Swallow felt the surge of energy that he always experienced when the elements of a mystery started to come together to form a coherent picture. The evasive arrogance of Stefan Werner on the two occasions when he had questioned him at the New Vienna now started to make sense. What Pfaus had just told him fitted in with what he had learned earlier in the cell from Michael James Carmody. His every instinct as a detective, developed over more than twenty years probing the criminal mind, was telling him that Werner was the man who had ended Alice Flannery’s life.

‘I think perhaps, Johann,’ he said cautiously, ‘that even though we don’t have these laws in Ireland or England, Mr Werner didn’t realise that. When Alice Flannery was injured in the kitchens of the New Vienna he may have seen himself facing an action for damages.’

Pfaus frowned.

‘Are you saying this man murdered the young woman, or had somebody murder her, simply to avoid an injury claim?’

‘Murders have been committed with much less compelling motives, Johann. You know that as a policeman.’

Pfaus shook his head in disbelief.

‘Most of my work has been on political crime. My experience with criminal investigation of this kind has been very limited. I have difficulty with the idea that a young woman’s life can be taken so lightly. But I defer to your knowledge.’

‘There is some information that might make my theory stronger,’ Swallow said. ‘Could I ask you to have someone make an inquiry for me?’

Pfaus nodded.

‘If it relates to this crime in any way, it is perfectly in order for the Kriminalpolizei to inquire into any matter. What do you need to know?’

‘I need to know about this man, Stefan Werner, who owns the New Vienna restaurant. He is a native of Berlin, or so he says. He claims that his family is well known in the restaurant business here. And he says he worked as a restaurant manager in London. He knows his business, and I imagine that he would have been well established in it here before he went to Dublin. I want to know what he did here, where he worked and when. And anything else that might be significant about his past.’

Pfaus had taken a small notebook from his pocket, and scribbled the details as Swallow spoke.

‘Werner. Stefan Werner. The name does not mean anything to me. On a police captain’s pay I am not a frequent patron of Berlin’s expensive restaurants or hotels. But by tomorrow afternoon, Joseph, you will know everything that is known to the Berlin police about this Mr Werner.’

Saturday January 5th, 1889

Chapter 34