‘My uncle is an art dealer in London, and when I was back on leave recently he said he was in touch with a chap in Frankfurt about buying a painting and would I mind popping down from Cologne to pick it up. He gave me some money wrapped up in a parcel so I had no idea how much it was – I never opened it, you see. I had it in my briefcase and when I went out for a meal on the Saturday night, I took it with me. I’d been told there were some decent restaurants near the main post office and I saw a bar on the way so I thought I’d stop in for a drink, and that’s when someone tried to steal the briefcase – for all I know, they could even have put the money in there!’

‘That’s not how thieves tend to operate – in my experience they take money out of a bag rather than put it in.’

Falmer shrugged and again looked at Hanne as if he believed she had no right to speak to him like that.

‘Your uncle the art dealer…’

‘What about him?’

‘I’d like his name and address, please.’

Falmer started to say something, but stopped and was now looking quite flustered. ‘I’m not sure what the relevance is of—’

‘The relevance, Mr Falmer, is that you’re claiming the money came from your uncle in London who’s an art dealer, so it is perfectly reasonable for me to ask his name.’

‘Donald Ridgeway.’

‘And his address?’

Falmer’s foot was tapping hard on the floor. ‘He’s a partner at Bourne and Sons in Cork Street in the West End of London. I can assure you it’s a very well-established and respectable business. I would imagine…’ he paused to allow a weak smile, ‘you are not familiar with the art market. If you were, you’d know it is perfectly common for paintings to be purchased from contacts in such a manner.’

‘Buying a painting on the black market in Germany doesn’t sound like the height of respectability to me, Mr Falmer. One can only imagine where the painting was looted from. Tell me, please, about how you were going to obtain it?’

‘I was to go to a square off Guiollettstrasse, if that’s how one pronounces it, at ten o’clock on the Sunday morning. There is a flea market of sorts there, and a one-armed man – which I know may sound somewhat clichéd – would be selling a painting of a kestrel. I was to give him the package and he’d give me the painting. It’s as simple as that.’

‘What is the man’s name?’

‘I have no idea – Hans, I would imagine, they’re all called Hans, aren’t they?’ He laughed nervously and then stopped abruptly, as if he’d said something wrong.

‘And you’re sure you’re telling me the truth, Ulrich – this isn’t another excuse?’

Friedrich Steiner was pacing up and down the lounge of the safe house in Königstein like an angry animal, glaring at Ulrich as if he’d just challenged him to a fight and was awaiting his response. He paused by the window and pushed open the shutters, ignoring the other man’s warning to be careful. He pulled hard on his cigarette and flicked the ash onto the floor.