Krasic sighed inwardly. He had a feeling this was one investigation that was going to hit a brick wall sooner or later. He didn’t relish the moment when he would have to report that fact to Tadzio. For the time being, he’d just have to keep going through the motions. ‘I’ll talk to someone tonight,’ he promised.

‘Good. I’m tired of problems. I could use some solutions. Whatever it takes.’ He leaned back against the soft leather and closed his eyes, signalling that the conversation was over. Playing the bully didn’t come naturally to him, but he’d found himself slipping into the role depressingly often since Katerina had died. He couldn’t bear the thought that the rest of his life was going to be like this, a constant succession of crises and problems. It felt as if her death had taken all the ease from his life, and he wondered if he would ever again feel relaxed and comfortable in his own shoes. Perhaps vengeance would help.

It was the only thing he could think of that might.

It was Petra Becker’s first visit to Den Haag, and she was surprised by its lack of flamboyance compared to Amsterdam. The canal houses were models of understated classical demureness, with few of the ornate flourishes that gave a walk in central Amsterdam so much visual richness. This was an expense account city, with none of the bohemian colour that provided Amsterdam with its variety. Here, there was an air of sedate prosperity, speaking of a prim propriety that made Petra’s Berliner soul feel stifled. She’d been here less than a day and already she was craving the disreputable.

She wasn’t sure how she felt about the day that lay ahead of her. She was due to meet the British cop at eleven. Carol Jordan, a Detective Chief Inspector, whatever that meant. Petra was supposed to tell her everything she knew about Tadeusz Radecki, and it stuck in her throat. It didn’t seem fair that she should hand over such hard-won gains to someone who hadn’t earned her stripes in the battle. When Hanna Plesch had told her that her new role was to act as liaison for someone else’s undercover, she’d felt cheated. Of course, she was too familiar a face in Berlin to go undercover herself, but it pissed her off that her bosses had rolled over and handed the whole affair to the Brits. What did they know about German organized crime? Who did they think they were, muscling in on her territory? And how dare they think they could succeed where her department had failed?