Dollmaker

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As they moved in single file through the night, the rain of bombs continued. Now the crump of an explosion, now a series of brilliant flashes to the east over Lorient and the submarine pens, now the throbbing of heavy aircraft among the constant bursts of flak.

‘It is nothing,’ said the police chief, lifting the hand that held the shaded lantern. ‘It happens all the time now. You’ll get used to it.’

‘Of course,’ grunted St-Cyr. ‘We’re old hands. Nothing troubles us.’

‘Not even the murder of a shopkeeper in the middle of nowhere,’ sang out Kohler acidly. ‘Christ, this wind would chill a polar bear, Louis! Couldn’t Boemelburg have made things easier?’

As Head of the Gestapo in Occupied France, Hermann’s chief had other matters to keep him busy. ‘I’ll speak to him,’ said St-Cyr, tossing the words over a shoulder.

It was always the same for them. Finish one case and start another. No time for a little holiday. No time even for a decent piss.

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