Hitching his trousers on to his chest, Vogelmann strode round the desk on big policeman’s feet to shake our hands. He walked as if he had just dismounted a bicycle.

‘Rolf Vogelmann, pleased to meet you both,’ he said in a high, strangulated sort of voice, and with a thick Berlin accent.

‘Steininger,’ I said. ‘And this is my wife Hildegard.’

Vogelmann pointed at two armchairs that were ranged in front of a large desk-table, and I heard his shoes squeak as he followed us back across the rug. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture. A hat stand, a drinks trolley, a long and battered-looking sofa and, behind it, a table against the wall with a couple of lamps and several piles of books.

‘It’s good of you to see us this quickly,’ Hildegard said graciously.

Vogelmann sat down and faced us. Even with a metre of desk between us I could still detect his yoghurt-curdling breath.

‘Well, when your husband mentioned that your daughter was missing, naturally I assumed there would be some urgency.’ He wiped a pad of paper with the flat of his hand and picked up a pencil. ‘Exactly when did she go missing?’

‘Thursday, 22 September,’ I said. ‘She was on her way to dancing class in Potsdam and had left home – we live in Steglitz – at seven-thirty that evening. Her class was due to commence at eight, only she never arrived.’ Hildegard’s hand reached for mine, and I squeezed it comfortingly.

Vogelmann nodded. ‘Almost a month, then,’ he said ruminatively. ‘And the police–?’

‘The police?’ I said bitterly. ‘The police do nothing. We hear nothing. There is nothing in the papers. And yet one hears rumours that other girls of Emmeline’s age have also disappeared.’ I paused. ‘And that they have been murdered.’

‘That is almost certainly the case,’ he said, straightening the knot in his cheap woollen tie. ‘The official reason for the press moratorium on the reporting of these disappearances and homicides is that the police wish to avoid a panic. Also, they don’t wish to encourage all the cranks which a case like this has a habit of producing. But the real reason is that they are simply embarrassed at their own persistent inability to capture this man.’

I felt Hildegard squeeze my hand more tightly.

‘Herr Vogelmann,’ she said, ‘it’s not knowing what’s happened to her that is so hard to bear. If we could just be sure of whether or not–’

‘I understand, Frau Steininger.’ He looked at me. ‘Am I to take it then that you wish me to try and find her?’

‘Would you, Herr Vogelmann?’ I said. ‘We saw your advertisement in the Beobachter, and really, you’re our last hope. We’re tired of just sitting back and waiting for something to happen. Aren’t we, darling?’

‘Yes. Yes, we are.’

‘Do you have a photograph of your daughter?’