He dropped the pan with a loud clatter and turned the light back on. The interloper was sprawled on the floor, a trickle of blood coming from his nose. Dead or unconscious, he didn’t mind which, just so long as it would give him time to finish what he’d started. He kicked him savagely in the ribs. Bastard. Who did he think he was, barging in like that?

Hurrying now, he returned to his task. He finished the bindings, then hastily ripped the tape from her mouth. He had to keep checking the man was still out cold, which slowed him up even more. He didn’t bother explaining to the bitch why he was making an example of her. She’d fucked up his routine, ruined his pleasure in a job well done, and she didn’t deserve to know that there was good reason for what was happening to her.

It pissed him off more than he would have believed possible that he was having to rush things. He managed to do a neat enough job with the scalping, but it wasn’t as precise as he liked. Cursing with the vigour of the boatman he was, he finished up in the kitchen, wiping every surface his hands could possibly have touched, and giving the stranger a brutal kick in the kidneys as he passed, just for good measure.

All that was left was the placing of the file. He ran upstairs and started checking the rooms, unwilling to turn on the lights in case it drew more attention to him. The first room was clearly hers, dominated by a king-size bed and a wall of fitted wardrobes. The second looked like a kid’s room, with its posters of Werder Bremen footballers and the Playstation on the table by the window.

He struck gold with the back bedroom, which was fitted out as a home office. He dragged open the drawer of the old-fashioned wooden filing cabinet and thrust the file into place. He was past caring if it was in the right slot. He just wanted to be done and out of there before things got even worse.

One final check that the stranger was still unconscious, then he warily opened the front door a crack. Nothing moved. He saw a VW Passat parked in front of the house, but thankfully it wasn’t blocking the drive. Head down, he hurried out of Margarethe Schilling’s house and into the car.