I told him to go and telephone the canned-meat wagon, and while he was away I took a look around Poliza’s studio.

There wasn’t much to see. An assortment of open-crotch shots drying on a line in the darkroom. A collection of whips, chains, manacles and an altar complete with candlesticks, of the sort that I had seen in the photographed series of the girl with the cucumber. A couple of piles of magazines like the ones we had found back at Helmut’s office. Nothing to indicate that Poliza might have murdered five schoolgirls.

When I went outside again I found that Becker had returned with a uniformed policeman, a sergeant. The pair of them stood looking at Poliza’s body like two small boys regarding a dead cat in the gutter, the sergeant even poking at Poliza’s side with the toe of his boot.

‘Right through the window,’ I heard the man say, with what sounded like admiration. ‘I never realized there was so much jelly in there.’

‘It’s a mess, isn’t it?’ said Becker without much enthusiasm.

They looked up as I walked towards them.

‘Wagon coming?’ Becker nodded. ‘Good. You can make your report later.’ I spoke to the sergeant. ‘Until it arrives, you’ll stay here with the body, sergeant?’

He straightened up. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘You finished admiring your handiwork?’

‘Sir,’ said Becker.

‘Then let’s go.’

We walked back to the car.

‘Where are we going?’

‘I’d like to check on a couple of these massage parlours.’

‘Evona Wylezynska’s the one to talk to. She owns several places. Takes 25 per cent of everything the girls make. Most likely she’ll be at her place on Richard Wagner Strasse.’

‘Richard Wagner Strasse?’ I said. ‘Where the hell is that?’

‘It used to be Sesenheimerstrasse, running on to Spree-strasse. You know, where the Opera House is.’

‘I suppose that we should count ourselves lucky that it’s opera Hitler loves, and not football.’

Becker grinned. Driving there he seemed to recover some of his spirits.

‘Do you mind if I ask you a really personal question, sir?’

I shrugged. ‘Go right ahead. But if it works out, I might have to put my answer in an envelope and mail it to you instead.’

‘Well it’s this: have you ever fucked a Jew, sir?’

I looked at him, trying to catch his eye, but he kept both of them determinedly on the road.

‘No, I can’t say I have. But it certainly wasn’t the race laws that prevented it. I guess I just never met one who wanted to fuck me.’

‘So you wouldn’t object if you got the chance?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t suppose I would.’ I paused, waiting for him to go on, but he didn’t, so I said, ‘Why do you ask, as a matter of fact?’

Becker smiled over the steering-wheel.