‘Lose the hand, Schätzchen, or I’ll have you for assault.’ Her husky voice held calm and menace in perfect equilibrium. The hand was removed. Eitel turned in her direction. Like him, she had a southern accent. He clicked his heels and made a brief, bowlike nod with his head.

‘Gnädige Frau … allow me to answer your question. The message my son bears – the message of the Hamburg people – is simple. It is that Hamburg has had enough; enough of mass immigration, enough of drug pushers poisoning our children, enough of burgeoning criminality, enough of foreigners taking our jobs, subverting our culture and turning Hamburg – and our other fine German cities – into cesspools of crime, prostitution and drugs.’

‘So you’re placing the blame on foreigners?’

‘What I am saying, gnädige Frau, is that the experiment in “multiculturalism” so vaunted by the Sozis’ – Eitel used the pejorative abbreviation of the Social Democratic Party – ‘has failed. Unfortunately we are now having to live with this failure.’ Eitel straightened his back and turned slightly into the reception, looking over the heads of his bodyguards and turning his answer into a semi-public address. ‘How much more of this unremitting assault on the lives of decent German people can we take? The whole fabric of our society is being unravelled. No one feels safe or secure …’

Eitel turned back to the woman journalist and smiled. Beneath the thick sweep of her auburn hair was a powerfully carved face, large, penetrating green eyes, a wide mouth accentuated in vermilion lipstick and a strong jawline. She did not return his smile.

‘Herr Eitel, your son’s magazine SCHAU MAL! has a reputation for being sensationalist and, on several occasions – how can I put this – a little one-dimensional in its approach to complex political issues. Is that a good summation of the political perspective of the Bund Deutschland-für-Deutsche?’

Each question crashed against the sea-wall of Eitel’s goodwill, eroding it swiftly and steadily. The smile remained, but the thin top lip tightened with something other than congeniality.

‘There are complex issues, and there are simple ones. The destruction of our society by extrinsic elements is a simple one. And there is a simple solution.’

‘By that you mean repatriation? Or by “simple” solution do you mean “final” solution?’ The other journalist leaned in to ask the question. Eitel ignored him, keeping his laser gaze on the woman.

‘A good question, Herr Eitel. Would you care to answer it?’ The woman journalist paused, but not long enough for him to answer. ‘Or would you prefer to explain why, when both you and your son feel so strongly about foreigners, the Eitel Group is negotiating property deals here in Hamburg with eastern-European interests?’

Eitel looked taken aback for a sliver of one second. Then something dark and malevolent mustered behind the eyes.

At that moment a second entourage entered. Smaller. More dignified. Less muscle and more business. Eitel turned in its direction without answering the question.