‘My, my, it hasn’t taken you long,’ the ship’s doctor smiled, offering her hand. Dr Elena Beck was in her mid thirties with a blond plait that came down to her shoulder blades. The only make-up she wore was a trace of bright-red lipstick and a touch of eyeshadow. Her skin was pretty much the same colour as her snow-white uniform; even in rainy weather it probably needed factor 50 cream. Her eyes offered an interesting counterpoint to her almost boringly symmetrical face. They shone like blue mosaic stones at the bottom of a swimming pool.

‘Feeling sick already? We only left port two hours ago,’ Dr Beck said, following on from the phone call they’d had five minutes ago. In his initial fury Martin had wanted to go straight to confront the captain, that fucking arsehole he partly blamed for the death of his family. But the headache that came over him in Gerlinde’s cabin had forced him out into the fresh air, and when half an hour later he was finally able to think clearly again, he realised that an impetuous visit to the captain would only make him look foolish. Besides, the bridge was secured against unauthorised access.

After what Gerlinde had revealed, however, he couldn’t just do nothing. And as he had no idea where to find the second eyewitness, the chambermaid Shahla Afridi, he’d arranged an appointment with the ship’s doctor.

‘But don’t worry, Herr Schwartz, you’re not the only one with an upset stomach.’

Dr Elena Beck invited him to sit on a swivel chair and opened a glass cupboard. She had to stand on tiptoes to reach a box in the top compartment. ‘It’s better you popped in now. It’s not going to get any calmer out in the Atlantic. I’ll give you an injection of something.’

She took a glass ampoule from the box and turned back to him.

‘Thanks, but I’ve already done that myself,’ Martin said.

It was as if he’d turned down the dimmer on Dr Beck’s smile, which till now had been unchanged. It vanished slowly but completely from her face.

‘You’ve injected something?’

‘Yes, yesterday. HIV antibodies. Since then I’ve been on PEP.’

And from time to time I get razor blades shooting through my head.

‘Why on earth did you do that?’ Elena Beck asked.

She was nervy; her voice was jittering as much as her hand, which was holding the travel sickness medicine.

‘To manipulate an HIV test. It’s a long story,’ he said, flapping his hand dismissively. ‘Almost as long as that of Anouk Lamar.’

After the dimmer he’d now found the rapid-ice switch. Dr Beck’s expression froze.

‘Who are you?’ she asked with a frown.

‘The man who’s telling you that you’re going to pick up the phone and dial the number.’

‘Which number?’