Fatal Lies by Frank Tallis

closely. ‘Perhaps, once removed from the hospital, and deprived of the emblems of power – my black bag, my stethoscope, my potions and elixirs – my imperfections were more readily observed. I was no longer the great healer and became just another philanderer – indistinguishable from all the others, going about their tawdry business behind the bushes.’
    Liebermann was thinking of Miss Lydgate. Her supine body on ahospital bed: a plain white gown – the rise and fall of her breasts. Her copper hair, pulled back tightly, aflame in a ray of sunlight.
    â€˜Why?’ said Kanner. ‘Is there someone at the hospital who has taken your fancy?’
    Liebermann shook his head – and as he did so, the room began to rotate. Slowly at first, but then gathering momentum – like the carousel on the Prater.
    â€˜Stefan . . . I have drunk far too much.’
    Kanner picked up the bottle and filled Liebermann’s empty glass: ‘Maxim, we haven’t even started!’

17
    VON BULOW WAS immaculately dressed in a dark frock coat, grey striped trousers and patent leather shoes. A beautifully folded blue cravat was held in place by a diamond tie pin and his starched cuffs (which protruded from beneath the sleeves of his coat) were fastened with matching studs. Merely looking at von Bulow made Rheinhardt feel slovenly and unkempt.
    His old rival was seated opposite the Commissioner. Two empty teacups on Manfred Brügel’s desk and a shallow bowl containing a solitary
Mannerschnitten
wafer biscuit suggested that the two men had been in conversation for some time.
    Although Rheinhardt and von Bulow were both Detective Inspectors, von Bulow had always been treated as Rheinhardt’s superior – largely on account of his privileged background. The practices of preferment and favour were commonplace in Viennese organisations, and the Commissioner, being a highly ambitious man, was mindful that von Bulow hailed from an elevated family. The man had relatives in the upper house
and
in the Hofburg. Informed by the notion that goodwill was often reciprocated, the Commissioner frequently afforded von Bulow special treatment – usually at Rheinhardt’s expense. However, given that this odious situation was entirely unremarkable, and that there was no obvious person to whom a complaint could be directed (other than to the Commissioner himself), Rheinhardt had no choice but to tolerate this indignity.
    â€˜Come along, Rheinhardt,’ said the Commissioner, beckoning him in with an impatient hand gesture. ‘Don’t just stand there.’
    Von Bulow stood up – as if in readiness to leave – then, to Rheinhardt’s surprise, sat down again. The Commissioner registered Rheinhardt’s perplexity and grumbled: ‘Von Bulow will be staying – there is a matter concerning his current investigation that we need to discuss with you. All will be explained in due course. Now . . . where did I put them?’ Brügel sifted through the papers scattered on his desk and found a wad of forms under a jug of milk. ‘I’ve read your reports, and everything seems to be in order. Although in future, Rheinhardt, I’d appreciate it if you could do something about the quality of your handwriting.’
    Rheinhardt squirmed with embarrassment. It was obvious that Commissioner Brügel had only recently compared Rheinhardt’s hurried script with von Bulow’s elegant copperplate.
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    The Commissioner tossed the reports aside and picked up a photograph of Thomas Zelenka’s body in the mortuary. Then he selected another, showing the lacerations under the boy’s arm.
    â€˜Peculiar,’ said the Commissioner. ‘Very strange . . . but I see no reason for maintaining security-office involvement. Do you?’ Brügel lifted his head and his eyebrows drew closer together: ‘Well?’
    â€˜Sir, we’ve