They approached the city via a wide bridge over the swollen Weser, which flowed past in a swift torrent the colour of beer slops. ‘The river’s very high,’ Tony said to fill the lull that had grown in the conversation once Berndt had run out of nuggets of largely irrelevant information about the murder.

‘It’s not as bad as the Rhine or the Oder,’ Berndt said. ‘I don’t think it’s going to flood.’

‘What about the barges? How do they cope?’

‘Well, they can’t cope, can they? Haven’t got the horsepower to deal with it when it’s flowing like that. If it gets any higher, the river will be closed till the water level subsides. That’s already happened on the Rhine. The boats are all tied up in basins and backwaters. The skippers will be tearing their hair out at the thought of the money they’re losing, and the crews are all getting drunk.’

‘Not much fun for the local cops, then.’

Berndt shrugged. ‘It keeps them off the street,’ he said with a high-pitched giggle at odds with his squat frame. ‘That’s the cathedral over there,’ he added with a degree of redundancy. It was impossible to miss the twin towers. ‘Schilling was in the city centre the afternoon of the day she died. She ate alone in a little bar off the main market square.’

‘Are we far from Dr Schilling’s house?’ Tony asked.

‘About ten minutes.’

‘Has her partner been able to remember anything about his attacker?’

‘The boyfriend? About as much use as a eunuch in a brothel. He didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything. All he knows is that there was a strange car on the drive. A VW Golf, either black or dark blue. I mean, he didn’t even notice if it was a local registration. Have you any idea how many black or dark blue Golfs there are in Bremen alone?’

‘Quite a few, I should imagine.’

Berndt snorted. ‘So many we can’t even think about pursuing that line of inquiry.’ He turned off the main road into a quiet tree-lined street. ‘This is the start of the suburb where she lived. Our man would have had to drive in this way, it’s the only logical way in and out.’

Tony looked out of the window, imagining the street in darkness. Houses set back behind small, neat lawns. Private lives going on behind closed front doors. No reason why anyone should pay attention to the dark outline of a car making its way to a fateful destination. He wondered if the killer had scouted the area out ahead of his crime. Often they did, staking out their ground, stalking their victim, learning their lives, getting to know the gap that their deaths would leave. But he had a feeling that Geronimo wasn’t that kind of killer. His need was of a different order.