‘The usual reason. Lack of evidence. Like I said, he keeps his distance. There are firewalls between him and the business at street level. And the video shops make a great money laundry for a sizeable chunk of the proceeds. So he’s got an apparently legitimate source for living very high on the hog. The German organized crime squad have been trying to get a line on Krasic and Radecki for a long time, but they’ve never been able to make anything stick. There’s probably only a handful of people who could actually tie Radecki to any of this, and they’re too scared to talk. Take a look at the next shot.’

Carol turned over to the next picture. It showed the corpse of a man lying on a short flight of stone steps. Most of his head was missing. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

‘That was one of the people the Germans thought might be able to put Radecki in the frame. They arrested him two days ago on the grounds that he was the supplier of a dodgy batch of smack that killed off half a dozen addicts. He got a bullet through the brain right on the steps of the police station. That’s how fearless these guys are.’

Carol felt the strange mixture of apprehension and excitement that always came with the prospect of the chase. She had no idea what Morgan had in store for her, but whatever it was, it was clearly going to take her into the big time. ‘So where do I come in?’

Morgan suddenly found the contents of his cup deeply interesting. ‘Radecki had a lover. Katerina Basler. They’d been together four years. If he had a chink in his armour, it was Katerina.’ He met Carol’s eyes. ‘By all accounts, he was besotted with her.’

‘Was?’

‘Katerina died two months ago in a car crash. Radecki was devastated. Still is, we hear. After she died, he went to pieces. Shut himself away in his fancy apartment, let Krasic deal with the day-to-day running of the operation. But now he’s back. And that’s where you come in. Take a look at the next photograph.’

Carol obediently turned the page. The skin on her arms turned to gooseflesh as she stared down at her mirror image. The woman in the photograph had long hair, but, that apart, on first impressions she could have been looking at her twin. Coming face to face with her doppelgänger in a police file was one of the most unsettling things that had ever happened to her. Her hands felt clammy and she realized she was holding her breath. Discreetly she exhaled, as if the release of spent air might blow the illusion away. ‘Jesus,’ she said, her tone a protest against this apparent violation of her uniqueness.

‘It’s uncanny, isn’t it?’