MATRIX SQUARED

Detlef’s irritation at being disturbed just after nine-thirty in the
morning increased a notch when his brother shouted something about
a delivery for which he had to sign. Striding downstairs, Detlef prepared
to remonstrate with the postman for having got the wrong address.
‘Come on,’ said his brother impatiently, shivering a little in the draught
as Detlef made his way down the hall.

‘That vehicle is illegally parked,’ thought Detlef with his characteristic
eye for precision when he saw a black van on the street outside. Standing
in front of it was a postwoman. She was dressed in a uniform that
Detlef could only describe as ceremonial. Her tie had a small, tightly
drawn knot, while on her head she wore a stiff peaked cap. She looked
very earnest.

The postwoman almost bowed as she presented Detlef with an A4
envelope in one hand and a pen in the other. As he reached out for
the pen, she stepped back theatrically. ‘What the hell is going on . . .?’
But before Detlef could finish the thought, four men had jumped on
him and he was lying on the ground with his arms behind his back.
‘You’re under arrest,’ one of them screamed, while from nowhere
several other officers streamed into the house. Detlef just lay there,
dressed only in pyjama bottoms. It was raining and it was cold, about
ten degrees Celsius. A boot clamped his neck to the icy ground, while
the cable binding his hands dug into his skin. Repeatedly he mumbled,
‘What on earth is going on here?’ while feeling as if he had stumbled
onto the set of a second-rate movie.

Ten minutes later he sat opposite Officer Frank Eissmann from
Baden-Württemberg’s LKA. The officer was staring gloomily at the
detritus in the kitchen, the epicentre of teenage chaos. ‘God, this place
is a bloody mess,’ the detective observed.

By way of explanation, Detlef said that his parents were on holiday.
‘I can see that,’ Eissmann muttered to himself.

Then for a few minutes the policeman and his charge fell silent.
The only noise came from Detlef’s chattering teeth. The front door
had been left open and, following his short sojourn in the rain, his
body temperature was falling. An urgent shout came from upstairs:
‘The computers are still running!’

Finally it dawned on Detlef what was happening. Despite the cold
and confusion, he thought quickly and asked the officer if he could
put some clothes on. It was not entirely disingenuous – he was freezing