The gangplank separating the houseboat from the shore rings out with footsteps. Whoever it is reaches the deck and stops, as if considering what to do next. There’s a brief pause before three sharp knocks sound at my door.

‘Who is it?’ I croak down, the return to smoking having roughed up my lungs and throat.

‘Inspector Rykel? I’m Inspector Katja Vermeer. I need to have a word. I tried to call you but your phone was off.’

‘If you want to talk to me, you’ll have to come up here. Go to the aft and step on the wooden box. There’s a bit of rope you can use to pull yourself up if you need.’

I listen to her progress, and soon she’s hauled herself onto the roof and is walking towards me. I almost double-take; in this light she’s the spitting image of Diana Rigg playing Emma Peel in The Avengers. Minus the leather catsuit, of course.

I’d actually heard of her before tonight. She’s risen far and fast, partly because she’s reputed to be smart and tenacious, partly because she’s also known for being tougher than most of the other inspectors here. One story doing the rounds says she single-handedly took down three bikers who decided that they didn’t like her asking questions about their probable involvement with a people-smuggling ring, and wanted a little playtime before they acted on their plan to hoist her off a bridge, most likely with a bullet in the back of the head. All three of them woke up in hospital, hands cuffed to the bed frame, wondering just what the fuck happened to them. Reputedly one of them actually cried when Vermeer walked into his hospital room, though I don’t know if I believe that bit.

‘Nice,’ she says, looking around. ‘Quirky.’

‘Good to meet you,’ I say. ‘But I told Jansen everything I know so I’m not sure why you’re here?’

‘We need to have a chat.’

‘About?’

She sniffs the air a couple of times. I’d tossed what was left of the joint a few minutes earlier, but I’m suddenly paranoid that it’s clinging to my clothes. Not that it really matters; having signed the letter I’m no longer officially a cop. Just a regular citizen medicating. Nothing to see here.

‘We checked up more closely on Sander Klaasen. He’s still in prison.’

Her words are like a jolt of reality, not what I want to hear at all. My brain looks for a way out.

‘He could have told someone about what he did, the exact way he killed her. Then whoever he told kills Marianne Kleine the same way to confuse the police.’

‘Aside from that being a pretty far-fetched theory, it’s not actually possible.’

‘Why not?’