She was seated against a wall, which meant she was in no danger of sharing the contents of the prints, but Angel suggested it might still be preferable for her not to set them on the table. He watched as she progressed through the images. The first four were enlarged passport photos of De Jaager, Anouk, Paulus, and Liesl, the dead of Amsterdam. The remaining photographs came from the crime scene at the safe house. Angel had excluded none. If Lackner was to be convinced, she had to see everything. He did not speak as she went through them. He did not even watch her, but took in the bar and its occupants, and wondered if the Doonesbury slogan could be repurposed as ‘Death Before Obliviousness’. Most people, he thought, would choose obliviousness.

Pia Lackner was putting the photographs back in the envelope, but not before first returning to the images of De Jaager and the others as they had been in life.

‘Who were they?’ she said.

Angel gave her their names.

‘Why were they killed?’

‘Because they crossed a Serbian crime lord, or De Jaager did, and the others paid for it alongside him. A while back, a Serbian enforcer named Andrej Buha, sometimes known as Timmerman, was assassinated in Amsterdam. He enjoyed crucifying men and women, so he was no great loss. The deaths of these four people were revenge for the killing of Buha.’

‘What has this got to do with me?’ said Lackner.

But something in her tone told Angel that she already suspected the truth.

‘The man who ordered and supervised their torture and murder is Spiridon Vuksan. He’s one of your father’s clients.’

‘I don’t have anything to do with my father,’ said Lackner. ‘I have even divested myself of his name.’

‘I’m aware of that, just as I know that he sends you flowers on your birthday and a case of champagne at Christmas.’

‘You’re very well informed.’

‘I also know that you give away the flowers and champagne.’

Lackner gestured at the envelope and its photographs. ‘Wouldn’t you, under the circumstances?’

‘I don’t like champagne,’ said Angel, ‘and flowers make me sneeze. The point is that your father still cares about you.’

For the first time, Lackner looked worried.

‘Are you threatening me?’

‘No, not at all. We would like to use you, though – with your consent, obviously.’

‘Oh, obviously,’ she said, with enough sarcasm to turn honey sour. ‘I wouldn’t be used any other way. But I still don’t understand what you want from me. And who is “we”, by the way?’

‘My friends and me.’

Lackner glanced around the bar.

‘Are they nearby?’

‘No, they’re on the Continent.’

‘Doing what?’