Moistening her thumb, she leafed through the papers and pulled out one sheet, which she handed to Martin.

‘Read the last paragraph.’

Barefooted and his shirt unbuttoned, he took the paper from her hand. Suspecting that any protest now would ultimately cost him more time, he read out loud:

‘As always, Gerlinde was astounded by the size of the member stretching out before her, but now was not the time to abandon herself to the pleasures promised by—’ He looked up, flabbergasted. With her hand she made a stroppy gesture for him to carry on. ‘… his magnificent sceptre. Not before she knew whether the man who’d given her the most wonderful orgasms in her seventy-three years was really staying in cabin 8056, or whether he was actually working on a secret between-deck, not detailed on any floor plan, where at regular intervals passengers vanished for ever, which is why it was also—’

‘… called the Bermuda Deck,’ Gerlinde said, completing Martin’s reading with exaggerated menace. ‘It’s a novel with autobiographical elements. I’ve made the main character a little younger.’

But clearly no less insane.

‘Come on, then, ask me.’

‘What?’

‘What happens on the deck.’

‘To be honest, I just want to—’

‘Human trafficking,’ she answered herself. ‘I’m not sure whether the passengers disappear unwillingly or whether they might even pay for it.’

‘Pay?’

Martin laughed and went to the bathroom when she made no move to comply with his request to leave his cabin with Shahla.

‘Don’t roll your eyes at me, young man,’ he heard her say through the closed bathroom door. ‘Criminals, tax-avoiders, refugees. There are enough rich people willing to buy themselves a new life. As a detective, you know that better than anyone. And there’s nowhere in the world easier to vanish into thin air than on a ship like this.’

‘Are you finished?’ asked Martin, who by now had completely undressed and dried himself.

Evidently not, for she kept talking through the door. ‘The clients pay one or two million. Officially their disappearance is declared as suicide, which is why there are so many cases where people say, “Voluntary death? That’s impossible.” And the doubters are right, because unofficially the supposed victims are hiding—’

‘… on the Bermuda Deck.’

‘It’s perfectly feasible. Perhaps it might be a state witness programme with a plastic surgeon who gives the passengers a new appearance.’

Martin shook his head and put on a dressing gown. ‘How does your theory work with Anouk?’

‘It’s quite simple. Her mother forced her onto the programme, but the poor little thing doesn’t want a new life. What she’d experienced on the Bermuda Deck must have been so dramatic that she fled. This is the truth and it’s so explosive that they’re even torturing witnesses to find out how much the poor chambermaid has seen.’

Martin stepped out of the bathroom. ‘Okay, Frau Dobkowitz. That’s enough now.’