One of the surveillance cars took off at a safe distance behind MacSwain’s Porsche. Anna stood on the sidewalk watching after the car as it turned the corner of Albers-Eck. It was only after the surveillance car confirmed that MacSwain was clear of Der Kiez that the Mercedes Vario pulled up next to Anna. Maria was first out and put her arm around Anna in an awkward, unaccustomed gesture of affection.

‘You did bloody well, Anna,’ she said.

‘He gave us a turn when he pulled the boat stunt.’ Paul Lindemann was now out of the panel van and standing next to Maria. ‘I don’t know how you kept so damned cool.’

Anna gave a small, childlike laugh and realised that her legs were shaking. ‘Nor do I.’

‘We had the Wasserschutzpolizei keeping an eye on you,’ explained Paul. ‘You were safe all the way through … help was only seconds away if you needed it.’

Maria was just about to say something when her cell phone rang. She took a few steps back and answered it.

‘I have to say, Anna,’ said Paul, ‘you did really well. But we didn’t get much out of it. He didn’t say or do anything to suggest that he’s connected to either the abductions or the killings.’

Anna didn’t answer, but remained facing in the direction taken by MacSwain’s car. Somewhere deep in her gut lurked the phantom of the nausea that had gnawed at her every time MacSwain had touched her

‘I have a feeling about MacSwain,’ she said, without looking at Paul. ‘A real, powerful, physical reaction to him.’

Paul gave a small laugh. ‘Female intuition?’

‘No,’ Anna replied in a small but hard and sharp-edged voice. ‘Policeman’s instinct.’

‘Well,’ said Paul, ‘it looks like you went through all of that for nothing. I suspect Mr MacSwain is nothing more than a womanising yuppie.’

‘It would appear you’re right.’ Maria snapped shut her cell phone. ‘That was Fabel … at last. Seems he’s had quite an evening of it too. MacSwain’s out of the picture. We have a name for our killer. Vasyl Vitrenko.’

Anna now turned back to face her colleagues. Her dark eyes sparkled cold in the neon glitter of the Kiez. ‘I don’t care what Fabel’s turned up. I know that there is something evil about MacSwain. He’s our killer. I just know it.’

Saturday 21 June, 1.04 a.m. Harburg, Hamburg.

Despite it being a mild night, Hansi Kraus lay shivering under both his rank, ragged bed linen and the heavy army greatcoat that accompanied him everywhere. His meagre frame convulsed, his teeth chattered and he had the feeling that a rat gnawed endlessly at his gut. He maybe shouldn’t have come back to the squat; but he had needed somewhere warm and a place where, perhaps, he could beg, borrow or steal enough to pay for the fix he so badly needed. Unfortunately for Hansi, there had been no opportunity to exploit any of the three means.