‘No reason why you should.’ Tadeusz drained his glass and turned to face Krasic. ‘Just don’t take the costs out of my budget, OK?’ There was iron in his voice now.

Knowing when he was beaten, Krasic got to his feet. ‘Watch your back, boss,’ he said wearily, reaching for his jacket and walking out.

The Shark hated the fact that nobody at work took him seriously. Most of his male colleagues made it clear that they despised him. Petra, for whom he would have walked barefoot on hot coals, patronized him, which sometimes felt worse than contempt. He’d been so excited about his transfer to intelligence, but it had turned out to be a lot less fun than he’d expected. All he ever got to do was the shit work that everybody else thought was beneath their dignity. He understood enough about psychology to realize that, in order for any group to function properly, there had to be a focus for their scorn. He just wished it wasn’t him.

He longed to score some remarkable coup that would win their respect. But that wasn’t going to happen while he was stuck in the dogsbody role. Take this latest job that Petra had dumped him with. How was he supposed to find out who Darko Krasic would trust to look after a child? He’d checked out the known associates in Krasic’s files, but most of them were the type of person you wouldn’t trust to hold the dog while you went for a piss, never mind leave in charge of a child. Then he’d had the brainwave of trying to find out if Krasic had any relatives in the area. He had this image of a Balkan stereotype who, like the Italians, would trust family ahead of anyone.

So for what felt like half a lifetime he’d been trawling public records, trying to find anyone with blood ties to Krasic. Immigration lists, tax rosters, property registers had all drawn a blank. Now he was reduced to phoning local police offices and asking if they knew anything. He’d worked his way round Berlin and now he was edging out into the Brandenburg countryside.

He crossed the last number off his list and dialled the next one, a substation on the northern outskirts of Oranienburg, near the former Sachsenhausen concentration camp. When the phone was answered, he went into his spiel. ‘I’m calling from the criminal intelligence unit here in Berlin. I know this is a long shot, but I’m trying to trace anyone who might be related to a Serb we’ve got operating here in Berlin. A guy by the name of Darko Krasic’

‘Hang on, I’ll put you through to someone who can help you.’

Silence, then the phone was picked up. ‘Detective Schümann,’ a voice said. It sounded as if he was talking through a mouthful of crunchy biscuits.