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offer you some tea? I was about to make a pot.’
    The woman smiled and shook her head. ‘Thank you, but no. My five minutes would be over before I could drink it.’
    ‘As you wish. But at least sit down and take off your coat.’
    He picked up a stack of old newspapers from the leather armchair that went with the couch. Decades ago, his father had configured the three-piece suite so that everyone, when seated, had a view of the sea and the hearth. The sitting room was the perfect place to curl up with a book.
    Viktor returned to his desk and made himself comfortable. His beautiful young guest sat down but seemed disinclined to remove her cashmere coat.
    In the short silence that followed, a huge wave crashed against the beach. The water rushed back into the sea, foaming and seething.
    Viktor glanced at his watch again.
    ‘Very well, Miss . . . I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.’
    ‘Anna. My name is Anna Glass. I'm a novelist.’
    ‘A famous one?’
    ‘Not unless you're interested in children's books. Most of my readers are aged six to thirteen. Do you have children?’
    ‘Yes, I mean, no. I . . .’ The words came forcefully and abruptly, driven by a sudden rush of pain. He realized that she was checking the mantelpiece for photos. Surely she must have seen the headlines? He changed the subject to avoid further questions.
    ‘Which part of Germany are you from? I can't detect an accent.’
    ‘Berlin. I was born there. But I sell more copies overseas. Japan was my best market, but it's all in the past.’
    ‘In the past?’
    ‘I haven't finished a book for years.’
    The conversation had lapsed into the standard pattern of questions and answers characterizing the patient– therapist dynamic. Viktor was back to being the psychiatrist again.
    ‘When was your last book published?’
    ‘Five years ago. After that, I started another project – a children's book, of course. I thought it was going to be my best. It almost seemed to write itself, but I never got past the first couple of chapters.’
    ‘Why was that?’
    ‘Health problems. It happened very suddenly. I had to go to hospital.’
    ‘What was wrong with you?’
    ‘To be honest, I don't think anyone really knows. They seemed pretty baffled at the Park.’
    ‘The Park? Not the Park Clinic in Dahlem?’
    Viktor was unable to hide his astonishment. The information put a whole new spin on the conversation. For one thing, it meant that Ms Glass was very wealthy. Only a bestselling author would be able to afford private treatment at the Park. It also meant that her problems were of a serious nature. Unlike the majority of famous clinics, the Park didn't cater to celebrities with drug and alcohol addictions. The Park only dealt with acute psychological disorders. In the glory days of his career, he had been asked to advise on some of the more problematic cases and he could testify to the professionalism of the place. With some of the country's leading experts at its disposal, the Park was at the forefront of therapeutic advances and had chalked up some notable successes. All the same, he had never seen a patient make such a complete recovery as the young woman sitting opposite him. She seemed perfectly lucid and alert.
    ‘How long were you there?’
    ‘Forty-seven months in total.’
    Viktor was lost for words. Forty-seven months? She was either a consummate liar or seriously disturbed. She's probably both , he decided.
    ‘I was locked in a room and stuffed with pills for nearly four years. I barely knew who I was, let alone what was happening.’
    ‘And the diagnosis?’
    ‘Haven't you guessed by now, Dr Larenz? They said I was schizophrenic. It's why I came to you.’
    Viktor leant back thoughtfully and considered her words. Schizophrenia was his specialism. Or at least it had been.
    ‘How did you come to be admitted?’
    ‘I called Professor Malzius.’
    ‘You called the director and requested to be admitted?’
    ‘It seemed like a good