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"Yeah, I don't normally put my guts in on a
Sunday." He ignored Thiel's querulous look. "What
have we got?"

"A double," said Thiel, leading the way to the
flat. "A Turk and what looks like a national. It's
hard to tell. His face is pulped."

Before entering the flat Hofmann stopped. Thiel
had stepped over the small puddle. "What's with
the water?"

"Don't know," said Thiel. "The first officer said it
was already there when he arrived."

"Was it dirty?" Parts of it were blackened.
"I asked the same question," said Thiel,
proudly.
"And?" said Hofmann, letting his lack of breath
underpin his impatience. He knew Thiel was in awe
of him. This was how a detective should be: thick
skinned, larger than life and exceedingly bitter.
Poor Thiel, to give his voice the right timbre he
would have to increase his tobacco consumption
five-fold and maintain it for at least a decade.
Many years ago Hofmann had tried to give up.
The days counted as some of the worst of his life.
He had felt sick and depressed.
"He thought not. You can talk to him."

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