'There is a castle on the Rhine - Schloss Hochenstein. They called it the Institute of Developmental Psychology. The reality was that it was a euthanasia factory that also conducted radical psychological experiments. After the war, it became the record centre for the euthanasia programme. It has also been turned into a tourist attraction, though they don't mention that particular element of the castle's history,' Wolf said, an ironic twist to his mouth. 'Our reconciliation with our past only goes so far. We really don't Like to admit that we stood by and let our own children be slaughtered.'

'No, I can see how that might be a bit hard for the national psyche to cope with,' Tony said. 'So, is it possible for me to gain access to these records?'

Wolf smiled, his thin lips spreading over yellowed teeth. 'Normally, it would take time to obtain the necessary permissions. But I'm sure Petra can cut through all the red tape for you. She's very good at getting her own way.'

Tony pulled a face. 'So I've discovered.' He pushed his half drunk coffee away from him. 'You've been a great help, Dr Wolf.'

The other man gave a self-deprecating shrug. 'Any excuse to get away from campus for an hour.'

'I know the feeling,' Tony said, realizing as he spoke that he had already mentally left that life far behind him. 'I'll tell Petra she owes you a drink.'

Wolf snorted with laughter. 'I won't hold my breath. Good luck at the schloss.' ^"

Luck was exactly what Tony felt he had on his side. The tide was slowly turning, allowing him to replace vague notions with real possibilities. It wasn't a moment too soon. Given the escalation into overt sexuality that was evident in the Koln case, they needed to stop this killer before he lost even more of his self-control. Tony could easily imagine him turning into a spree killer, cutting a swathe through a university campus with a machine gun before turning his gun on himself. It was time to put a stop to it. He could feel his blood rising in anticipation. I'm coming for you, Geronimo, he thought as he walked out of the cafe" into the clean spring day.

Carol tossed her gym bag through the bedroom door and walked on into the living room. Her nostrils twitched. She could swear she was picking up the faintest aroma of cigars. Either the occupant of the apartment below was puffing his way through an entire humidor of Havanas, or someone had been in here. She smiled. She'd expected them to search the place, just as she'd expected the tail she'd spotted this morning on the way to the gym. She'd have been more concerned if nothing like this had happened. That would have meant that while Radecki might be taking her seriously as a woman, he wasn't taking her seriously as a possible business partner.

What was interesting, though, was that the search had taken place now, while she was out at the gym. If she'd been responsible for organizing it, she would have chosen a very different time. While she was on the river with Radecki, for example. Then the searchers would have known they were sure of at least three hours in her empty apartment. The timing, coupled with the slight scent on the air, made her wonder if Radecki had been determined to do the search himself. If he had, it was indicative of how far he had succumbed to her charms. A man who was really smitten wouldn't have wanted one of his minions nosing into her knicker drawer.

Carol crossed to the bookshelf and took the radio down. She slid the panel open and smiled with satisfaction as the hard drive dropped into her hand. They'd never have left that behind if they'd found it. Better double-check, however. She plugged it into the laptop and turned it on. She opened the special security program that recorded all user sessions and noted happily that nobody had used the drive since she had last logged off. Then she launched the encryption program and sent e-mails to Morgan and Candle, alerting them to the fact that she was being followed and telling them about the search. She read an e-mail from Morgan, congratulating her on her success so far and warning her that Krasic had been making inquiries into her background. He assured her that her cover was holding up well under the spotlight. Like you'd know if it wasn't, she thought cynically.

She wondered how Tony was faring. She knew that, whatever he was doing, it would take its toll. The one thing that had always moved Tony was the victims of violent criminals. The killers fascinated him, it was true. But profiling had never been an arid academic exercise with him. He cared about the dead; like her, he believed that the investigators were the living representatives of the murdered and mutilated. Their role was not to seek an Old Testament vengeance, but rather to give some kind of closure to those left behind. That, and to save the lives of the potential victims.

Part of her wished she was out there in the field with him, but her own operation was sufficiently demanding and exciting to make that no more than a mild nag. For now, she was happy to leave him to his own devices, secure in the knowledge that when the decks were cleared, the world would be a different place for both of them.

Marijke had escaped from the mountain of paperwork in the office and headed over to Pieter de Groot's canalside house. She was responding to a call from Hartmut Karpf in Koln, whose search team had found something curious when they'd combed Marie-The'rese Calvet's filing cabinet. It didn't actually take the investigation much further forward, but she had a feeling Tony would be very, very interested.

It also had the advantage of getting her away from the glowering scowls of her team, whom she'd set the task of trying to establish every inland shipping vessel that had been within a fifty-kilometre radius of Leiden on the day of de Groot's murder. She hoped her German colleagues were being as assiduous, so they could compare results. Otherwise, the exercise would be a complete waste of time. If they found any correlations, then the Germans could see if any of the bargees also owned a dark-coloured Golf. With a lot of luck and persistence, they might just come up with enough suspects for Tony's profile to be genuinely useful.

She'd also sent one of her detectives off to the university library to see if he could find any letters or articles critical of the work of Pieter de Groot and the other victims. She had even less confidence that this wild idea of Carol's would produce a worthwhile result, but she was determined to leave no avenue unexplored, no theory unexamined.

Marijke had to admit she felt disappointed with what they'd achieved so far. Sure, she knew profilers weren't miracle workers, but she'd hoped for something more concrete than Tony had been able to give them. Maybe they'd been hoping for too much. It looked as if the only way these cases were ever going to be solved was by traditional, plodding police work. It wasn't glamorous, but it sometimes got results.

It felt strange to be back in Pieter de Groot's study. There were few traces of what had happened there. Just a watermark on the polished surface of the desk and a few traces of fingerprint powder where the technicians hadn't cleared up properly after themselves. Maartens wouldn't like that, she thought irrelevantly. He hated it when the SOCOs left a crime scene in a worse mess than they'd found it.

Now a thin layer of dust lay on the room's surfaces. She couldn't imagine that the cleaner would be back any time soon. And, so far, there were no signs that the ex-wife had turned up to claim her children's inheritance. She probably had little appetite for returning to the former family home in these circumstances.

Marijke turned to the filing cabinet. She might as well try the obvious and look under de Groot first. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves and pulled open the relevant drawer, ticking through the files with her long fingers.

And miraculously, there it was. Exactly as Karpf had predicted it would be. A standard suspension file, distinguishable from the others only because it was a paler shade of manila. There was no identifying tab on the top of the file, but an ordinary white adhesive label on the front was printed with 'Pieter de Groot. Case notes'.

Marijke gingerly lifted the file out of the drawer. She took it over to the window, the better to read the contents. First, she studied the outside of the file, noticing with a small surge of excitement that there was a faint smear of something dark that gleamed like oil along the bottom corner on the back. She sniffed, but caught nothing from it. Then she opened it. There was a single sheet of paper inside.

Marijke read on with a growing sense of disbelief. It was a bizarre and distorted view of de Groot's personality, if any credence was to be given to the evidence of his friends and colleagues. But the language was clearly an approximation of that used by therapists, justifying Tony's conclusion that the killer had read and assimilated at least the basics of psychobabble.

She couldn't wait to let forensics loose on this. From the. look of it, it had originated from a computer printer, but beyond that anonymity, there might be traces that could ?provide a positive lead. The smear on the jacket, for example. For the first time in days, Marijke felt she had a concrete piece of evidence in her hands.

As she hurried down to the car, Marijke quietly cursed herself. She should have had the files searched before now. I She'd had someone go through his personal papers, but because de Groot hadn't been a practising therapist, it hadn't occurred to her that his professional files would contain anything relevant to his murder. If this oversight proved anything, it was the value of sharing information.

She couldn't help wishing she'd made the discovery herself I But at least she'd finally found something that might give Tony a unique insight into the killer's mind. It was, she supposed, better than nothing.

Darko Krasic sat in the driver's seat of his Mercedes, working his way steadily through a large bucket of salted and buttered popcorn and staring out through the rain at a small lake on the outskirts of Potsdam. The passenger door opened and a tall man folded himself into the seat, taking off a cloth cap and shaking the raindrops from it. He was neatly dressed in chinos and a windbreaker with the logo of a designer sportswear brand over the left breast. He had the lugubrious face of a man who is convinced the world holds only the prospect of disappointment. 'Fucking awful weather,' he said.

'It's always fucking awful weather in Potsdam,' Krasic said. 'The sun can be shining in Berlin, and down here, it's grey and miserable. So, what have you got for me, Karl?'

KriPo detective Karl Hauser gave a sardonic smile. 'So much for small talk, eh, Darko?'

'Karl, we're not friends. We're never going to be friends. You're on the payroll, that's all. So what's the point in pretending?' Krasic lowered the window and tipped the remains of the popcorn on the ground. Even through the rain, the waterfowl spotted the bonanza and headed for the car.

'Since you mention money, I think what I have for your boss is worth a bonus payment.'

'You do, huh?' Greedy bastard, Krasic thought. 'Let me be the judge of that.'

'That BMW bike? I've been doing some digging.'

'That's what us taxpayers pay you for.'

Karl scowled. 'Listen, Darko, what I've been doing for you goes way beyond the call of duty. Katerina Basler's death was written off as an unfortunate accident. We've got more important stuff than that to deal with.'

'OK, OK, Karl, we appreciate what you're doing. And you know you've always been well rewarded in the past. So, you've been doing some digging... ?'

'That's right. It occurred to me that the bike might have taken a bit of damage itself. A couple of the witnesses said they thought it might have caug!it<the wing of the car. And it occurred to me that, if the biker wasn't supposed to be tooling around Berlin on his machine, he might have got it repaired here. So I've been checking all the little back-street garages that specialize in motorbikes. And a balls-acher of a job it's been too.' He paused, like a child waiting for praise.

'You got a result?' Krasic demanded, unwilling to indulge him further. Useful though Karl Hauser was, at the end of the day he was a dirty cop, and Krasic had no time for people who couldn't manage loyalty.

'Eventually. I found a couple of mechanics out at Lichten berg who replaced the front forks on a bike answering this description. They remembered it for two reasons. It took them a week to get the spare part from BMW for one, and for another, the driver was a Brit. They reckoned the bike had fake plates, but they made a note of the engine number, just to be on the safe side.'

'Why didn't they come forward at the time?' Krasic asked suspiciously.

'They say they didn't know about the accident. They don't read the papers and they never watch the local TV news.'

'Arseholes,' Krasic muttered. 'I don't suppose this biker paid for the repairs with a credit card?'

'Nothing so convenient,' Hauser admitted. 'Cash on the nail.'

'We're no further forward, then.' Krasic lowered the window again and lit a cigar without offering one to Hauser.

Hauser smirked. 'That's where you're wrong, Darko. With the engine number, I was able to find out from BMW who the bike was sold to. And this is where it gets very strange.' He paused expectantly.

'Strange how?'

'The bike was sold to the National Crime Squad in the UK. And, according to the British licensing authorities, that's who owns it still.' Hauser shifted in his seat to gauge the impact of his words on Krasic.

The Serb's expression didn't change. He put the cigar in his mouth, inhaled, then turned his head to let the smoke trickle out of the gap between the window and the frame. He didn't want Hauser to have any idea how disturbing he found this information. There was altogether too much British shit flying around right now. Krasic didn't believe in coincidences. Katerina's death caused by a British bike; the British business going pear-shaped after another nasty and mysterious death; and now a British stranger charming the socks off his boss. It made him very, very uneasy. 'That's strange, right enough,' he finally acknowledged. 'Any way of finding out who was riding it?'

Hauser smacked the palms of his hands on his knees. 'It's never enough with you, is it? I sweated blood to get this much, and you want more.'

Krasic slid a hand inside his jacket and produced his wallet. 'I'm not the only one, am I?' He peeled off some notes. 'Here's your bonus. There'll be a lot more if you come up with a name.'

Hauser took the money between finger and thumb, as if he'd suddenly remembered this should feel dirty and distasteful. 'I'm taking a big risk here,' he complained.

'You want to try living on a cop's pay cheque, it's up to you,' Krasic said, not bothering to hide his contempt. 'Is there anything else we should know?'

Hauser replaced his cap on his greying hair. 'I heard a whisper that one of the Arjouni brothers is trying to move in on some of Kamal's street dealers. You're going to have to plug that gap or you'll lose your distribution.'

'Thanks for the advice, Karl,' Krasic said sarcastically. 'Arjouni's working for me. So you can leave him alone.'

'Like Marlene Krebs, eh?' he sneered. 'You tied that one up

tight, Darko. I hear the daughter's gone missing too. Very neat piece of work.'

'It's called sending a message, Karl. One you should pay attention to.'

Hauser opened the car door. 'There's no need to be like that. I'll be in touch.'

Krasic was gunning the engine before the door was even closed. As he swept the car round in a broad arc and headed for the exit, he muttered under his breath, 'I can hardly fucking wait.'

He stood under the shower and let the scalding water pour over him. Please God, he would finally feel clean again after this. At least this harbour had decent, private shower rooms. He'd felt dirty ever since he'd fucked that bitch Calvet, and the facilities on board the Wilhelmina Rosen were too primitive to cleanse a man as defiled as she had left him. He had to get rid of the filth before it ate through his skin and poisoned his very soul.

At first, he'd been proud of himself. Taking the bitch like that had showed his grandfather's shade who was in charge now. But afterwards, with the whore he'd picked up in Koln, he'd lost it. Couldn't get it up, then when he finally managed it, couldn't come. Fucking Calvet was supposed to make him stronger, fill him with light and power, but instead her image kept blazing across his tightly squeezed eyes, distracting him, turning him off. He'd felt as useless and pathetic with that Koln hooker as he had in the days before he'd comprehended what he should be doing with his life.

Driving back afterwards, the blackness had invaded him, filling the pit of his stomach with cold bile. What if he'd been wrong? What if the old man's taunts had driven him the wrong way? Face it, any drunken sailor would have done what he had. He'd given in to the most basic instinct, he'd become as much of an animal as those bastards he was sworn to kill.

His mission had been pure in his mind before he fucked that bitch, but now it felt cluttered and confused. Women, they were always the treacherous ones, dragging men like him down into the shit. Calvet didn't deserve him, but he'd been weak enough to fall into the trap she'd laid for him with the old man.

The whores didn't deserve him either, but at least their corruption was honest. They didn't pretend to be anything other than what they presented to the world, unlike his chosen victims.

He had been pathetic. He had been carried away, let down by his body. He'd betrayed the purity of his cause, and it must never happen again. He had to make the light come back. Only by returning to his mission and carrying it out correctly could he really cleanse himself, he realized as the water streamed over skin rubbed red raw with washing.

Let it be soon.

It felt strange to have Radecki standing in the middle of her living room, looking around him as if he'd never been there before. He'd arrived ten minutes early and she hadn't quite finished her make-up. It seemed churlish to leave him drumming his heels on the pavement, so Carol had invited him up. It was, she thought, what Caroline would have done. p

Now she leaned in towards the bathroom mirror, applying eyeliner. The least convenient thing so far about being : Caroline was having to wear much more elaborate makeup than she normally bothered with. Life, in Carol's opinion, was too short for full slap every day. But Caroline would care too much about how she was perceived to skimp on that. t

'These places are really rather pleasant,' Tadeusz called from the living room. 'More spacious than I imagined.'

'The furnishings aren't bad either.'

'No. A bit bland, but rather that than in your face.'

'It's a lot better than a hotel,' Carol said. 'Much more room and much more privacy. You don't have housekeeping battering the door down every five minutes wanting to change the towels or check the minibar.'

'How did you find it?' he asked.

Careful, Carol, she cautioned herself. 'My friendly travel agent told me about it. She got someone local to check it out and make the booking for me. She knows the kind of thing I prefer.' Satisfied with the eyeliner, she reached for the mascara.

'You travel a lot, then?'

'I wouldn't say a lot, but fairly regularly. And I like to feel at home when I do. What about you? Do you travel much?'

His voice came closer. He was too polite to peer in through the open door, but it sounded as if he was in the living-room doorway. That meant he wasn't investigating her possessions, which tended to confirm her theory that he had been the searcher. 'I do move around quite a bit within Europe, but it's mostly connected to the business.'

'You deal with things on the front line yourself, then?' she asked.

'I like to know who I'm dealing with. But I leave most of the day-to-day stuff to my right-hand man, Darko Krasic. I hope you'll meet him soon. He's a crazy Serb, but he's easy to underestimate. He looks like nothing more than a thug, but he's actually a very smart operator.'

Not the one who's following me, then, Carol thought. Her tail certainly couldn't be described as thuggish. Willowy, more like. 'I look forward to that,' she said. 'Just got my lippie to do and then I'm ready. Sorry to keep you waiting.'

'Not at all. I'm glad I've had the chance to see where you're living. Now I can picture you when we're not together. Perhaps I can return the compliment? Maybe we could dine in my apartment tomorrow?'

Carol chuckled. 'You can cook too?'

He laughed. 'Not very well. But I can pick up a phone and order a delivery from the best restaurant in Berlin.'

Carol emerged from the bathroom. 'There. All ready.'

He smiled, tilting his head appreciatively. 'Well worth the wait.'

To her surprise, when they left the apartment, the car wasn't waiting at the kerb. 'My flagship store is only a fifteen minute walk from here, and I thought that since the rain had stopped, we could walk. If you don't mind? If it's a problem, I can call the car.'

'It'll be a pleasure. I need the fresh air/ she said.

He held out his elbow, crooked in offer, and she slipped her arm through his. Nicely done, she thought. She wasn't the only one upping the stakes.

The next few hours required little from her but admiration and the occasional question. He was like a small boy showing off the finer points of his favourite train set. By the end of the afternoon, she knew more about the retail and rental of videos than she would ever have believed there was to know. But along the way, she had also picked up useful nuggets of information about the methods Tadeusz had adopted to launder his illegal proceeds through his legitimate businesses. Financial details had never particularly interested her, but even she could see how cunning his set-up was. She knew she was learning things that would help forensic accountants to unpick the financial morass of Tadeusz's empire once he'd finally been arrested.

What was almost as important as the facts and figures that she'd garnered was the way their interaction was developing. Tadeusz found excuses to touch her at every opportunity;

nothing overtly sexual, but something more than casual contact. Handing her a cup of coffee, his fingers would brush against hers. Showing her round the stores, he would place a hand in the small of her back or steer her by the elbow towards something of particular interest. Getting into the car, his knee would brush against hers.

Their conversation too was becoming more relaxed. Carol was surprised by how entertaining he could be. Funny and serious by turns, he made interesting what could otherwise have been brain-numbing. As they drove round Berlin, he amused her with anecdotes and fascinated her with gobbets of fact about the sights he pointed out. For minutes together, "' she forgot that she was working undercover, that this relationship had nowhere to go except betrayal, and actually found herself enjoying his company. It took an encounter with a video to ground her again in the reality of what she was doing. In one of the stores, Tadeusz showed her a special display. 'Woody Allen films are big in this part of town, so we always make sure we have the full set available for rental and purchase,' he'd said, gesturing towards the shelves. Zelig seemed to jump out at her, reminding her forcefully not to succumb to his charisma, to hold on to the memory of the viciousness that lay behind his easy charm and his sophisticated lifestyle.

At the end of the tour, he directed the driver to take them back to her apartment. As usual, he walked her to the door. But this time, instead of a courtly farewell, he gazed down at her and took a step closer. Carol had to make an instant decision. Break the moment and walk away or draw him further into complicity with her. It was, she knew, a key moment. She stood on tiptoe and brushed a kiss against the corner of his mouth. 'I've had a lovely afternoon,' she said softly.

He leaned forward, an arm round her waist, and kissecl her, lips slightly parted. The heat of his body provoked a surprising surge of desire in Carol, and she had to make a conscious effort not to let herself go in his embrace. 'Can I see you this evening?' he asked, his voice husky and deep.

Needing some distance between them, she put her hand on his chest, feeling the thud of his heart under her fingers. 'I can't tonight, I'm sorry,' she said. 'I have to work.'

Tadeusz gave a rueful pout. 'Can't it wait till tomorrow?'

Carol stepped away from him. 'I need to send some stuff overnight to my lawyer. We're in the middle of a property deal and he's got a meeting in the morning. I should have done it this afternoon, but you tempted me away.'

He shrugged. 'Never mind. Tomorrow night, then? You'll come to my place for dinner?'

'OK,' she said. 'But you're still planning on showing me the more interesting side of the business tomorrow, aren't you?'

'Of course. I've got a couple of things to sort out first thing in the morning, but after that, I'm all yours.'

'Great. Give me a call with the arrangements. Thanks again, Tadzio, I've really enjoyed your company.'

'And I yours,' he said, moving back towards the car at the kerb. 'I can't remember the last time I laughed this much.'

Carol couldn't help a smile sneaking across her face as she walked into the lift. It might not last, it was true, but for now he was playing the game as if he was following Morgan's script. She hoped it would continue that way.

Tadeusz didn't bother waiting for the lift. Instead he ran up the three flights of stairs two at a time, feeling a surge of energy that he'd forgotten could possess him. As Darko never tired of reminding him, Caroline was not Katerina. It was only their looks that were similar. But, different as their personalities were, they seemed to have a similar effect on him. For the first time since Katerina's death, he felt like a human being when he was with Caroline.

He knew he should be wary. Not for the reasons Darko was mistrustful, but because he understood the mechanics of emotional rebound. It would be depressingly predictable to fall for the first interesting woman he met as a sort of bandage for the heart. But he believed that whenever, wherever, however he had encountered Caroline Jackson, he would have been attracted to her. Had Katerina still been alive, he would have acknowledged it to himself but not acted upon it. With Katerina dead, there was no reason not to allow himself to care. To attempt to ignore how he had started to feel was doubtless the safest course of action. But a man who thrived on risk as he did could no more adopt a safety-first policy with women than he could turn his back on the edgy and lucrative world that gave him so delightful a life.

Tadeusz pushed open the fire door and emerged in the vestibule that led to his apartment. He wasn't alone. Darko Krasic sat on the deep window sill, short legs stretched out in front of him, cigar smoke hazing the air. Tadeusz didn't break stride, heading straight for his front door. 'I didn't expect to see you here,' he said, key in the lock.

'I've got something that won't keep,' Krasic said, following his boss indoors. Tadeusz took off his overcoat and hung it in a cloakroom in the hallway. Krasic carried on into the sitting room and threw his leather jacket over the back of the sofa. 'I could use a drink,' he called.

'Help yourself, you know where it's kept.'

Krasic poured himself a slug of Jack Daniels and swallowed most of it at a single gulp. He topped up the glass and settled into a modernist chair that was far more comfortably than it looked. He crushed out his cigar in the deep crystal ashtray on the end table, then drummed his fingers on his knee.

Tadeusz walked in, a visible bounce in his step. 'It mustB be a desperate piece of news that has you camping out on my doorstep, Darko.' He looked as if there was nothing in the world that could touch him as he threw himself down on the sofa and stretched out full length, feet crossed elegantly at the ankles.

'I had a meeting with Hauser this afternoon.'

Tadeusz groaned and rolled his eyes back. 'Rather you than me. So what did Happy Hauser have to say for himself? No, wait. Let me guess. He thought he'd bring you the worrying news that Arjouni is moving in on KamaTs business?' grinned.

Krasic couldn't help returning the smile. Say what you liked about Tadzio, he could generally size people up accurately. Well, men, anyway. 'He did. But that was dessert. The main course was a lot more interesting.'

'Do I have to guess, or are you going to tell me?' Tadeusz's voice was still light and cheerful. However grim Krasic looked, it wasn't enough to dispel the warm glow of his afternoon with Caroline.

'He's been doing some more digging into the bike.' Krasic didn't have to specify which bike. They both knew exactly what he was talking about. 'And what he's come up with is very fucking dodgy, Tadzio.'

Tadeusz swung his feet on to the floor, sitting up in one smooth motion. 'I'm listening,' he said, suddenly solemn, suddenly catapulted from the pleasant haze of the afternoon into what felt horribly like inescapable reality.

'It was British. Registered to the National Crime Squad, whatever that is.'

'Organized crime,' Tadeusz said automatically, his brain racing ahead of his mouth. 'But the rider can't have been here officially, otherwise Hauser would have been able to find out, surely?'

'I don't know,' Krasic said. 'If they were working with the Berlin criminal intelligence lot, Hauser wouldn't have a fucking clue. You know how hard we've tried to get a mole in that squad, and we've never managed it.'

Tadeusz clenched his fist in a gesture of frustration. 'And we still don't know who was on the bike?'

'No,' Krasic admitted. 'But, Tadzio, I really don't like this. There are too many British connections hitting us right now.' He enumerated on his short, square fingers. 'First, Katerina gets killed by a British cop bike. Second, Colin Osborne fucks up our British connection by getting blown away in what looks more and more like a very moody shooting. I mean, nobody really seems to know what happened to Colin. It looked like a gangland execution and that's what the cops put out. But nobody's admitting to it, which is dodgy, in my book. And now, this British woman turns up, the spitting image of Katerina, and she just happens to be the missing link that solves all our problems. It's too good to be true,' he concluded with an air of incontrovertible certainty.

'Everything you say is true,' Tadzio admitted. 'But what you make of it is equally open to another interpretation. As you suggested when this first came up, the biker could have been a British cop on holiday and he had to disappear because he wasn't supposed to have his bike in Berlin. Colin's killer is keeping his head down because Colin has business associates who would want to avenge his death and prove they weren't to be crossed. People like Caroline, for example. Unless of course it was Caroline who had Colin killed to eliminate sloppy competition. I think she could be a dangerous woman, but not for the same reasons you do, Darko. I think she's one of us. She acts like a successful criminal. She looks at the world like a successful criminal. And women who make it in our business have to be twice as ruthless as the men.' I

He stood up and crossed to the drinks cupboard, where I he poured himself a small glass of apple schnapps. 'Darko, I know you think she's not to be trusted, but that's only because of the accident of her resemblance to Katerina. If she looked like the back end of a bus, you'd be a lot less suspicious.'

'Well, that goes without saying. But don't you think the way she looks is reasonable grounds for suspicion?' Krasic sounded incredulous.

'No. I think it's one of the horrible tricks fate plays on us. I would trust her more easily if she looked differently, I think,' he said, knowing in his heart it wasn't true, but refusing to give Krasic any land of leverage. Then he had a moment's inspiration, based on years of experience. 'But, Darko, you're the one who's been watching her.'

Krasic looked startled. 'How did you know? Has she noticed? Did she say something?'

Tadeusz laughed out loud. 'No, she hasn't said a thing. I guessed. So, has she done anything suspicious?'

Krasic gave him a sheepish glance. 'Some shopping. And she goes to that ritzy women's health club on Giesebrechtstrasse every day.'

'Oh, that's really something to worry about, a woman who wants to keep in shape. So, she's not been hanging out in cop bars or deliberately giving your man the slip?'

Krasic shook his head. 'Nothing like that. But then, if she was dodgy, she'd expect us to be watching her.' f

'Now you're being too devious.' Tadeusz crossed the room and clapped Krasic on the shoulder. 'You're a good friend, Darko. But I think this time you're letting your concern for me run away with your imagination. I really don't believe Caroline is part of some Machiavellian plot against me involving motorbikes and dead gangsters.'

'That doesn't mean I'm going to stop keeping an eye on her,' the Serb said stubbornly.

'No reason why you should.' Tadeusz drained his glass and turned to face Krasic. 'Just don't take the costs out of my budget, OK?' There was iron in his voice now.

Knowing when he was beaten, Krasic got to his feet. 'Watch your back, boss,' he said wearily, reaching for his jacket and walking out.

The Shark hated the fact that nobody at work took him seriously. Most of his male colleagues made it clear that they despised him. Petra, for whom he would have walked barefoot on hot coals, patronized him, which sometimes felt worse than contempt. He'd been so excited about his transfer to intelligence, but it had turned out to be a lot less fun than he'd expected. All he ever got to do was the shit work that everybody else thought was beneath their dignity. He understood enough about psychology to realize that, in order for any group to function properly, there had to be a focus for their scorn. He just wished it wasn't him.

He longed to score some remarkable coup that would win their respect. But that wasn't going to happen while he was stuck in the dogsbody role. Take this latest job that Petra had dumped him with. How was he supposed to find out who Darko Krasic would trust to look after a child? He'd checked out the known associates in Krasic's files, but most of them were the type of person you wouldn't trust to hold the dog while you went for a piss, never mind leave in charge of a child. Then he'd had the brainwave of trying to find out if Krasic had any relatives in the area. He had this image of a Balkan stereotype who, like the Italians, would trust family ahead of anyone.

So for what felt like half a lifetime he'd been trawling public records, trying to find anyone with blood ties to Krasic. Immigration lists, tax rosters, property registers had all drawn a blank. Now he was reduced to phoning local police offices and asking if they knew anything. He'd worked his way round Berlin and now he was edging out into the Brandenburg countryside. /

He crossed the last number off his list and dialled the next one, a substation on the northern outskirts of Oranienburg, near the former Sachsenhausen concentration camp. When the phone was answered, he went into his spiel. 'I'm calling from the criminal intelligence unit here in Berlin. I know this is a long shot, but I'm trying to trace anyone who might be related to a Serb we've got operating here in Berlin. A guy by the name of Darko Krasic.'

'Hang on, I'll put you through to someone who can help you.'

Silence, then the phone was picked up. 'Detective Schumann,' a voice said. It sounded as if he was talking through a mouthful of crunchy biscuits.

The Shark recited his speech again over the sounds of mastication.

'That'd be Rado's uncle, right?' Schumann miraculously said. 'Or cousin, or something, who knows with those Serbs?'

'You know who I'm talking about?' the Shark asked eagerly.

'Sure, I know. It's my business to know who's connected on my patch, isn't it?'

'So who's this Rado?'

'Radovan Matic. Fourth division criminal, premier league arsehole. I nailed him about four years ago when he was still a juvenile for possession with intent to supply heroin. The usual rap on the knuckles. Then he buggered off to Berlin. We don't see much of him these days.'

'And he's Darko Krasic's nephew, yeah?' The Shark was struggling not to sound too excited.

'I think his old man and Darko are cousins.'

'His father, does he still live in Oranienburg?'