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  “‘You can’t blame a man for trying,’” another of the men repeated, chuckling to himself. “I like that.”

  “He’s a good man, that Schröder,” someone else agreed.

  “Well, if you don’t mind,” said Saffron, looking downcast, “I’m off to bed.”

  When she got upstairs, Saffron tore her handkerchief into small pieces and flushed it down the lavatory. She checked her clothes and shoes for traces of blood. Her gloves were dusty from covering her tracks, so she washed them in her basin at the same time as her underwear, and hung them over the bath to dry.

  She went to bed and tried desperately to fall asleep. The last thing she wanted was to appear exhausted in the morning. After all, she was an innocent woman with nothing to fear.

  •••

  At half past one on Monday afternoon, Chief Inspector Rutger De Vries stood in the office of SS-Brigadeführer Hans Rauter, the Chief of the SS and Police in Occupied Holland, and he prepared to deliver a brief account of the early hours of investigation into the death of SS-Hauptsturmführer Karsten Schröder. Rauter, he knew, owed his position to his devotion to Nazism, rather than police work. But the other two men present at the meeting were more worthy of De Vries’ professional respect.

  Kommissar Wilhelm Lüdtke was the head of the Berlin Murder Squad, which had long been regarded as the finest homicide unit in the world. Its development of forensic science as a tool for detective work had been particularly influential. Beside Lüdtke was the Berlin police pathologist Dr. Waldemar Weimann. Less than two years earlier he had helped Lüdtke identify and apprehend Paul Ogorzow, the infamous “S-Bahn Killer,” who had murdered eight women, and assaulted many more during a two-year crime spree. For the Germans to have flown these two star performers in from Berlin, less than eight hours after the dead man’s body was first reported to The Hague’s police, was a sign of how seriously they were taking the SS man’s death.

  De Vries had spent twenty years in The Hague police, most of them working in the homicide department. His hair was greying, his body worn down by drink and too many late nights, and his weary, heavily lined eyes had seen too many of the infinite ways human beings could find to hurt one another. This case, though, had a number of unusual features to it. Given the chance, he’d like to discuss them with Lüdtke over a few drinks. But that could wait. For now, the facts were all that was required.

  “The body was first spotted at approximately seven-thirty this morning by two city council workers who were clearing litter from the area around the Hofvijver. In fact, gentleman, if you come to the window you will get an excellent view of the lake and the avenue of trees beyond it where the crime took place. If you look toward the far bank, slightly to your left, you will see the two police officers who are guarding the murder scene.”

  The two Berliners did as De Vries suggested. When they turned away from the window he continued.

  “At first glance, the men assumed that Schröder was asleep. They saw that he was wearing an SS uniform and they did not want to disturb him. It was only when they came back past the same spot an hour later, and he was still there, in the same position, that they became suspicious. One of the men stayed at the scene while the other proceeded to the nearest telephone kiosk and called their supervisor. He in turn contacted the police. By nine o’clock we were on the scene.”

  “Was the crime scene disturbed at any point before your arrival?” Lüdtke asked. “It was Monday morning, after all, with a lot of people going to work.”

  “We don’t think so. The council workers were adamant that they had kept passers-by well away.”

  “Let’s hope so. Carry on . . .”

  “Schröder’s wallet and papers were still on his person, so we were able to establish his identity at once.”

  “No sign of any robbery?” Ludtke asked.

  “No. There was money in the wallet. Hs still had his watch, cigarette lighter, gun—everything, in fact, that a robber might wish to take.”

  “What was the condition of his body?” Weimann asked.

  “I’ll come to that in a moment, if I may, doctor,” De Vries said. “But first I will run through the sequence of events. Thanks to the assistance of Brigadeführer Rauter and his staff, we learned that Schröder had been taking part in a symposium of National Socialist politicians from the Low Countries. He had dined with the more senior delegates at a restaurant on Plaats that has a predominantly German clientele and had left there at approximate twenty-one hundred hours with a young woman, Marlize Marais, who was part of the delegation from the Flemish National Union.

  “The delegates had left their hotel and were on their way back to Belgium, but we were able to intercept and interview them at the station before they boarded their train. Miss Marais was among them. She told us that she had gone with Schröder because he had offered to show her three British spies who were being held here in the Binnenhof for interrogation.”

  “I must say, I find that almost impossible to believe,” Rauter said. “Most irregular.”

  “Her account was confirmed by the VNV leader, Hendrik Elias, who was sitting with Schröder and Marais and took part in the conversation. He confirmed that they had discussed the successful efforts to apprehend British spies and saboteurs in Belgium. Schröder insisted that the fight against these intruders had been even more successful in Holland. And he wanted to prove it.”

  “That’s still no excuse for his behavior.”

  “Any man who saw Miss Marais would understand why he might want to impress her. She is unusually attractive.”

  “Was she the last person to see Schröder alive?” Lüdtke asked.

  “The last we know of, yes.”

  “So what’s her story?”

  “She says Schröder decided to take her the long way round the lake. She began to worry about his intentions. Sure enough, he tried to kiss her. She said she wasn’t that sort of girl and pushed him away. He said that if that was her attitude he was damned if he’d show her the spies. She went back to her hotel on Plein and that was the last she saw of him.”

  “She didn’t look to see where he went?”

  “She made it plain she had no desire to lay eyes on him ever again.”

  “This kind of behavior is not what is expected of an SS officer,” Rauter said. “Can anyone back this woman’s story up?”

  “There were no witnesses that we know of . . .”

  “Unless Schröder’s killer was lurking in the shadows somewhere,” Lüdtke pointed out.

  “Quite so . . . But a number of people who were at the hotel when Miss Marais returned all confirm that she told them what had happened. Most of them seemed to think she had asked for it. Elias was particularly disapproving, saying that she had been calling Schröder by his first name, Karsten, throughout dinner. He admitted, however, that she had told everyone at the hotel that he had ordered her to call him that, and that she did not feel able to disobey him. The power of the uniform . . .”

  “What do we know about Marais?”

  “Her background is unusual. She appears to be a South African national, though she possesses a Belgian passport . . .”

  “Genuine?”

  “Yes. She is an Afrikaner and therefore, she says, strongly opposed to the British, with whom her people have been at war, on and off, for the past century. She arrived in Lisbon earlier this year and was interviewed at the German consulate. Having established her bona fides, they issued her with travel permits to go to Belgium, where she has been active in the VNV for the past few months. Elias confirmed that she has been setting up the party’s women’s organization. He said she was a hard worker and was doing an excellent job.”

  “How does she compare in size to Schröder?” Weimann asked.

  “She’s tall for a woman, at least one hundred and seventy centimeters, possibly one seventy-five. But she’s slender. I’d say fifty-five, maybe sixty kilos. Schröder, on the other hand, was a very large man: height one-ninety, weight at least two
hundred kilos.”

  “So she could not have overpowered him?”

  De Vries gave a smile. “I’m sure you gentlemen have seen enough improbable murders in your time not to take anything for granted. I would say it is unlikely. Marais had no marks on her of any physical struggle. No bruises, no defensive wounds, no abrasions on her fists . . .”

  “From what you say, any punch of hers would have bounced off Schröder,” Lüdtke said.

  “Exactly. And I can also confirm that we had her examined and there was no sign of recent sexual activity. Whatever happened between her and Schröder, it didn’t go beyond a kiss.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Ghent, I imagine. We had no reason to detain her, or any of her companions.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Because either she was innocent, De Vries thought, or she really had killed the bastard, in which case I’m happy to give her a head start over the rest of them. But I’m not telling you that.

  He shrugged. “There was no evidence to suggest that she had done anything wrong.”

  “Why the hell do you need evidence, man?” Rauter snapped. “Throw her into custody and then look for the damn evidence.”

  “I’m afraid, sir, that many of us old-timers find it hard to adjust to the new . . . methods,” Lüdtke said. “It is unfortunate, but old habits sometimes die hard. I speak from personal experience.”

  “Thank you,” De Vries said.

  “Well, you’d better hope you’ve not let a murderer walk free,” said Rauter. “I take it you took her address, place of work and all other relevant contact details?”

  “Of course.”

  Rauter gave an angry, dissatisfied grunt.

  “Excuse me, sir, may I make a further observation?” De Vries asked. He waited for Rauter’s nod of assent and then said, “I’m sure you would agree, Herr Brigadeführer, that a highly trained SS officer in peak physical condition would not be overpowered by a mere woman, little more than half his size. His superiority to the Marais woman was a significant factor in my deliberations.”

  Rauter said nothing. He could hardly argue with that line of thinking.

  “Excuse me,” Dr. Weimann piped up. “Now can you tell us about the victim’s condition?”

  “Yes, doctor,” De Vries replied, glad to change the subject from Marlize Marais. “I have to say that it’s hard to see what killed Schröder. Once we knew that you were coming, our pathologist carried out a cursory examination, not wishing to disturb the body in any way.

  “He found slight bruising around the chin, a small smear of blood below the left eye and some indication of a possible wound to the inside corner of the eye, close to the nose. There appeared to be significant bruising to the torso, sufficient to break a number of ribs, but not likely to have killed him. Aside from that, no gunshot wounds, no sign of stabbing and no defensive wounds. Schröder was found sitting against a tree with a cigarette in his fingers. He doesn’t seem to have gone down fighting . . . and we have no idea how he went down at all.”

  “Hmm . . . how interesting,” murmured Weimann.

  The SS-Brigadeführer looked from the Berlin detective to the pathologist. “Well, gentleman,” he said, “now you know why I sent for you.”

  •••

  Saffron thought about Gerhard and imagined his charred body lying in the broken, burned-out wreckage of his aircraft. She thought about the day her mother died and the sight of her lying on a table in a small clubhouse beside a polo field in Kenya, while a doctor tried to hold down her thrashing limbs and the blood from her miscarriage turned her skirt crimson. She thought about how far she was from home, and how alone she was in this hostile land . . . anything to keep the tears flowing.

  “I’m sorry,” she sobbed as Elias made tentative, half-hearted attempts to comfort her, while failing to hide his irritation at the nuisance she was causing. “But it’s all been so horrible. First that man doing what he did . . . then discovering he was dead . . . and being interviewed by the police . . . It’s too much!”

  “There, there,” Elias muttered. “I’m sure you’ll soon forget all about it.”

  “I won’t! I know I won’t! Nothing like this has ever happened to me. I’m a good girl . . . I am!”

  Elias sighed frustratedly. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you are. Perhaps you should take a day or two off work . . .”

  “But you need me to type up the notes from the congress.”

  “I’m sure they can wait.” Elias cast around for something else to say that might get this caterwauling female out of his hair for a day or two. “Do you have any relatives you could stay with until you feel a little better?”

  Saffron made a show of calming herself enough to wipe her streaming eyes and nose with a handkerchief. She glanced up at Elias, hoping that her face looked as hot, red and unappealing as it felt and said, “Well, I do have a great-aunt. My mother gave me the last address she had for her. It was just outside Antwerp, I think . . . I’m sure I have it in my address book somewhere.”

  “Perfect!” said Elias. “We’ll be pulling into Antwerp soon. Why don’t you get out there, go and find your great-aunt . . .”

  “But she’s not expecting me.”

  “Then it will be a surprise for her. She’ll be delighted to have you to stay for a few days. You can come back to Ghent when you feel a little better. How does that sound?”

  As though you’ve said exactly what I hoped you would, Saffron thought.

  “I don’t know . . .” She hesitated, aware that it would be fatal to seem too keen to accept Elias’ offer. “I don’t want to be any trouble to her.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about that. She’ll be happy to hear all your news from South Africa. Perhaps you can tell her about your work for the party. That will impress her.”

  “Well, if you’re sure . . .”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Elias. You’re a kind, thoughtful man. I’ll work twice as hard when I get back to make up for the lost time.”

  Elias gave her arm a reassuring pat, then slumped back in his seat. He was exhausted by the emotional turmoil and unsettled by Schröder’s death, and now he was relieved that he wouldn’t have to put up with the girl’s hysterics all the way to Ghent.

  When the train pulled into Rotterdam, Saffron found the nearest pharmacy and bought some blonde hair dye and a pair of scissors. She returned to the station and bought a ticket for the first train to Liège. She had a short while to kill before the train departed, so she went to the cafeteria and bought a cup of coffee and what was advertised as a cheese roll, but which turned out to be a paper-thin sliver of yellow rubber encased in a stodgy bun that tasted suspiciously of sawdust. Eating it filled her stomach and passed the time until she boarded her train, which departed on time.

  It was now a little after half past twelve.

  •••

  With the station clock about to reach half past two, the train from Antwerp arrived in Liège. It took Saffron fifteen minutes to walk to the Café Royal Standard. Inside there were a couple of men in blue workers’ overalls, finishing off their glasses of brandy in one corner. A waitress was leaning on the zinc-topped counter of the bar, reading a magazine.

  Saffron approached, put down her case and asked, “Is Claude here?”

  The waitress looked up and examined the newcomer with a skeptical sweep of her eyes. “Who’s asking?”

  “Tell him it’s a friend of Monsieur Burgers. We met a short while ago.”

  “If you say so.”

  The waitress pushed herself upright with an exaggerated display of effort and disappeared through the door behind the bar. Less than a minute later she was back.

  “He’s in there,” she said, nodding toward the open door. “Quick!”

  Saffron went into the office behind the bar, where Claude looked after the business side of the place.

  “Please do not think me rude, mademoiselle, but I was hoping never to see you again. I
take it you want to see Jean Burgers?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you are in trouble?”

  “Yes.”

  “Of what kind? I believe I have a right to know.”

  Saffron saw no point in lying. She had been amazed to escape The Hague. It could only be a matter of time before the Dutch police and their German masters worked out what had happened and started the hunt for her.

  “An SS officer tried to rape me.”

  “But you are here, apparently unhurt, so he did not succeed.” Claude stroked his mustache as he pursued his line of reasoning. “And you are the one who needs help, not him. What did you do?”

  “I killed him.”

  Saffron delivered the words in a flat, matter-of-fact tone and Claude’s response was equally understated.

  “Merde,” he grunted. “Well, then, I congratulate you. The world is better, I am sure, for that bastard’s passing. But I am also concerned. I do not wish any of their fury to be directed at me, or my family.”

  “I understand. I need to make contact with Burgers and then I will be gone forever. Can you reach him for me, please?”

  “Not fast enough for your purposes, I fear. But he will be coming this afternoon as usual.”

  “He said he gets here at around five.”

  “That’s right.”

  “May I stay until then?”

  Claude stroked his whiskers again. “You may stay until half past five. If he has not come by then, and I mean exactly then, you must go. If the Germans turn up, I will deny all knowledge of you. I am not a hero. If they torture me, I will talk. Or if they threaten my family.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You are a brave girl. I admire you. But my wife and children come first.”

  “I understand,” Saffron said. “While I am here, is there a bathroom I could use? I may be some time.”

  “You have a gastric ailment of some kind?”

  Saffron smiled. “No. I need to change my appearance.”

  “Ah, I see . . . You’d better use the family bathroom. It’s in our apartment, upstairs. Follow me.”