MacSwain laughed too. ‘Trust me, Hamburg supplies more than enough rain to quell any homesickness for a damp climate. But no, there’s nothing I miss about Britain. Any Britishness I need Hamburg supplies … sometimes it really is like living in London’s most easterly suburb. There is no other city in the world like Hamburg. I wouldn’t leave it for the world.’

Anna shrugged. ‘Me … I can take it or leave it.’

MacSwain’s face became animated. ‘I can’t understand that. You only have one life. The time we have is too precious to waste. Why would you want to spend it in a place you feel indifferent about?’

‘Inertia, I guess. It takes less effort to stay put. I suppose I can’t be bothered building up the energy to achieve escape velocity.’

‘Well I’m glad you haven’t, Sara. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.’ He sat down next to her. ‘I would love to show you your own city … with the eyes of an outsider. I’m sure I could change the way you feel about it. And anyway, it would give me a chance to get to know you better …’

He drew closer. Anna could smell the most subtle hint of an expensive cologne. She looked into the sparkling green eyes and scanned the perfectly sculpted features. Anna found herself doubting very seriously that he could have anything to do with the murders they were investigating or even the doping of girls for ritualised sex. MacSwain was classically handsome; through his clothes it was clear that his body was perfectly proportioned and muscular; he was urbane, intelligent and confident. Everything about MacSwain should have pushed Anna’s buttons. Yet, when he drew his face close to Anna’s and closed his mouth around hers, she had to fight the nausea that churned in her chest.

The fifteen-metre long, Barthel-built WS25 was the Hamburg harbour police’s newest launch, but not its fastest. Kommissar Franz Kassel had ordered all the lights to be dimmed in contravention of the very harbour regulations he enforced daily. Kassel lifted his binoculars and scanned MacSwain’s powerboat as it slipped from the quays. He muttered something to himself as he recognised the boat as a Chris Craft 308 or 328 Express Cruiser. Ideal for cruising. Also fast. Much faster, if its owner decided to run for it, than the WS25’s 22 kilometres per hour. But not faster than radio waves or radar. If the cruiser made a break for it, Kassel could summon up support from any of the WSP Kommissariats along the river from there to Cuxhaven. All the same, he knew there was a female police officer aboard that cruiser. And, from what Oberkommissarin Klee had told him on the radio, if there was a call for help, the speed of response could be the difference between life and death. Kassel was a wraith of a man: unfeasibly thin and tall, with reddish hair and freckles that seemed to have merged after twenty years’ exposure to brackish harbour air, sun and spray. He let the binoculars hang around his neck and took the WSP peaked cap from his head, running bony fingers through his thinning thatch of dry sandy hair.