Petra walked into the squad room of the GeSa. It was as depressing as every other one she’d been in. The net curtains that blurred the bars over the three windows were the dirty yellow of second-hand nicotine, the walls and floor the same graded shades of grey that characterized the rest of the GeSa. That fascinating gamut from dove to anthracite, Petra thought wryly. The Wachpolizisten stationed at the GeSa had tried to brighten up the room with the usual kitsch array of postcards, cartoons and photographs of their pets. A couple of tired plants struggled to cope with the absence of any direct sunlight. It only served to make the place even more depressing.

The room was empty except for a solitary female WaPo who was putting a plastic box full of a prisoner’s personal effects on one of the shelves. She turned as Petra leaned on the counter and cleared her throat. ‘I’m Petra Becker from Criminal Intelligence. I’m here to see Marlene Krebs,’ Petra said. ‘You’ve still got her, right?’

The WaPo nodded. ‘She’s due to see the judge in a couple of hours, then she’ll be transferred, I guess. Don’t you want to wait till then?’

‘I need to talk to her now. I can use the lawyer’s room, yeah?’

The WaPo looked uncertain. ‘You better talk to the boss. He’s in the report room.’

‘That’s down at the end of the cell block, right?’

‘Behind the fingerprint room, yes. You’ll need to leave your gun here.’

Petra took her pistol from its holster in the small of her back and locked it into one of the lockers for visiting officers. Then she headed out of the squad room towards the cell corridor. She glanced up at the electronic alert system the cops sarcastically called the room-service board. None of the alarm lamps was lit; for once the prisoners were being well-behaved, not driving the GeSa team crazy with constant summonses.

The cell block itself was surprisingly sterile and modern. The usual linoleum gave way to red brick tiles on floor and walls. Most of the doors were closed, indicating that they were occupied. A couple were open, revealing a small vestibule, beyond which wall-to-wall bars enclosed four square metres of cell equipped with a bed and a rectangular hole in the floor covered with a chrome grid in case the inmates decided not to ring for a toilet visit and just fouled the cell. It was a mistake most of them made only once; the cost of cleaning the cell after such acts of defiance was billed directly to the prisoners.

Petra wondered which door concealed Marlene Krebs, and how she was coping. Badly, she hoped. It would make her job that much easier.