Fabel made his way over to the small group.

‘Frau Menzel?’

She turned to Fabel. ‘Yes?’ A polite smile stretched the thin lips.

‘I wonder if I could have a word.’ Fabel held out his oval KriPo shield.

The smile was swept away. ‘This really is getting tiresome. I have been visited by almost every security service in Germany since my release. This is beginning to look like harassment.’

‘This isn’t really official …’

‘Oh? In that case I don’t know if I should be talking to you at all.’ Menzel turned away.

‘Frau Menzel,’ Fabel said, ‘I’m Kriminalhauptkommissar Jan Fabel. I was the police officer who was involved in the shooting at the pier in 1983 …’

Menzel stood with her back to Fabel for a moment. ‘You shot Gisela?’

‘I had no choice. She’d already shot me once and was going to shoot me again. I begged her to stop, but …’ Fabel’s voice trailed off.

‘She was just a child.’ Menzel turned to face him.

‘She gave me no choice. She had killed my colleague and she had already wounded me,’ Fabel said without any hint of bitterness. ‘I told her to drop the gun but she aimed at me again.’ As Fabel spoke, he saw Gisela Frohm once more, at the end of the pier, the glittering gun hanging at the end of her skinny girl’s arm, like a weight on a rope, then swinging up to fire. He had shot her twice. In the face. He remembered her punk-pink hair as her head snapped back and she fell into the harbour. It had been the worst day of his career. Of his life. And he would never forget it.

Marlies Menzel regarded Fabel. There was no hostility in the look. It seemed to Fabel that she was considering his words. She turned to the two assistants who were helping her to hang the painting. ‘I’m just going out for a moment. We’ll hang the rest later.’ Then to Fabel: ‘I think we should go somewhere else to talk.’

The café was just off Bremen’s Katharinenstrasse. A highly polished counter ran its entire length. The staff behind the counter continuously placed trays with white tea or coffee pots and cups on the polished bar. The air was full of the rich odour of freshly milled coffee. The waiting staff, dressed in black trousers and waistcoats with white aprons tied around the waist, collected the trays and carried them over to the customers’ tables. There was a comforting rhythm to the mechanics of service.

Fabel and Marlies Menzel chose a table by the window. Menzel sat with her back to the oak panelling while Fabel sat opposite her, with a view up the street towards the Marktplatz. She pulled out a packet of French cigarettes, and after a moment’s thought she offered one to Fabel.

‘No thanks. I don’t smoke.’

She smiled and lit a cigarette. She inhaled deeply, tilted her head upwards and to one side and blew the smoke into the air, twisting her mouth slightly to make sure it blew away from Fabel.