The source of my name is the desk sergeant; he’s giving me an odd look.

‘Sign here,’ he says, holding out a pen. ‘Inspector Jansen told me to look out for you.’

I get my signature on the page. It’s shaky as hell.

We’re just being handed our VISITOR badges, which feels strange and sad at the same time, when I spot Jansen. He’s about my height, short blond hair, and always looks like he’s ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. Since I last saw him he’s obviously been working out. His shirt sleeves are tight with pumped muscle, though his face is maybe gaunter than I remember.

‘Sir, thanks for coming in. This shouldn’t take long.’

‘Seriously, what’s up with the “sir”? You never called me that when I was actually your boss.’

‘New regime.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘Just got into the habit I guess.’

‘Yeah, it all seems a bit different around here.’

‘You don’t know the half of it. Beving got promoted to station chief.’

‘Whoa.’

‘Tell me about it.’

I make the introductions, and Jansen takes us through the airport-style security, another new addition, and into the building itself. Jansen’s talking to Rashid, explaining what’s going to happen, and I lag behind, shaken by the flashback, already regretting my decision to come here.

We turn the corner, past the first of two main incident rooms, and down the corridor to the stairs which lead to the basement, where the main interrogation suite is. Jansen and Rashid are ahead of me, their heads just disappearing down the steps when the lift door opens. Lazy man’s option. Two uniforms get out and I duck in and hit the basement button. The lift pings, and the doors slide shut. Next to me a female officer holds a large pile of papers. The top one catches my eye – a crime-scene photo. In it a naked body is kneeling on the ground in a pool of blood. The tag across the top reads MARIANNE KLEINE. I stare at it and all of a sudden I’m stepping into a room in another time, another place. The victim, Lucie Muller, is naked, kneeling on the ground in a pool of blood, her torso bent forward over her knees. Her forehead touches the ground in a weird parody of worship, and her arms are straight by her sides, hands by her feet. I move forward on weightless legs, moving round to try and see her face. But her hair is covering it, falling down into the blood, spreading out like roots.

‘Sir, you all right?’ The voice jolts me back. I’m standing in the lift, the officer with the photo gone, another one holding the lift door open and looking at me with concern.