The policeman was in his mid-fifties. Maier was standing on the first floor of a dilapidated villa when he saw him approach on a small motorcycle. He was fat and every time he drove through a pothole, the rusty vehicle beneath him bounced him around like a balloon. An old German Shepherd ran behind in his wake.
The ruined villa stood on oddly angled concrete pillars, had round windows and a spiral staircase with aspirations that extended beyond the first floor. The building, which lingered in the centre of a long-abandoned palm orchard, looked like an unlikely prop from a war movie.
The policeman, now stationary and sweating heavily, waved up to Maier. He took his cap off to wipe his broad forehead and, and, with these few gestures, he managed to convey the impression of an officer who’d
