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The coins were Roman and the girl was naked. That there was blood spattered about the room would be an understatement. Hermann was none too quietly rejecting his dinner into the girl’s wash-basin.

The coins had been thrown at the corpse. One had been dipped in blood and placed squarely in the middle of the forehead. The wire, twisted from the right, hadn’t just strangled her. At the last there’d been a sudden, savage twist cutting the jugular and then the windpipe.

She’d drowned in blood and had pressed futile hands against the carpet, arching her body up against the killer.

He’d raped her. The blood had been flung from his hands to speckle the pistachio-coloured walls and mingle with the smears of terror.

‘A pretty mess,’ said St-Cyr. ‘You okay now?’

‘No!’

Kohler shot back to the wash-basin. His ‘Bastard! Bastard!’ could be heard on the floor below and on the one below that. Even on the street perhaps.

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