‘You once wrote in an article that you wished you lived in a work of art. For three weeks now, I have made your wish come true. Yes, I have documented Curse. I have shared my art with the world. But large parts of it were for your eyes alone. Only you felt the pull of the curse; only you saw the birds that had fallen from the sky; only you pulled the trigger. If I’d thought you had no appreciation of art, I would never have chosen you to take part in my performance. My art would have been wasted on a philistine.’

‘Bullshit!’ Norah shouted. ‘Complete bullshit. All you care about is power. Nothing else—except perhaps your wounded ego.’

Balder raised bushy eyebrows.

‘I’ve shot an innocent man because of you,’ Norah cried.

‘As I told you,’ Balder said, and Norah saw him glance at the camera, ‘I wasn’t interested in the man’s death; all I was interested in was what you might call the experimental aspect.’

‘Bullshit,’ Norah said again. ‘That’s nonsense, Balder, and you know it. Tell me how you did it.’

She saw Balder glance at Theresa.

‘Shall I switch off the cameras?’ Theresa asked softly.

Balder nodded.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Okay.’

He took a deep breath, evidently wondering where to begin.

‘Okay,’ he said again. ‘We started planning Curse about five months ago. We began by casting various characters—notably Cassandra, who was to utter the curse. Then we watched you, Miss Richter—your habits, your preferences. Amat victoria curam—victory loves preparation.’

‘Watched me,’ she repeated dully. She hadn’t noticed anything—not in Berlin, anyway.

‘Oh yes,’ said Balder airily. ‘But your social media accounts, your blogs and emails were, frankly, more fruitful. Like most people, you have no idea how much you reveal about yourself.’

Norah suddenly recalled an old blog post she’d written about Valerie’s death after the suicide of a Hollywood actor. She felt dizzy.

‘We bought the rest of the data,’ Balder said matter-of-factly. ‘In the end I knew more than enough about you to be able to steer you. It didn’t cost much, only a bit of skill and time.’

‘You wanted me to kill him,’ Norah insisted. ‘Because you knew that my worst fear was to be responsible for somebody’s death.’

Balder smiled, but said nothing.

‘You stole my phone,’ Norah said, ‘hacked my email account…’

Balder gave a brief nod.

‘Your friends’ accounts, too.’

‘You bugged my phone and—’

He gave a laugh of satisfaction.

‘Please, Miss Richter, I’m not the CIA! Only an artist. All it took was ingenuity, chutzpah and a little social engineering.’

Norah said nothing.

‘I couldn’t resist a few symbols and allusions. The white rabbit in your flat and my top hat here—both part of the conjuror’s stock-in-trade. The vanitas still life, the dead birds—I admit that I’ve always had a weakness for the melodramatic.’

He was crowing.

‘I think that’s something we have in common.’

Norah stared at him. Not five metres away, Arthur Grimm was lying struck down on the ground—and Balder laughed.