‘A relic. Something like the Sultan’s appendix. After all, this lady is eight years old now and no longer the youngest in the industry. When she was launched, the expectation was that the demand for inner cabins would rise, but that was a mistake. Most people want a suite, or at least a cabin with a balcony. At a pinch they’ll take something overlooking the atrium. And nobody wants to be just above the waterline. That’s why six years ago we converted the ten lowest inner cabins on deck 3 into storerooms and offices.’

‘And a nest?’ Martin asked. Bonhoeffer nodded.

‘The number’s an in-joke, a play on numbers. When 2 become 1 and want a private d8, they can come here to have 6.’

He couldn’t help yawning and didn’t bother to put his hand in front of his mouth.

‘It’s forbidden for employees to have sex in their own cabins, and it’s not very practical either because most have to share with a colleague. But the crew have needs, especially on trips around the world. Of course the nest doesn’t exist officially, but we turn a blind eye when during their months at sea employees use this as a refuge for their tête-à-têtes, so long as they’re discreet about it.’

Bonhoeffer yawned again, a bigger one this time.

‘You ought to lie down. Or will your bad conscience prevent you from sleeping?’ Martin asked sarcastically.

Bonhoeffer had told him over the phone what had happened in the night. After his seizure-like collapse, the captain got Elena’s assistant doctor to bring him back to his room, where he’d slept right through an eight-hour search operation that, ‘as expected’, to use Bonhoeffer’s words, had failed to bring any results.

When, following the security call, the coastal station began to coordinate measures and a Royal Navy ship from the British fleet, on manoeuvres in the area, had arrived, there was no longer any reason for the Sultan to hang around in the middle of the ocean. Or to incur the wrath of the almost three thousand passengers still alive, who could saddle the owners with compensation demands for unreasonable delay.

Julia Stiller had suffered a nervous breakdown when the main engine started into life again and had been catapulted into a dreamless sleep by a sedative, from which she would awaken at some point in the captain’s cabin. Hundreds of nautical miles from her daughter. She’d actually wanted to change onto the navy vessel, but had been refused entry as an ‘unauthorised person’.

‘I don’t have a bad conscience,’ the captain protested. ‘We paused the journey to—’

‘For eight hours?’ Martin interrupted him. ‘Are you saying a child’s life isn’t worth any more than that?’ He laughed cynically.