‘That’s right, I was at Weisthor’s little party. I know quite a bit of what’s been going on. And you’re going to help me with the rest.’

‘You’re wasting your time, whoever you are. I’m not going to tell you anything.’

I nodded at Becker, who started to hit him again. I watched dispassionately as first he coshed him across the knees and ankles, and then lightly once, on the ear, hating myself for keeping alive the best traditions of the Gestapo, and for the cold, dehumanized brutality I felt inside my guts. I told him to stop.

Waiting for Lange to stop sobbing I walked around a bit, peering through doors. In complete contrast to the exterior, the inside of Lange’s house was anything but traditional. The furniture, rugs and paintings, of which there were many, were all in the most expensive modern style — the kind that’s easier to look at than to live with.

When eventually I saw that Lange had drawn himself together a bit, I said: ‘This is quite a place. Not my taste perhaps, but then, I’m a little old-fashioned. You know, one of those awkward people with rounded joints, the type that puts personal comfort ahead of the worship of geometry. But I’ll bet you’re really comfortable here. How do you think he’ll like the tank at the Alex, Becker?’

‘What, the lock-up? Very geometric, sir. All those iron bars.’

‘Not forgetting all those bohemian types who’ll be in there and give Berlin its world-famous night-life. The rapists, the murderers, the thieves, the drunks — they get a lot of drunks in the tank, throwing-up everywhere–’

‘It’s really awful, sir, that’s right.’

‘You know, Becker, I don’t think we can put someone like Herr Lange in there. I don’t think he would find it at all to his liking, do you?’

‘You bastards.’

‘I don’t think he’d last the night, sir. Especially if we were to find him something special to wear from his wardrobe. Something artistic, as befits a man of Herr Lange’s sensitivity. Perhaps even a little make-up, eh, sir? He’d look real nice with a bit of lipstick and rouge.’ He chuckled enthusiastically, a natural sadist.

‘I think you had better talk to me, Herr Lange,’ I said.

‘You don’t scare me, you bastards. Do you hear? You don’t scare me.’

‘That’s very unfortunate. Because unlike Kriminalassistant Becker here, I don’t particularly enjoy the prospect of human suffering. But I’m afraid I have no choice. I’d like to do this straight, but quite frankly I just don’t have the time.’

We dragged him upstairs to the bedroom where Becker selected an outfit from Lange’s walk-in wardrobe. When he found some rouge and lipstick Lange roared loudly and took a swing at me.

‘No,’ he yelled. ‘I won’t wear this.’