the freshly cut grass of the inner lawn.
They sat close together on the settee. Erica Guttmann and Renate, the friends since childhood.
It was a man's flat, no doubts that her friend was the lodger. The choice of the wall pictures told her that, women with naked backs coyly turned and water colour renderings of apples and lemons in china bowls. The furniture was gaunt and inappropriate to the small room. Cardboard cased files draped the shelves, no books, no ornaments. A living room, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen, the home of a single man.
'Can't he do better than this, the senior man of the Schutzpolizei?'
Erica giggled with the conspiracy of her question.
'There's the fat cow, his wife. She has the old home and he can't boot her out. At his level he's supposed to be the living legend of domestic rectitude. It's bad enough for him having it known that he's taken me in, if he heaves her then the whole town will be clucking.' Rich laughter from the two girls.
'I nearly collapsed when I had your letter, you and a policeman. You'll tell me, won't you, what he's like?'
'Like a bull,' Renate said quickly, evasively. 'He'll have a hert attack the rate he goes at it.'
A sorry little silence flitted on them. Out of place for Renate to have said that. Erica had no boy, had never written of one in her monthly letters, seemed to shun them. Over many years she had talked to Renate of lovers and always her interest carried the eddy of insincerity.
'Am I going to meet him?'
'He said he'd come home for lunch. Not my cooking that he wants, it's to see you. He says I talk interminably about you.' Renate paused, a brittle smile at her mouth. 'I hope you like him, and there weren't many to choose from, you know.'
'Rubbish.'
'I'm not a little chicken any more.'
'Rubbish.'
There was a key in the door, the sound of feet scraping a mat. The Schutzpolizeipresident for the city of Magdeburg, Dr Gunther Spitzer, came into his living room. The homecoming of the Director of the Security Police.
Erica was drawn from her chair. The girl who over the telephone could turn down the request of a Soviet Army full colonel for time in her father's office found herself standing and wiping a sliver of perspiration from the palm of her hand against the seam of her dress. A mountain of a man, advancing across the small room, a cloud crossing the face of the moon. Renate, casual on the settee, unconcerned and flicking her fingers in greeting. Erica shuffling and unable to look away from the ribbon scar that trailed from the centre of his forehead to the straggled bush of his right eyebrow. Unable to see beyond the heavy jowl cheeks where the stubble won through the pale skin. How could Renate have chosen this one?
'Darling, this is Erica…'
'I am very pleased to meet you, Fraulein Guttmann.'
His hand was pushed forward. Clothed in a glove of thin black leather.
God, it's a bloody claw. A thought ravished her. How did he touch her, her friend Renate, with this…? Did he wear it in her bed? Did the claw run against her skin?
'I am very pleased to meet you, Dr Spitzer.'
The hand was withdrawn, seemed to fall to the side of his jacket. 'You live in Moscow, I understand. I have never been there. Only outside Moscow, once I was 40 kilometres from the Red Square. That was where I left my hand. It was 38 years ago. Since then I have not wished to try again to reach that place.' He smiled. 'Your father is enjoying his stay in Magdeburg, I hope.'
'Very much, thank you.'
'Has it been a busy morning, darling?' Renate intervened, as if to offer rescue to her friend.
'Quite busy. I have been talking to the driver of a car that was stopped at Marienborn. The car had been broken down for 2 hours on the autobahn before it reached the checkpoint. The car was searched and in the boot was found a man and a woman and a baby. The baby…'
'I didn't mean a case history, darling. I'm sure it's of no interest to Erica.'
'The baby had been tranquillised so that it would not cry and alert the frontier guards at Marienborn. When the boot was opened it was found that the baby was dead, probably suffocated in the heat caused by the delay of the engine trouble…'
'God… God…' Erica felt her stomach heave, felt the bile pitch to her throat.
'You didn't have to tell us that,' Renate blazed.
'The driver of the car is a West German, also a heroin addict, also he was paid 3,000 west marks. He will be fortunate if his sentence is less than 8 years. I have been quite busy this morning talking to this driver, finding who sends these criminals into our country… My sweet, I have a table at the Broiler Gaststatte. We should go now.'
Renate went into the kitchen to turn off the gas taps, abandon the meal that she had prepared.
As they walked down the stairs to the street entrance of the building, Erica felt a growing sadness, a deepening loss. She had lost a friend.
They would never talk again, not as they had before.
'Did you get my note?' Sir Charles Spottiswoode caught at the PPS's arm. He had followed him from the Chamber to the door of the Members' Tea Room.
'About what?' The PPS rocked back. This one the same as most of the old fools, halitosis and no one with the courage to tell him to suck peppermints.
'I requested a meeting with the PM.'
'He's under fair pressure at the moment. I haven't fixed anything.' The PPS tugged at his arm, hoping to break the hold and was unsuccessful.
'I want to see the PM and soon.'
'Can't someone else help you?'
'It's the PM I want to see.'
'What's it about?' It was not suitable for the PPS to be involved in public argument. A corridor of the House of Commons was a very public place.
'Not your business.'
'I'm hardly going to waste his time on that basis. He's got four days in Scotland, then the economic debate…'
'The more you delay the harder your soft arse will be kicked when I've seen him.' Spottiswoode's voice rose, drawing a honeypot of attention, and his grip on the PPS's coat tightened.
'You'll get to him, I promise. I'll fix it while we're in Scotland.'
'Monsieur Foirot, is that you… can you hear me? It is Sharygin.'
'You have a very bad line.'
'Sharygin… from the Soviet Residence… you can hear me?'
'You are very faint…'
' I am calling from Moscow
' I can just hear you, Monsieur Sharygin, how can I help you?'
'The boy who drowned, you remember… the accident with the boat on the lake… Guttmann… has the body been found?'
'No.'
'I did not hear you, Monsieur Foirot…'
'The body of Guttmann has not been found, we have not found it.. if it had been recovered the Residence would have been informed.'
