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Russian than German on the streets of Charlottenburg.’
    ‘That’s still true in some of the bars on the Tauentzien.’
    ‘I don’t visit establishments like that. Cesspits. And there’s you having to deal with them the whole time as part of your job, poor thing.’ She fiddled noisily with the teapot as if to distract herself, before placing two cups on the table. ‘To think Herr Kardakov seemed so refined when he first moved in three years ago.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘The tenant before you. Herr Kardakov was an author, you know.’ The kettle began to whistle. She poured hot water into the pot. ‘A quiet tenant, I thought. What a mistake! They were always going on, these late night excesses.’
    ‘…but you’ve banned me from receiving female visitors.’
    ‘Do you mind? Herr Kardakov only ever had male guests. They talked and talked and drank and drank. You’d be forgiven for thinking by talking and drinking was how they earned their money.’
    ‘So, how did they make their money?’
    ‘Don’t ask me. Quite honestly, I don’t want to know either. Herr Kardakov always paid his rent on time, though I’m not sure he ever published a book. He certainly never showed one to me anyway.’ She almost sounded hurt. Rath could imagine that Kardakov had also been obliged to resist his landlady’s overtures.
    ‘I suppose that visit just now must have had something to do with Herr Kardakov?’
    ‘You can be sure of it.’ Elisabeth Behnke poured tea for them both.
    ‘I think the man’s name was Boris. Does that mean anything to you?’
    ‘No idea. There were so many of them coming and going.’
    ‘Well, good old Boris demolished my wardrobe. Perhaps Herr Kardakov would be so kind as to pay for the damage.’ Or to buy me a completely new wardrobe , Rath thought to himself.
    She fetched a half-full bottle of rum from the wall cupboard and poured generously. ‘He left in a hurry last month and there’s been no trace since – though he still owes me a month’s rent and the cellar’s full of his junk. I’ve written to him at his new address several times. No reply. Do you think there’s anything you could do? His name’s Alexej. Alexej Ivanovitsch Kardakov.’
    That was the name Boris had used.
    ‘Maybe he’ll show a little more respect if the police get involved,’ she said, and passed him a cup. ‘Drink up. It’ll do you good after a shock like that. Although I’m sure you’re used to it, as an officer.’
    He didn’t know quite what she meant. Was it the shock or the alcohol he was supposed to be used to? Probably both. Phew, she hadn’t stinted on the rum! For a moment he suspected she was planning to get him drunk, but then he saw how she downed her own cup in one.
    ‘Another?’
    He finished his cup and nodded, feeling he could use a little self-medication. Not so much because of the stranger, but because of the dream he still hadn’t managed to shake off. He’d sleep easier with a rum or two in his system.
    ‘Forget the tea,’ he said, and handed her his cup.
     
    He awoke the next morning at quarter to nine, sat bolt upright and held his head in his hands. It was throbbing after the unexpected exertions of the previous evening. What on earth had he been drinking? More to the point, how much? He was in his own bed at any rate, albeit naked. A record was performing forlorn pirouettes on the gramophone. Rath groped for the telephone on his bedside table, almost getting tangled up in the cables. He could have reeled off Wolter’s extension in his sleep. Uncle lifted the receiver and Rath mumbled an apology into the mouthpiece. He heard laughter on the other end of the line.
    ‘You don’t sound too good, old boy. A few too many last night was it?’
    ‘First night for a week I haven’t been in Hermannstrasse.’ Rath had spent the previous six nights in the musty Neukölln flat, observing the comings and goings in König’s studio, a shift that no-one else had wanted.
    ‘True. In that case