Tuesday 17 June, 5.20 a.m. Uhlenhorst, Hamburg.

The first thing Fabel became aware of was pain: a pain that exceeded all definition of a headache, that surpassed any hangover: a buzz-saw that seared through his skull. Then the sound of birds, heralding the breaking day with their chorus. Fabel lifted his head slightly and was rewarded with a cold dagger of pain that sliced through him. He let his head fall back again. He had no idea where he was or how he had got there or even what day of the week it was. It took almost a minute for his full consciousness to boot up. The Slavic guy. He sat bolt upright and was shocked with another, even greater jolt, this time with an accompanying surge of vertigo and nausea. He lunged over the side of the bed and vomited. The surging ache in his head did not abate, but he embraced it. Pain meant he was alive. He flopped back onto the bed and fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone. It was gone. So was the gun from his holster. He eased himself up slowly so that he could look around the room. He was on Angelika Blüm’s bed. The Slav must have put him there. The pain in Fabel’s head wrapped a shroud around every thought. In the pale grey light he could see that his cell phone, his handgun and his wallet were carefully laid out on the dresser. It took him another five minutes to ease himself off the bed and stagger over to the dresser. He dragged his cell phone across the maple dresser top and stabbed the preset number for the Präsidium.

By lunchtime, every policeman, uniform and KriPo, had a description of the short, powerfully built Slav who had attacked Fabel. The doctor at the Krankenhaus St Georg who examined Fabel could not conceal how impressed he was with the professionalism of the attack. The Slav had very efficiently cut off the blood supply to Fabel’s brain, rendering him unconscious. There had been little permanent damage done, although the pain Fabel was experiencing was the result of brain cells dying, starved of oxygen. The hospital staff insisted on keeping Fabel in overnight for observation and Fabel felt too exhausted and sore to argue. He yielded to a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Fabel woke shortly after two p.m. The nurse fetched Werner and Maria Klee, who had been waiting patiently outside for Fabel to awake. Maria, with an uncharacteristic informality, sat on the edge of Fabel’s bed. Werner stood, awkwardly. It was as if he felt uncomfortable seeing his boss so vulnerable. He dragged a chair from the corner and sat down only when Fabel insisted that he do so.

‘You sure it was the guy you saw outside the second murder scene?’ Werner asked.

‘No doubt about it. I was looking straight into his eyes.’

Werner’s face hardened. ‘So he’s our guy. He’s “Son of Sven” …’

Fabel frowned. ‘I don’t know. If he is, why didn’t he kill me?’