He went back into the room to find Butcher leaning against the wall, pulling up his breeches. His tunic was covered in vomit and blood, the latter of which was pouring from his nose and a deep cut on his forehead. Lockhart wanted to kill him, beat that head into a misshapen ball of flesh, blood and bone. No punishment would be too horrendous. He had to exercise all his self-control not to mete it out—he was no thug. Instead, he would throw Butcher to the wolf that was an SS court-martial.

“You’re a dead man, Butcher.”

Butcher didn’t respond. His head was slumped onto his chest, and he was breathing awkwardly. Lockhart was about to ask him what the fuck he thought he had been doing, but he realized that it was crass, useless. This was probably a regular activity for him, a hobby.

“Tell me about Warsaw, Butcher.”

Butcher stopped breathing for a moment, and lifted his head up. He said nothing.

“Tell me about that day in Warsaw. The day you killed two hundred Poles and eighty Jews. Did you rape their children as well? Well? Did you?”

“I…I…never killed any Poles or Jews,” Butcher said, burbling through a mouthful of blood and mucus. “That’s all lies, that story.”

“Lies? You expect me to believe you?” Lockhart shouted, pointing to the blood-speckled mattress. “After this?”

Butcher let his head fall back down.

“You’re going to die for this, Butcher. I’m not going to kill you now, but I’m going to request that I command the firing squad that does so. You’re fucking scum.”

“Before…” Butcher began, his voice a low rasp.

“Yes?”

“Before…before…you have me killed, there’s…there’s something you should know.”

“What?”

Butcher coughed up some blood.

“What, Butcher? What should I know?”

“Something imp…important.”

“Get to the point!”

“Your…your wife is dead.”

Lockhart stepped back, as if reeling from one of the blows he had just dished out. It was inconceivable, impossible, especially after the letters he had received. Butcher had to be lying, buying time. It couldn’t be true—it mustn’t be true. Nevertheless, coming as it did on top of the alcohol and adrenaline, the statement made him feel faint. It was too much for his system, imagining Anna as a corpse, executed in the way that Strasser had described in December. She too will be killed, perhaps with a shot to the back of the head. The bullet will come out the front of her face, taking her brains and maybe one of her eyes with it. The horrendous thought came to Lockhart that Strasser had not been describing how she might be killed, but how she had been killed. No. That wasn’t true. The letters proved it.