‘What the hell are you doing, Anna?’ Morell roars over Jens’s shoulder, spraying his former colleague’s face and perfectly ironed shirt with saliva. Jens doesn’t move a millimetre.

Before Anna can speak, Morell spins around and grabs hold of his son’s arm.

‘Come with me, Alexander – you don’t need to stay here for one more second.’ He points his index finger at her. ‘If you wish to speak to Alexander again, then both I and a solicitor will be present. Do you understand?’ Morell tugs at his son’s arm, but Alex stays exactly where he is.

‘Calm down, Dad.’ His tone is gentle, almost tender. Morell doesn’t seem to have heard; he is still tugging at Alex’s arm. The inflamed skin visible beneath his beard is an angry red.

‘Come with me! You don’t need to say one more word to that . . . to that . . .’ He waves a hand in Anna’s direction without even looking at her. Alex merely shakes his head sadly.

‘I’ve been carrying this for almost thirty years, Dad. I want to get it out. Take responsibility for what I did. For what we did to Simon.’

Morell lets go of his arm. ‘Alexander, you can’t . . .’ He is pleading now. ‘You mustn’t ruin your life like this. I won’t let you.’

Alex stands up, pats his father’s shoulder. ‘It’s my life, Dad. My responsibility.’ He turns to Anna. ‘We let our friend down,’ he says. The pain in his eyes is so deep that it’s impossible not to feel sorry for him.

‘We humiliated him and chased him off into the forest. Forced him to wander around in the rain and the dark, battered and bruised, alone and at rock bottom.’ Alex takes a deep breath, exchanges a quick glance with his father. Henry Morell’s face is still ashen, his arms dangle helplessly by his sides.

‘It was our fault,’ Alex goes on quietly, speaking to Henry as much as to Anna. Tears have begun to trickle down his cheeks. ‘Me, Bruno, Marie and Carina. It was our fault that Simon died, and it’s high time we admitted it.’

*

Anna and Jens return to her office to discuss what they’ve just heard, leaving Henry and Alex in the interview room. The receptionists and three other colleagues are whispering in a little group, but fall silent as soon as they see Anna.

‘Which one do you think called Henry?’ she says on the way up the stairs.

Jens shrugs. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Maybe not.’

She’s glad he’s back in her corner.