‘She’s still a person,’ Fabel answered without looking at the young Polizeimeister, ‘still someone’s daughter. The question is whose.’ He took an evidence bag out of his jacket pocket and placed the photograph in it. Then he turned to Möller.

‘Give me your report as soon as you can.’

Wednesday 4 June, 6.00 a.m. St Pauli, Hamburg.

On the way out, Fabel got Beller to go with him to the apartment downstairs. There was already a uniformed officer there, drinking tea with a bird-like old woman with paper skin. This apartment was an exact copy, in layout at least, of the one above. But decades of habitation had etched itself into the walls of this flat, until it had become an extension of the old woman who lived in it. In contrast, it was someone’s death, not their life, that had made the only mark on the apartment above.

The officer rose from the armchair when Fabel walked in but Fabel motioned for him to relax. Beller introduced the woman as Frau Steiner. She stared up at Fabel with large, round, watery eyes. The combination of her gaze and her bird-like frailty made Fabel think of an owl. There was a table and chairs against one wall. Fabel pulled up one of the chairs and sat facing the old woman.

‘Are you all right, Frau Steiner? I know this must be a shock for you. Such a terrible business. And I’m sure that you must find it disturbing to have all of us tramping around the place. So much noise …’

As Fabel spoke, the old woman leaned forward and creased her brow over her owl eyes, as if concentrating hard on his words. ‘It’s all right, the noise doesn’t bother me … I’m a bit deaf, you know.’

‘I see,’ said Fabel, raising his voice slightly. ‘So you won’t have heard anything last night?’

Frau Steiner suddenly looked deeply sad. ‘That’s the thing, I probably did … I probably heard something but didn’t realise it.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Fabel.

‘Tinnitus. I’m afraid it goes along with my deafness. I take my hearing aid out when I sleep … every night I hear sounds … bumps, high-pitched whines … even sounds like screams. But it’s just my tinnitus. Or rather, I never know whether it’s my tinnitus or not.’

‘I see, I’m sorry. That must be unpleasant.’

‘You have to shut it out. Otherwise you’d go mad.’ She shook her small, bird-like head slowly, as if too sudden a movement might damage it. ‘I’ve had it a long, long time, young man. Since July 1943, to be exact.’

‘The British bombing?’

‘I’m glad you know your history. I’m afraid I have to live with mine. Or at least the echoes of it. I was caught outside when the first wave came over. Both eardrums shattered, you see. And this …’ She pulled up a black woollen sleeve to reveal an impossibly thin arm. The skin was puckered and mottled pink and white. ‘Burns on thirty per cent of my body. But it’s the tinnitus that has marked me most.’ She paused for a moment; a sadness seemed to well in the owl eyes. ‘I cannot stand the thought of that poor girl crying out for help and me not hearing it.’