Martin listened to the archaic swishing of the waves, the untamed wilderness separated from the luxuries of the Western world only by a few plates of metal.

And from rapists, traitors and murderers.

He lifted his head, felt the hypnotic effect of staring into black nothingness, all of a sudden able to understand that suction described by melancholic individuals when they felt drawn to the depths of the ocean.

The ocean, magnet for depressives.

But you weren’t depressive, Nadja.

He stood on the lowest strut of the railings, with one foot at first, then with both, trying to put himself in his wife’s shoes for her final seconds.

She’d been afraid of the darkness. The night when she apparently jumped must have been very murky. The clouds were low; it was foggy. They might not have even been able to see the water.

Martin’s thoughts turned to Timmy. As a young boy he’d pointed at the water and said, ‘Ouch!’ whenever they’d seen a lake, the seaside, or even a swimming pool. He’d barely been able to stand when Nadja explained to him how dangerous the water could be for a child. ‘Water is very big ouch!’ she’d told him time and time again, and even though every parent guide advised against using baby language wherever possible, this had worked. Timmy never lost respect for the wet element and he’d been the best swimmer in his class. How likely was it that a mother who loved children so much that she’d become a primary school teacher, would throw her own son on a foggy night into that very same ‘ouch’ she’d warned him about all his life?

‘Right, I’ve done it. Here I am again,’ Diesel announced, having first wanted to finish a round of his online game. ‘I just had to shoot down a helicopter first.’

For a moment Martin had completely forgotten that he’d rung him. Because of the wind he was wearing an earphone and could speak hands free. The Skype connection was astonishingly clear, given that he was in the middle of the Atlantic.

‘Is the doctor going to pull through?’ Diesel asked. Martin had sent him a short email with the outline of recent events, together with the passenger and crew lists that Bonhoeffer had provided him with.

‘I hope so,’ he said.

During the summer the platform he was now standing on functioned as a naturist area. In autumn this was the loneliest place out of doors, especially at night when the temperatures dropped to single digits. This is why Martin had chosen deck 17 for his night-time excursion. He’d wanted to be alone and ponder possible connections: the death of his family, the call from Gerlinde Dobkowitz, the raped girl, the new cuts on Anouk’s arm and the attack on Elena that could have just as easily got him.