‘How about a coffee?’ Martin asked when the sign for Michendorf service station appeared. They were driving in the vehicle he’d last sat in outside the Pryga villa in Westend, and where he’d pulled out one of his own teeth. In fact a visit to the dentist was long overdue; the sweet lady from casualty had even left him a concerned message on his answerphone telling him he mustn’t forget to have the interim denture replaced. But he had time. He could cope with the throbbing in his jaw and could sleep well with three ibuprofen, occasionally even four hours at a time. The painkillers also helped with his headache. In addition, the attacks he’d had on the ship had become less frequent ever since he’d prematurely ditched the PEP pills.

‘No coffee. We’re late,’ Kramer decided, even though there were three hours till their meeting at the motorway car park just outside of Jena.

Martin yawned and turned his wrist outwards so he could see his arteries. And the tattoo. A rose with eighteen tiny thorns. A Russian prison tattoo. The sign that you’d reached the age of maturity in jail. He’d had it inked ten days ago for this operation. Their goal was to infiltrate a Croatian biker gang that was seeking to take over the Berlin bouncer business. The people who controlled the doors to clubs and discos also controlled the flow of drugs. A lucrative business that was bitterly contested. In the coming weeks the Croatian gang was planning on eliminating a few bouncers and Martin was going to offer his services as a contract killer.

‘Doesn’t the tattoo look too new?’ Kramer asked, returning his gaze to the almost-empty road after a glance at the rose.

‘I’ll say I had it freshened up in celebration of this day,’ Martin replied. He yawned again. Yesterday hadn’t been a four-hour night. More like four minutes.

They passed the service station and thus the chance of a coffee. Martin shut his eyes and leaned his head against the vibrating window.

‘Hey! Walivakelive ulivup yolivoulivu ilividiliviolivot!’ he suddenly heard Kramer say beside him. Turning to him, he saw his boss giggling into his double chin. Martin, who couldn’t make head or tail of this nonsense, asked Kramer if he was having a stroke. ‘If so, you’d better let me drive.’

‘Rubbish, I’m fine. That’s how my daughter talks at the moment.’ The head of operations was wearing the smile of a proud father. ‘Helivellolivo, for example, means hello.’

He indicated to overtake a white rust bucket that was hogging the middle lane.

‘It’s called Livish,’ he explained as if Martin might be interested in the silly secret language that Kramer’s daughter had concocted.