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spotless corridor he continued explaining. 'Two uniformed policemen on night patrol saw Fergusson's body floating up against the lock-gates leading from the Binnenalster to the Elbe. Hauled him out with a boat-hook, found he was still alive, rushed him to this hospital. He died an hour later..
    `How did he come to get into the water?' Newman asked.
    `Blow on the side of the skull. Could have slipped, caught his head on the stone wall before he hit the water, so they say. Accidental death would have been the verdict.' Kuhlmann chewed at his cigar, unhappy that he couldn't light up inside the hospital. 'Accidental death,' he repeated. 'Except your people don't have accidents. Here's the doctor's office. Schnell is his name. Speaks good English. Take your choice of language.'
    Dr Schnell, a small, plump-faced man, wearing a white coat, rose from behind his desk and Kuhlmann made brief introductions, then launched straight into his interrogation.
    `How did Ian Fergusson die?'
    'He stopped breathing...'
    `That's not funny. Tweed here was a close friend of his.'
    'I had no intention of treating this tragedy humorously, Mr Tweed. But it's up to the pathologist to answer that question. Fergusson's body has been transferred to the morgue.'
    'I quite understand.' Tweed paused, glancing at a dark haired nurse who stood behind Schnell, an attractive girl in her late twenties. 'Who was present when he was close to death?'
    'Myself and Sister Bruns. That is why she is here.'
    'He was still alive when he was brought in, I gather. Did he say anything? No matter how unimportant it might seem, I need to know everything — if he spoke.'
    'Well, yes he did.' Schnell picked up a pencil and turned it slowly between sensitive fingers. 'It made little sense to either of us, I'm afraid...'
    'He spoke in English or German?'
    Tweed's gaze encompassed both Schnell and Sister Bruns who was watching him closely. He had the strong impression the girl wanted to speak but was inhibited by Schnell's presence.
    'In English — which we both understand. He was in a bad way — the blow on the side of the head plus being half-drowned when the two policemen dragged him out. So he was pretty incoherent. I may not even have heard correctly...'
    'Try and tell me,' Tweed coaxed.
    `He had trouble getting the two words out which he repeated — if, I emphasize, I really did understand. First he said "Berlin". He repeated the name of the city twice. Then he repeated a man's name — "Hans" — and that, I'm afraid, is all he said...'
    `You agree?' Tweed turned to Bruns and stared hard at her as she shook her head. 'There was something else?'
    She took a deep breath. Beneath her uniform her breasts heaved. 'He was trying to say something before "Berlin". I'm quite sure of it...'
    `Just having trouble speaking at all,' Schnell objected.
    `No!' Bruns was vehement, holding Tweed's gaze. 'He said the word three times — and three times he tried to say something before it. Then when he said "Hans" he tried to say something else. After "Hans". Again it happened three times. I could not possibly be mistaken...'
    `Really?' Schnell was ironic.
    `I am quite sure of what I say. My hearing is very acute and I was watching him closely. Believe me, Mr Tweed, I am right.' `I believe you,' said Tweed.
    At the morgue Tweed stared down at the white sheet covering the body of a man lying on the dissecting table. Kuhlmann had introduced Martin Kosel, the pathologist, an ascetic-looking man in his fifties who might have been displaying furniture for sale. Kosel pulled back the sheet and exposed the head and neck.
    `That's Ian Fergusson,' said Tweed. 'He can't have been in the water long...'
    `I couldn't comment before I've completed my examination,' Kosel replied, covering the corpse with the sheet again.
    `But you will,' Kuhlmann growled. He produced a folder, shoved it under the pathologist's nose. 'Federal Police. We need an educated guess. Now. Assuming you are educated...'
    `I resent