Bonhoeffer raised both hands like a boxer trying to fend off a blow to the head. ‘No, it’s not the same as with your family,’ he whispered, even though there was nobody in the vicinity. ‘We have a recording of the girl spraying a camera lens with black paint. That was at 21.52. She must have known the precise location of the camera covering her balcony.’

Bonhoeffer spoke with an animation that went beyond the normal degree of professional sympathy. The captain wanted to turn away again, but Martin held him back.

‘What’s happening now?’ he asked.

‘We’ve stopped the ship and we’re searching the sea from the bridge with floodlights and telescopes. At the same time ten of my men are combing all the public areas and we’re soon going to start with the announcements. I don’t hold out much hope.’ He told Martin that both the door to the corridor and the partition door between Lisa’s and her mother’s cabin had been bolted from the inside, unlike the balcony door that had stood wide open.

‘Mother and daughter were travelling without the father?’

The captain nodded.

A parent travelling alone, a child vanishing.

A pattern was gradually emerging, although Martin couldn’t tell what picture it was forming. Either he was standing too far away from the screen with the answer, or too close to it.

‘Where’s the mother now?’ he asked Bonhoeffer.

‘Julia Stiller’s…’ The captain looked as if he’d just had a flash of inspiration. ‘Good idea,’ he said excitedly and fished a key card from the breast pocket of his shirt. He nodded at the door.

‘She’s waiting in my cabin. Talk to her. She could use a psychologist.’

43

All of a sudden this man was in the room. Tall, shaven head, with a large nose and a face that looked as exhausted as she felt. Julia had just popped to the bathroom to splash a handful of water in her face and she’d screamed at the mirror. When she returned to the sitting room in these ridiculous disposable slippers, which housekeeping always put beside your bed, and a white dressing gown that Daniel had helped her into, the stranger was waiting for her.

‘Who are you?’ Her heart beat faster, and the pressure of the tears welling behind her eyes grew greater. She automatically assumed the worst. That this man with the sad look was a messenger bringing her the news she wouldn’t be able to cope with.

‘My name is Martin Schwartz,’ he said in German with a slight Berlin accent. In normal circumstances she would have asked him which district he came from and whether they might be neighbours.

‘Do you work here? Are you looking for my child? What news have you got? You are looking for Lisa, aren’t you? Can you help me?’