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you. Are you already done for the day?’
    ‘No, unfortunately that’s why I’m calling. We’ve got a new murder case, and …’
    Her mother’s sigh echoed down the line. ‘And you want me to pick the children up from the childminder?’
    ‘Yes. Please. I’ll be as quick as I can, and you won’t need to cook anything, I’ll see to it when I get back.’
    ‘Frozen pizza, I know.’
    Beatrice closed her eyes. As if her guilty conscience needed any more ammunition.
    ‘No. In actual fact I was planning to make a broccoli bake. That’s quick too.’
    If broccoli bake didn’t win her mother around then nothing would.
    ‘Fine then. I’ll pick them up, but it would be nice if you could give me more notice next time. I do have other things to do, you know.’
    ‘Yes. I know. Thank you.’
    They turned off into Aigner Strasse, where the traffic finally eased up. ‘You don’t have to tell him.’ Florin stared fixedly at the Audi in front of them. ‘I’ll handle that, okay? You just make notes. Unless I overlook something important, then speak up.’
    She could have hugged him. He was voluntarily drawing the losing card. The way she sometimes did with the children, just for the pleasure of seeing them hop around giggling, overjoyed to have beaten her.
    Did Nora Papenberg have children? As Florin parked the car opposite the house, Beatrice scanned the garden for telltale signs. No sandpit, no children’s bikes, no trampoline. Just one of those Japanese Zen gardens with patterns raked in the sand.
    ‘We’re too early. He won’t even be home yet,’ said Florin as he turned the engine off.
    They got out and rang the bell anyway. Almost immediately, the door was opened by a man wearing jeans and a checked jacket over a dark green polo shirt.
    ‘Are you Konrad Papenberg?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘We’re from the police.’
    Beatrice saw the man flinch, saw how he searched their faces in vain for the trace of a smile, for a sign of the all-clear. Then she saw the realisation dawn.
    ‘My wife?’
    ‘Yes. I’m afraid we have bad news, Herr Papenberg.’
    ‘Come in, please.’ He held the door open for them, turning his ashen face to the side. Most people looked away at that moment, when nothing of finality had yet been said. It was about maintaining that state for as long as possible, drawing out these last seconds of merciful ignorance. He gestured for them to sit down on the sofa, then jumped up again and brought them water from the kitchen, unbidden. The glasses shook so violently in his hands that he spilt half of their contents.
    Florin waited until he had sat down and was looking at them. ‘We have every reason to believe that we’ve found your wife. She was discovered this morning in a field near Abtenau.’
    ‘What do you mean, every reason to believe?’ His voice was surprisingly steady.
    ‘It means that we’ve identified her based on the missing persons photo. She didn’t have any ID with her.’
    ‘But she always has it on her … in her handbag.’ The man swallowed, kneading the fingers of his left hand.
    Beatrice made a note: Bag missing .
    ‘You will of course have the opportunity to identify her personally if you feel able to,’ Florin continued gently. ‘I’m very sorry.’
    Papenberg didn’t reply. He fixed his gaze on a spot on the coffee table, moving his lips wordlessly, shaking his head in brief, abrupt motions.
    In ninety per cent of cases, the husbands are the murderers . That was Hoffmann’s rule – and it was fairly accurate. But this man’s reaction was so faint. He didn’t yet believe it.
    ‘What – I mean, how … how did she …’
    ‘At the moment we have to assume that she was murdered.’
    He breathed in shakily. ‘No.’ Tears filled the man’s eyes and he covered his face with his hands. They paused to give him time. Beatrice handed him a tissue, which he noticed only after a few seconds and took hesitantly.
    ‘You last saw your wife on Friday, is that right?’