"Yes."

"Now you go to the Neustadthalle instead."

"Do you know why?"

"To rake muck with the rest of us, knowing that it's his muck. The only successful cure for alcoholism is the nausea drug that teaches you that you can't go on loving something that makes you sick."

I had to be careful not to touch on the question that would have to be answered before I left here. I wanted her to tell me without being asked.

"You understand me very well," she said.

"It's not a very complex situation."

She came and stood over me. She had a way of standing bullfighter-fashion in the black slacks, legs straight, buttocks tucked flat and thighs thrust forward, the hard line of her body curved and tensioned like a bow. In a more feminine woman it would have been provocative; with her it suggested challenge.

"Why did you come here?" she asked me.

"It was an alternative."

"To what?"

"Going to the police."

Her eyes narrowed to slits of light blue under the lids.

"The police?"

"I was a witness to an attempted murder. It was my duty to make an immediate report."

"Why didn't you?"

"Two reasons. You might have been suffering under delusions. That could have been what it looked like: an accident caused by a skid. Also I'm English and in England we tend to trot out our troubles to the nearest policeman because that's what he's there for and we know who he is. Inyour country you don't. I had to bear that in mind."