He looked up again at the lumber truck that had blocked the road ahead. It was reversing laboriously from a muddy road that led into the woods. The driver had misjudged a metre of ground by one of the wheels. The soil here was still saturated, and for several minutes now he had been gingerly edging the vehicle out onto the roadway. He’d let the truck back a few metres in a controlled roll, and try to coax it back up again. His eyes stayed locked on the rim of mud that was pushed up higher by the rear wheel.

“You’d think the idiot would know,” Lisi said.

“I suppose.”

“You suppose? Didn’t you recognize him right away?”

“He looked familiar.”

“Really,” she said. “Did you just wash everything out of your head last night, or have you really forgotten the people here? So soon?”

He said nothing.

“Bad enough that they are going to destroy the forest, but it has to be that idiot Maier doing it. Manfred…?”

“Ah, him. Freddie.”

“It’s not his fault he’s got that face. But he was dumb. Now he drives a Beemer, a new one. Maybe you’ll catch him speeding in it. Wouldn’t that be funny?”

“Naturlich.”

“Well,” Lisi said after several moments, “I’m not superstitious. But you’d wonder. Wouldn’t you?”

Felix nodded.

He let his gaze up the hill. Screened by the growth of conifers above the grassy verge was the hilltop village of St. Kristoff am Offenegg. It was well above them yet, with its ancient, baroque church and graveyard perched tightly on the hilltop, and a clutch of houses huddled just below. There were long views from the steps of the church, Felix knew, across the valleys and hills to the south, toward Slovenia. He and Lisi had 20 minutes to reach the village, and that church, where the anniversary service for Felix’s father, also a Gendarme in the Austrian police, was due to begin.