‘Stay with him. If he starts heading back to the apartment, call me right away,’ Krasic said. He ended the call, swallowed the dregs of his coffee and tossed a twenty-mark note on the table to cover what he’d consumed. Heading purposefully out of the café, he made straight for the apartment block, keeping an eye out for Caroline Jackson. The last thing he wanted was to bump into her.

Luck was with him as he headed for the door. A harried-looking middle-aged man was rushing out into the street, briefcase under his arm, a sheaf of papers in his hand. Krasic caught the door before it clicked shut. He was in. He ran up the stairs to the first floor and got through the lock of 102 inside three minutes.

This time, he started with the bedroom. On the floor lay one of those leather travel bags with a dozen different compartments and pockets. Krasic began going through it methodically. In a zipped inside pocket, he found a passport. He pulled out a crumpled receipt from his pocket and scribbled down the details. Dr Anthony Hill, whoever he was. Date and place of birth. Entry and exit stamps from the USA, Canada, Australia and Russia. There was nothing else of interest in the bag.

Krasic quickly checked the clothes in the wardrobe. In the inside pocket of a battered tweed jacket he found a photo ID for the University of St Andrews Staff Club. Again, he jotted down the details. He headed through to the living room, which showed very little sign of occupancy. There was a pad of paper on the escritoire, but the top sheet was blank.

When his phone rang, he almost jumped out of his skin. ‘What is it, Rado?’ he growled.

‘I just thought I’d let you know that he took a cab to an apartment opposite Kreuzberg Park. He let himself in with a key.’

‘OK. Make a note of the address and keep an eye on him. Like I said, phone me when he heads back this way.’ He stuffed the phone into his pocket and carried on searching. The only other thing of interest he found was a battered paperback copy of the poetry of T. S. Eliot. An inscription on the flyleaf read, ‘To Tony, from Carol, La Figlia Che Piange’. Krasic looked up the poem with that title and felt none the wiser after he’d read it. Something about a statue of a weeping girl.

Never mind. He had what he needed. He knew exactly where to go to find out all there was to know about Dr Anthony Hill.